6 comments/ 42150 views/ 7 favorites See, See - TV By: shaunreagh Mona was her name. She was our maid. Later, much later, (right at the end in fact,) Sal changed all that and she became, 'Our Little Guinea Pig'. Which is what brought matters to a head, as it were. A cold and stormy night it was, (the end), rain falling wetly in the yard, window frames rattling fit to burst. A terrine of iced gespachio was hurled at my head. Seventeen stitches. End of relationships all round, I'm afraid. Finito, finished, done. "See, See!" was the key, of course -- it's easy now, on thinking back -- but the problem was I didn't, see. Not then. Not when it mattered. Otherwise engaged, one might say. Missed it completely. She had no alarm clock, you see, (you will,) and she was not a naturally early riser. Some people are, many aren't, Mona wasn't. Perhaps it was her youth. Perhaps it was the work she got through in a day. Perhaps it was how late she went to bed. Who knew? But I didn't complain. I'd bought her a TV for her room and I knew she watched it late. Sal, my wife, grabbed a bite on the train to the technical campus where she worked so Mona's not being up before she left was not a problem. Sal was an early bird. Mona, our maid -- the one who hadn't an alarm and couldn't get up in the morning -- was not an early bird. Mona was from the Philippines. A pretty, rather foxy little nineteen year old. Her lips and eyes were huge -- her lips were almost negroid. Her eyes were sultry pools. She had a hard, and very shapely bod ... as they say. Anyway. We had worked up a bit of a routine, Mona and me. It started off with my making an effort to welcome Mona into our family by being friendly. Then it started to irritate. Then something else had slithered into the mix. Sal warned me that my usual reserve might well alienate the youngster, her being so far from home -- we live in San Diego -- so I had gone out of my way to try to make her welcome. Her second day, almost nine o'clock in the morning, no breakfast on the table, Sal long gone, I'd knocked on the door to her quarters. (We gave her a small wing to herself, overlooking the garden. A bright airy bedroom, shower and toilet off it, the laundry room, an ironing room.) There was no response. I tried the handle, found it open, went in calling her name. "Mona!". Again, no response. I wondered where she was. I looked through the archway into her bedroom to see the girl, stretched out on her bed -- large and square, so big that the girl was almost lost amongst the sheets -- dead to the world. I cautioned myself, 'Be approachable. Be kind. Be considerate.' I moved into the room, up to the bed, noting how long the girl's legs seemed to be. They were stretched from the thin folds of sheet that covered the rest of her as if thrown away (or at least fairly thoroughly abandoned). "Mona," I whispered, keeping it kind. No reaction. She had a pillow, one of three, clutched in her arms in a fond embrace, of sorts. "Mona," I tried again, my knees now touching the bed. No response. I reached forward to where I could see a single shoulder peeking out from her sheet. "Mona," I said a third time, this time shaking her shoulder as well. (This girl knew how to sleep!) "Mona. Wake up. Mona!" I continued to shake her sleeping form, none too gently by now. Lazily her eyelids opened. I don't think she knew where she was. I remembered what Sal had cautioned -- approachable, kind, considerate. "You're in San Diego, Mona," I whispered to the girl, finding a smile and sticking it hurriedly onto my face. She was meant to wake me. Not me her. Wasn't that what maids were for? Never mind the matter of my breakfast! "San Diego," I repeated. All my comments triggered in her girlish face (with the huge lips and sultry eyes) was a rather vacant look. As if she wasn't really awake at all. "And I'm Doug Trabert," I added, stopping myself, just in time, from saying, "Mr Trabert". (Another Sal admonishment!) "Oh," said Mona, softly, lifting herself onto her elbows. (Pretty shoulders.) I wondered what came next. The sheet had fallen from her shoulders but covered the rest of her, other than legs, (but I'd seen those already). Should I tell her she had my breakfast to get? I wasn't sure that was the best way for her to waken to a new day, and a new country too, for that matter ... poor kid! So with Sal's message about 'being nice' ringing in my ears, and realising that a maid on my side was a damn sight better than a maid who hated my guts, I found myself sitting down on the edge of her bed, and saying -- damn smile still there -- "How are you normally woken. At home, I mean?" This got a lazy smile, at first, then the smile drifted from her face and she eased herself back against the pillow, arms behind her head, seemed to stretch (nice stretch), and murmured ... "My father always woke me with a kiss." "Really," I said, though wasn't sure why it surprised me. Sal and I have no children, you see. (Never got round to it really.) "Step-father, actually," she amended. "Mmmh," I responded, non-committally. And then, to the surprise I think of both of us, I leaned over, kissed her gently on the forehead, and said, "Good Morning, Mona." "Good Morning, Mr Trabert," she said back, her expression one of surprise. And then she smiled. I took this to indicate that I had handled matters as Sal might have wished me to. Thus assured, I got up off Mona's bed and with a cheerful, "See you in the morning room whenever you're ready." I left her to get ready for the day. I felt I had handled that rather well. Over the next few mornings I 'rubbed in' my 'Mr Nice Guy' act, by going into her room around eight to eight-thirty, depending on when I got up, gave her a shake of the shoulder calling her name all the while and when, finally, her big girlish eyes fluttered open, I'd wish her a cheerful, "Good Morning," and give her a kiss on the brow ... or sometimes, if she was facing away, on the cheek ... or once, because she moved, on those rather extraordinary lips of hers. (Surprisingly pleasant, I have to say.) After a couple of weeks of this, however, I was beginning to get a shade irritated at this additional chore. I had enough to do, after all. I had my work, for a start. I work from home, (did I explain that?) Sal is a research boffin with a video conference firm but I, or so I like to kid myself, am of a more creative bent. Freelance graphic artist. I have my studio in another wing of the house. Views all the way to the sea. I start work right after breakfast. (But my breakfasts were getting later and later of late.) And besides, why should I be waking her? I thought of buying her an alarm clock. I thought of having a phone installed in her room so that I could call her from mine. I thought of informing her that if she couldn't get up at a decent hour then she could pack her bags and get back to Bulalao -- or whatever it was she was from. But I didn't. I didn't, because she was bright and fresh and lively and a pretty little thing. She was fun to have about the house. She smelled fresh, looked fresh, even felt fresh on the few occasions she brushed against me getting to a corner with her duster. I was starting to feel that having this sort of presence around would help to keep me young. So I continued to wake her with her kiss just like her step father used to. And once or twice the kiss ended up on these extraordinary lips of hers. Once, I confess, I got the kiss on her extraordinary lips before I started shaking her pretty little shoulders overmuch. More than once, in fact. (Her lips seemed to wake before her eyes did!) Then, one Sunday ... Sal was away at a video equipment conference, to do with her work -- (this happened now and then). On Saturday night I'd had wine with dinner to compensating for Sal's absence, brandy in my study afterwards. Mona had come and given me her goodnight kiss. (This was the routine we'd fallen into. I kissed her good morning. She kissed me goodnight. Seemed fair.) I watched her leave. She had a pretty little rear. A lovely ass, in fact, though I suppose they all have at that age. But hers was especially pert. And she knew how to move it. Nice! Anyway ... I woke the following morning with that slightly dreamy, slightly randy feel you get after drinking a little more than you're used to. And I'm not used to much. So, when I turned the door-handle to Mona's quarters the next morning I remembered how nice her little bottom had looked the night before, sashaying towards the door. (As I say. Nice!) Perhaps because of this, I went through the alcove and into her bedroom with less sound than usual. Her long legs were bared and abandoned and poked out from underneath the sheets. (Always did.) A pillow (lucky pillow) was in her tight embrace. Her plump lips, in a pout, were slightly open. Her breathing was long and slow and easy. She was in her standard morning pose, in other words. I approached her bed. I could have shouted out and she would not have woken right away. I knew her now: it took an age to wake her. I leaned forward and pushed lightly on a shoulder. (I'd done this before.) She stretched and sighed and languidly rolled onto her back. I took the pillow from her. (I'd done this before, too.) I placed it beyond her on the bed, atop another one that lay there. I lifted off the sheet. (And yes, I had done this before as well.) I could move her all over the place. Then put her back together again: with pillows between her legs, in her embrace -- once, even, over her face! -- and she wouldn't wake up. Little Mona slept very, very deeply. After she'd rolled her on to her back, and I'd deprived her of her pillow, and arranged her arms above her head, and lifted off her sheet, I looked at the T-shirt and panties she wore. Her pubis was proud and pronounced, her labia thick and pouting. The crease of her labia lips had sucked up the material of her panties sometime during the night. (Common occurrence.) Her T-shirt had their pleasantly-shaped mounds doing their usually pleasant 'moundly things' beneath the T-shirt's message, (which read, today, 'Manila Babe'). One of these mornings I wanted to see the impression of a nipple showing through. But hadn't yet. I leaned my lips to hers. So soft. I had discovered this some days ago: that her lips, as she slept, were unbelievably soft. When she was asleep I could do things with them as if they had a life of their own. Suck the top or bottom one into my mouth. Slip my tongue underneath and lift it in. Push one of my lips between hers. Or my tongue. Close both my lips around both of hers and make them pout then suck them into my mouth. With lips as large as hers there was no end of things I could get up to! But this morning I was, as I say, just a tiny bit randy, so I opened her mouth by the simple means of pulling on her chin with my finger and thumb, and let my tongue have access to her mouthly cavern. A girl's mouth is so much tastier to explore than its adult counterpart, I thought, as I found the back of her line of teeth, and felt her head angle round towards mine. She seemed to make it easier for me. (Always did, compliant lass!). I looked for her little tongue, and there it was, just starting to wake, or so it seemed to me. I felt its length then softened my own tongue against it like an affectionate pet. This caused no alarm in her. And besides, I hadn't started to shake her yet. I left my tongue in her mouth, for a time, gently playing with hers. Feeling the push of hers as it played with mine. Wondering what, in her sleep, she thought it was. (My tongue, inside her mouth.) I sensed her lips had started to move against mine. To close around the base of my tongue and suck, just a tad. (Now that ... was really nice!) It was my imagination, of course. At least I think it was. I disengaged my lips, and my tongue, from her lips, and her tongue. Much younger than mine. Much softer too, I guess. Her lips gently settled back into sleep. After some moments of silent admiration of her rather lovely sleeping form, I reached out my hand. "Mona," I said softly, my hand closing over her shoulder. She didn't stir. "Mona," I repeated, letting my hand caress her shoulders just a tad. But still she didn't stir. (She rarely did until the fifth or sixth awakening.) "Mona, my little princess," I said next, embroidering my awakening words as had become my practice, while, as had also become my practice, I let my fingers slip gently along her shoulder to her neck. Her skin was satin smooth as only the skin of young necks can be. And long, like a swan's, I thought, fingers slipping up it to her ear. "Mona, precious love," I whispered to the girl as my fingertips played with her tiny lobe. I lowered my lips to her ear. It was tiny. (I had done this before, so knew how delicate it was.) I traced its inner whorls with the tip of my tongue. She seemed to wake. I lifted my head. Her eyes were drifting open. "My little fox," I whispered, keeping my head close to hers as her eyes came fully open. She needed time to adjust to wakefulness. (Always did.) I gave her time. I waited for her smile. She always gave a smile when she saw that it was me, and that I had come to wake her, and give her her good-morning kiss. She smiled now. I lowered my lips onto hers and gave her a longer kiss than was our norm. Half way through, she began to kiss me back. (Nice.) Then I raised my head, and said, "Good morning, Mona, pet." "Good morning, Mr Trabert," she replied, and looking at me, sighed. I'd never called her 'pet' before. Her expression let me know she hadn't missed it, but also seemed to say she didn't mind. "Sunday. Beautiful day," I enthused, getting up from her bed, making for the curtains, drawing them. It WAS a beautiful day. "Mr Trabert," said Mona, sitting up in bed, oblivious to her lack of covering. This morning she wore an oversize sleeveless vest, many sizes too big, and the surface of two chubby breasts peaked out either side. "You're very sweet to me," she said, looking tender. I may have blushed. "I'll see you in the morning room," I said, going out, hiding my blushes perhaps. From then on, as if by some unbidden agreement, my wake-up kisses were on her lips. And every kiss was unashamedly returned by Mona -- or was, at least, once her state of wakefulness was sufficient to know that I was there, and the lips on hers were mine. In its own little way this development warmed me further towards the girl. As if my being nice to her -- by giving her a good-morning kiss as her step-father had -- had made our relationship more personal. My kiss now being on her mouth, as was hers in the evenings on mine (I had noted), showed that she was special. It was not, for example, something I did with all my maids. And I feel she sensed this; or guessed it, perhaps. I found that I liked this little advancement in our relationship. And so did she, I think. She sang more around the house. I enjoyed more her being there, around me as I worked. Sal was delighted, of course. She liked having Mona around. It meant she didn't have to do the housework, or the cooking. In the past, maids we'd tried had driven me to distraction. They have all, therefore, had to go. Sal knew the length of time maids stayed in our house, and therefore stopped her being required to do the housework, depended on their continuing ability not to 'piss me off', as Sal put it. But with Mona it wasn't like that. Mona could stay. Mona's presence helped my work, made me creative, made me optimistic, positive -- and cooked and did the housework, too! "Give her a raise," said Sal, with a grin. So I did. The following day. Quite a handsome one. I took it in to her bedroom in the form of a cheque, usual time, Sal off to work in the city. Mona was stretched out on her bed like a long-legged fish, or kitten ... something warm and soft. I leaned forward and gave her plump lips their usual pre-wake-up call: rewarded, as usual, with the lovely warm softness of living girl. I wondered, mid-kiss, how to give her her raise. (It was, as I say, a handsome one.) I lifted off, and melted for some moments at the sight of her. Then I gave her lips another kiss. Their softness gave against me. I licked my own for hers were dry, and gave her a third little kiss. This time I stayed where I was with my lips against hers for a moment, or two. Or, three. Her lips softened even more then started to gently squirm against my own. This happened, sometimes, when her lips were especially available, as they were this morning, and particularly relaxed, as they also were this morning. I ran my tongue over her lips, moistening them further. Then again, doing it some more. The tip of my tongue slipped underneath her top lip and lifted it in between mine. I sucked on it gently, like a rubber lollipop, and felt her lower lip ease around my own lower lip. I wondered what she dreamed of in the morning, while our lips were playing like this? Did she dream at all? I let her upper lip slip, moistly, from between my own, as I gently withdrew the tip of my tongue from her mouth. My hand, which held the cheque, was held away from her. My other had curled around her hip. The sheet was (as usual) laid across her midriff like a ribbon, legs long and naked, widely spread -- right straight, left neatly bent, like a dancer. Her arms were over her head (one) and out to the side (the other). Her breasts bulged as impressively as usual in her T-shirt's sweet message, 'Kiss me!' in pink. She was, this particular morning, in that particular T-shirt, looking very foxy indeed. I softened my lips even more. Hers softened back against mine then moved, ever so gently. But moved, nevertheless. I let my lips drift open, just a tad. Hers responded by opening too. I reached for the ribbon of sheet and drew it off her midriff. The hem of her T-shirt was high. Well above her neat and deeply-seated little belly-button. Her tummy was taut and smooth. I let a finger tip ease its way inside the little dimple of her button ... attempted to ease inside, at least ... (it was too small and tight). I flattened my hand on the naked stomach: the girlish midriff, stomach flat, ridges of muscle beneath. My fingers drifted lower and although it had not be my intention to end up where they did, they ended up there, with the tips just inside the waistband of a pair of tiny briefs. I hadn't meant to do that. But I had. My fingertips eased inside. The elastic waist-band tight across the back of my fingers, half way down. The flatness of her stomach and the soft girlish curve of her hips left a dip either side. My lips covered hers but my eyes angled down to my hand, and her stomach, and the interesting dip either side of her tummy, before the hips rose with the waistband of her skimpy briefs tight across the tiny chasm ...into which my fingertip had inadvertently strayed ... and now sat, waistband over knuckle. It gave me an idea. Her lips were soft against my own and moving gently, stroking their insides against the insides of my own. My idea was this: I would put the cheque in the waistband of her briefs and see what she would make of it. (She could hardly be annoyed at a bonus of three months salary, now could she, I reasoned, moving the cheque to her panties, slipping it underneath, waist-band lightly lifted to facilitate the move, even if it WAS found there!). I withdrew my hands, but left my lips with hers. Her lips were wide awake and perky -- or if not awake certainly involved in something lively in her sleep. I let my own keep pace, softly pursing and opening and stroking her now quite aggressive fat things. They were moist now, lots of saliva involved. Her tongue coming out in little forays from her mouth. Darting into mine with more moisture from within. I put my hand back on her tum. Feeling her starting to move. The hips, first left, then right. Her knee, from the bed, rolling up in the air. I ran my tongue deep into her mouth. Her teeth were wide, her lips even more so, grinding up against my own. Her arm came round my neck. I flipped my eyes to hers but they were closed, though something inside her was far from asleep! See, See - TV I pushed my hand harder on her stomach, holding the girl's now writhing torso to the bed, pushing my tongue more deeply into her mouth. Her lips closed hungrily around it. Her head angled left. Her arm dragged me right. This little nymph was now heavily involved. She'd never been this ... involved ... before. My fingertips were back inside the waistband of her briefs. I have no idea how. But this time I slipped them in further, under the cheque. Feeling the smoothness of paper above, the ruffle of hair underneath: the youngster's pubic hair; rather down-like pubic hair it has to be said, which surprised me just a little. (I had imagined it would be more wiry than this.) I really should stop now, I felt. But my fingers were feeling the shape of the pubis nestling in its silky cap of pubic hair. It nuzzled back at me. It stroked my fingertips as they in their turn stroked her, the curve of bone beneath, the lift and press as it rose to the tips of my fingers. The waist-band of elastic was over the back of my hand, rolling south as my fingers didn't stop, the cheque reaching deeper as well. Her breath was coming hard into my mouth. Her arm around my neck was pulling firmly though the other remained out the way. Was this a right brain thing? I wondered, stupidly, as my fingers in her panties curled between her legs. Her lips down there were plump as well. And hot, and slickly moist. I felt I should stop this. Stop it now. But here legs gaped wide, opening her labia, drawing my finger inside. Honey moist! Furnace hot. Her pelvis squirmed against me. What did girls her age dream of, I wondered, as her little tongue wrestled with mine, and her legs closed hard round my fingers. Her slender arm had slipped down my back. I was kneeling on the floor, my body over hers. Her plump breasts hard against me like warm adoring cushions and as the tip of my finger strayed over the entrance to her vagina it seemed to rear up and strike, open mouthed like a hungry bird it seemed to writhe up and circle my finger tip. I froze. I'd gone too far. I was fingering our maid in her bed! (I could be arrested for this.) I lifted off the girl. My lips gently parted from her heaving cushion lips. The other heaving cushions of her breasts I felt depart as I lifted off. But my hand was still trapped in her panties. The lips of her vagina continued to purse, and pulse, around my fingertip, as if trying to suck me inside. "Mmmmh," I heard her pretty voice. I tore my eyes from panties, and hand, and let them climb the length of her. (Pretty sight.) When they reached her face, eyes open and looking at me, I said, "Mona," as if surprised to see her there. (Who else did I expect to see in her bed?) And then her eyes moved off to wander down her body ... to her midriff and beyond ... my hand inside her panties. My own older eyes (by now), had wandered back there too, and with a presence of mind that amazed me, I said, "I've left you a little something." And as I said it, I withdrew my hand. All that was left at her midsection was the glimmer of skin, her panties, waistband set lower on her pretty hips than she would probably have put it herself, and the corner of the cheque, sticking out. "What is it?" she asked, eyes staying with the corner of paper sticking from the waistband of her panties, rather than following my departing fingers, (sneaking off, a bit like a burglar from a house in darkest night, with his tail between its legs!) I told her what it was. She reached down. Took it out and looked at the amount. "Oh, Mr Trabert!" she gasped, big bright eyes jumping to mine like a puppy dog's might. She reached up her arms and pulled me down on top of her. I fell right over the bed. Her legs tangled with mine and her arms went round my neck held me tight as her little tongue reached far down my throat in a wildly abandoned French kiss. "Any time, my little vixen,' I found myself thinking as I went to work on her. Her plump little thigh was causing considerable reaction from me, between my legs, so I tried to reciprocate, rubbing my own larger, rather older thigh as industriously between her legs as hers were doing between mine. She suddenly froze. She held me firm as a vice as her pelvis suddenly snapped at me, then pulsed, and pulsed again, then seemed to lock. I sensed a groan climb in her throat as her tongue, now still, let the groan bubble into my mouth. Had I made the sweet thing climax? Was this an orgasm, is that what it was, I wondered, holding her tight, holding her close, holding her still -- all except her pelvis, rhythmically spasming against me. Our lips slipped apart. She gasped against my cheek, then kissed my ear, and gasped again. Then stretched. I let her lovely, lively, lithesome body alone and rose, a little guiltily, from the bed. I looked down at the sweet and lovely girl as she stretched, languidly and long, then sighed again, and then looked up at me. "Thank you," she mouthed, though for what, she didn't say. I left, to let her shower. What if I'd stayed, I wondered. Would she have let me help her with her shower? Next day I didn't trust myself to go and wake my Mona, so let her be. I saw her first, just after lunch, (although it didn't matter, I hadn't needed her). The following day was the same. On the third day after that hot impassioned morning, Sal left me a note for Mona -- some things to be done to her room, an engineer from work was stopping by. She asked that I give her the note then left, just after seven. I played with the note for a while. Then a while more. Then I decided on a plan. A plan of action, if you will. I made my way to Mona's wing, not stopping at her door lest I alter my plan, or lose my nerve, or change my mind. I marched straight into the sweet girl's room. She was laying on her back, legs sprawled wildly in abandon, arms likewise, out to either side. I reached for the corner of cover that still lay lightly on her hips, and drew it off. With one hand I eased up the waistband of her panties while with the other, I slipped in the note. Then I turned and left the room. I worked in my studio for an hour. And then, a further hour. At round about eleven my darling arrived, freshly dressed. (We dressed her in a French maid uniform: one of my wife's dumber ideas. Although it had to be said, Mona looked spectacularly sexy as a French maid.) "I got the note, Mr Trabert," she said with a smile, dusting round my easel, switching her trim little butt as expertly as she twitched her feather duster. "Somebody's coming at four," she said, then stopped, her pretty breasts against my elbow. "I didn't feel you leave the note," she said. She said it softly, lips at my ear. "Would you have liked to?" I asked, lifting my eyes from my easel to her face. The little sweetie blushed. She actually blushed! Then turned away. "Will you want lunch?" she asked, finishing up. I told her, no need, I had to go out to the club. She didn't catch my eye. I didn't see her again that morning. Next day I asked Sal if she had another note she wished to leave for little Mona. She didn't, more's the pity. But then, on the way to the car, she suddenly remembered she had, took out her bag and pen and scribbled a note, folded it over, gave it to me. I waved my wife good bye, went inside, folded the note once more, (so it would fit in her panties,) made myself a strong cup of coffee. It was only seven o'clock. Mona didn't think of getting up for a good two hours yet. What would I do in the intervening time? I read a chapter of a book I didn't like. Then it was time. Time to leave Mona her note. Entering the room, drawing off the sheet, drinking in the sight of her -- limbs and hair all over the place, smooth skin glistening softly -- all took no more than a minute or so, (but it set my senses racing). Mona looked so incredibly, lusciously, cuddly. And yet so chaste, and innocently young. So virginal, unsuspecting, pure. Yet with lips so enticingly plump. My own were soon atop them, my tongue painting moistness on both. Within a minute she had started to respond, just as she always did. The lips gently coming to life as the rest of her lingered on, in sleep. As if they had a life of their own. As if her lips were playful pets who came out to play before work was required and their mummy awoke. Playfully innocent, innocently playful, basking in the early-morning attention they were getting -- that I was lavishing upon them. They were just like two fat puppies, thrusting and wriggling and squirming, filled with the fun of it all. Kissing her still, I drew the hem of her t-shirt up her body, practically up to her breasts. I stared, like a drunken man at drink, at the sleek firm shape of her middle. With my mouth softly joined on hers, and my eyes angled gently down her length, I noted the flare of her hips, the flimsy pink film of her panties, the hopeless abandon of legs. Her limbs were invariably spread this way: either out to the side, or stretched up above, or bent well away from her body. As if she were offering herself. To me. But a measure too of her trust, the trust she had in me. Knowing I came in every morning, yet unconcerned. Continuing to sleep. Trusting, like a pet. Was I betraying that trust? Was I, by handling her thus, even in sleep, spoiling the view that she had of me, as a friend? I felt her little tongue come into my mouth, inquisitive as always, the little point wandering my gums. God! but this girl was divine. I stretched my mouth wide over hers. I gently eased the hem of her shift over a plump and warmly chubby breast. I lowered my hand onto skin and felt it fill with the heavy softness of the girl. Her eager young tongue stretched deeper in my mouth. I found myself sucking her tongue as my fingers and palm luxuriated in the warm intimacy of this wondrous girl's unbelievable luscious breast. How could a mere lump of flesh feel so good? How could it fill my soul with such excitement? How could it inspire and arouse me to try so much more? To journey even further into all she had to offer, all she bore, all she showed, all she promised. Was there more? "Ohmigod," I heard myself gasp into the lovely girl's wide-open mouth, finding there was more. Good God -- so much more. Her tongue, and spit, and fluids, intermingling with my own. Openly allowing all I wanted, while I encouraged her to do the same with me. I felt a gasp escape her throat, come glissading into our mouths conjoined, turn very briefly to the tiniest sound, as fragrance drifted from the working gap of lips. Lips and mouths and tongues, and imaginations, working their agonising magic on the other. Forcing each to greater heights, or deeper depths. To better enjoy what it was they were striving to do, striving to do with no clear plan but arouse the bejesus out of each other. Climax and groan. Abandon, release. Sated at the end. Today I needed my pet. To posses her sweet charms. I was intent on fucking the girl. Hotly and wildly and strongly and hard. It couldn't be postponed one more day. Where the heck was Sal's note? I was sure I had it when I came into the room, so where was it now? It certainly wasn't in the hand that was hungrily fondling the girl's soft breast. Nor in the other, fingers in the waistband of the pink stretch of panties that ran across her tum. It wasn't in the ruffle of pubic hair that my fingertips were already caressing and fondling and seeking to arouse. So where the hell was it? Her slender arm came round my neck and pulled my lips closer to her own. Had I given her the note already? Could I bring it later? How the hell else did I justify the lengths to which I was going with the girl unless I had a note, (or another raise in pay,) to hide behind? "Ngaaar!" she gasped, tightening her arm round my neck, mashing her mouth to my own, shooting her tongue as far down my throat as the perky young vixen could force it! How did one feed such a hunger as this? I pushed my hand deep in her panties, curled my fingers hard and hungrily in amongst the engorged labia lips, sticky and hot, sliding and slurping in the honey she'd produced, lost in some sleep-induced orgy of hers! How could I satisfy a youth with such verve, I wondered, my mind almost coming unhinged as her pelvis rose off the bed like a fork full of hay, and thrust all it had in my hand. Her thighs clamped tight around my hand as her hips drove high from the bed and a deep-throated groan came out of her mouth like the horn of a ship of fair tonnage announcing its presence in the midst of a fog. God, but that sound had me lapping at the youngster in a frenzy of lust. To know that I'd done that to the girl. That I'd brought her out and risen her to that. A heart-rending deep-throated admission of arousal. Confession that she liked what I was making her feel, wanted to be possessed as whoever in her dreams was possessing her now -- as I was possessing her now. Was there room for one more in her thoughts, in her dreams, in the fantasies she visited on mornings such as this. One more -- two more -- three, if that's what she wants. I'm not greedy. Even if she is! Her shapely torso was squirming and writhing in my grasp. First one breast then the other pushed firmly into my hungrily working hand. Her chest against my own as her midsection curled and her face came into mine, shoulders curling high around her ears. Both her arms tight around my neck, as if she wanted to make us both one, all else ignored. Never mind dislocated jaws, stretched throats, over-excited mouths, over-extended tongues! (But another matter had arisen that demanded quick attention, lest I hurt myself.) My erection, attentive to the youngster's nubile charms and willing acquiescence to being fondled and explored -- to her hungry responses to all that I was doing to her -- had to be released from shorts that had become alarmingly constricting, Y-fronts that were suddenly too tight. Out it pinged like a spring loaded baton, hot and fat and ready to party. When I saw it's state I lowered my hips below the level of the bed with alacrity, lest a part of her noticed the monster and took fright. And there was the note! On the floor beneath a quivering phallus. I made a mental note, when push came to shove I'd reach for the note, thrust it wherever was appropriate, say another pay rise was included, catch my breath, cover my embarrassment -- or whatever state I found myself in when the note was brought into play -- and I'd be safe! That was the primary message, at least. But what it meant, was this: that it was now safe to carry on, safe to indulge myself some more. Besides, it normally took four hefty shakes to wake the girl and I hadn't shaken her once yet! I curled a sticky finger in her midst. She gave another groan like a tanker in a fog, then arched her back and lifted her torso high off the bed, threatening to roll on top of me, phallus and all, on the floor. I manfully kept her where she was, pressed her pretty body to the mattress, drove my eager tongue down her throat. God but she was game, this little kitten! So, when did she wake ... my foxy little Mona, my highly charge teen from the land of the sun, my game little kitten supercharged with sexual energy, and perhaps the sweetest smiles this side of Luzon -- hell, any side of Luzon! Was it when I entered her and she cried out, raking her nails down my back so severely I felt it draw blood? Was it when she rose from the bed, neatly impaled in the tightest, hottest, sexiest grip of my prick my entire adult life, and came astride me? Was it when she moved her little butt up and down on my rod and covered my face with a barrage of the lightest, quickest, most sensual kisses I've ever experience anywhere. Ever. Or when she pushed down on my chest and sent me tumbling on my back onto the bed? Or was it when she crossed her hands and lifted the t-shirt up and over her lovely head and tossed it on the floor? Or when she gripped a hand in each of hers and took them to her breasts, (a surprisingly heavy mound each). Or when, with her eyes tight closed and her face angled up towards the ceiling, she started to give little high-pitched screams in time with the movement of her pelvis, driving herself onto me, lifting off, driving me into her, lifting off, driving us both into each other. Then rolling on the down-stroke, pussy and clitoris taking the pressure, and pleasure, from the point of my pubis? Or was it when she climaxed with a cry and a wild flaying of her head, left, then right, then left, then right -- keening as her shoulders reached high around her head, practically touching each ear? Or when she came the second time, me behind her, entry from the back, loving the action of her pert little buttocks as they punched into my lap, the writhing of her pelvis as my fingers excited her clitoris, the gasps and groans and arch of back that came from playing with her sensitive breasts, hard little nipples, bright red tiny lobes of ears. Ears as flushed as all the rest of her. Or was it when she climaxed, a third or maybe fourth time, standing, legs straight and spread on the bed, thrusting back, arms on the wall above the bed-head, as I thrust like as dervish into her, hands round her front playing with all her private parts (as if I'd just discovered them afresh)? Or was it at the end, when she came so beautifully the last time that morning, both of us lying on our sides, legs intermingled, entry from behind but my leg over hers, and hers over mine. Like two sets of scissors. My lips were on her lips as she turned her torso towards me. My hand on the breast arched upwards as she turned. My fingers cupped delicately round the back of her head as the sweetest, gentlest, softest kiss, and most sinuous motion of tongues, extracted the sweet final ecstasy from both of us. Which is when I remembered the note. I handed it over. The shocked look on her face when she read the note came as a surprise. "TV," she squealed, eyes wide in alarm. "Guinea pig, guinea pig," she keened, distraught, (confusingly). "See, see, TV," she added a third part as if it were the name of a particularly nasty and virulent plague. She waved the letter in the air. Then dropped it and covered her face with her hands. I clutched at the fluttering sheet, cast my eyes over the message. Mona was a 'guinea pig', it seemed. For a new system Sal's company was using. They'd started testing it yesterday, hoped that was okay. But it wasn't. 'See, see, TV' was not, (you see,) 'See, see TV'. It was 'CCTV'. (I spotted it then, above the door. The lens was aimed my way.) Perhaps it wasn't really turned on, I thought, slipping from the bed without a word. (What could I say, after all?) Sal and I met that evening, in the dining room. It was a cold and stormy night. Rain was falling wetly in the yard and the window frames were rattling fit to burst. We were having iced gespachio, I noted, as I sat, an unconcerned smile resolutely fixed on my face as I asked, pleasantly, "So how was your day?"