� � � � � � � � � � � � � �Thanks go to Renpet, for inspiration, and to Phil Gorman, for proofreading.
Part I
I had two strokes of luck that day. And it's not often that luck comes twice in a row, especially luck of this magnitude.
The first stroke of luck was that I should have found myself stuck in long queue, with my two children (both young boys), to get into our local entertainment park. Why was that lucky? Because queuing in front of us was a gaggle of five enchanting girls, aged around 12-13, also waiting in line. Although they were all attractive – most girls are at that age, except for the truly unfortunate, at least to one such as me – one these lasses stood out from the rest like a diamond in a coal mine. She was an Irish infanta, and to me, they were her cort�ge, although her companions were treating her more as a tag-along.
I decided to name her Keira, it’s easier to think of someone by name and this particular one seemed appropriate, reminding me of a girl in a story I had read. Imagine five preteen girlies, long-legged and bubble-bummed, with tiny, tight conical titties in training bras pointing perkily in whichever direction they were constantly turning as they giggled and chatted through the wait. And picture my princess among them, red-haired Irish Keira, marble-white skin peppered with delightful russet freckles, bright-eyed Keira, face framed by auburn locks, hopping and skipping in innocent excitement, unaware that she was their princess, unaware that behind her a man had fallen madly in love with, and lust for, her and her alone.
Her mobile lips, neither meanly thin nor overly plump, cried out to be calmed with the first sexually charged kiss of her life. Bright white teeth flashed from time to time and a smooth, appetising little pink tongue tip would appear when she formed her dental fricatives. I felt weak at the knees from just observing her, straining to maintain casualness, while my groin churned and penis twitched at her every delightful, coltish, move.
She was wearing a loose tank top over a camisole bra. Some all-too-fleeting side glimpses through the top's armholes of her wondrously conical little breasts were shattering, both for the delight they aroused in me and the despair brought about by the fact the actual girl-flesh was concealed behind the material of the bra. Her little bubble bum, two tight hemispheres of firm preteen delightfulness, was tightly ensconced in hot pants, and it was pleasure to wait for her constant agitation to turn her towards me in order to catch a thrilling glimpse of the bulge of the lovely little mons concealed within, and wish with all my heart that I was undoing that top button and unzipping the short zip fly hiding the treasures within.
And how energetically did her lovely long legs skip and dance along with her, flashing stretches of youthful, slim and slender skin. God but I wanted to kiss and lick my way up trembling, silken inner thighs to that apricot vulva, with its richly rolling little lips and tasty secrets within. Would I ever be so lucky? Could I ever be so blessed?
All this I observed with twitching penis while at the same time schizophrenically maintaining a loose conversation with my children. Keira's four companions might, on any other day, have retained my interest, but not today. Today, my mind was practically entirely devoted to caressing Keira, to gently removing her garments one by one, revealing silken little shoulders that had to be showered with kisses while I stroked her slender back, delighting in her lovely spine and tiny shoulder blades under her white, smooth skin, before directing hungry lips to the two little mounds of preteen titty that begged and needed to be kissed, nuzzled, licked and slathered over by the reverently grateful mouth, lips, and tongue of a dedicated lover of very young girls. Today this little beauty, who was so nearly but not quite innocent of the effect she had on some men, chittered and chattered with her girlfriends, twirling this way and that in her lively way, in a special, innocent, but still sexual display, whether she knew it or not, for all who cared and knew how to appreciate the glories of the preteen body, its immeasurable sensuality, its delicious and still untasted sexiness.
I was in love. I was being tossed and rolled by a storming wave of lustful hunger.
Just then, despite my major efforts to appear distant, our glances crossed: our eyes met and diplomatic recognition, who can say how or why, but that's the magic of life, was established. Each of us had noticed the other – and in a non-negative way. Although this could mean anything or nothing, at least it was not bad.
And that was all for the day. The queue dissipated and my long-legged, sweet-scented, giggling gaggle disappeared, along with their Irish princess, in one direction, while my children and I went another.
This brings me to my second stroke of luck for the day. On getting home, I found a reminder to myself that I would be speaking the next day at one of the local schools. For my part, I liked the idea of helping our education system improve their semiliterate and semi-numerate products to gain a more rounded Weltanschaaung, since the schools were so bad at doing it themselves. This was something which I undertook as part of my general activities as a minor author and historian. This being the WWI centenary, I was going to talk about that, illustrating my talk with pictures from the front line, describing the battlefields and the trenches, the not-so-pointless slaughter. I always finished this talk with pictures of the nobly beautiful war cemeteries that dot France, speaking about the work of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission and the wonderful way in which it maintains little corners of England in the French flatlands. Children related well to the curious way in which the commission came to be: the shock and horror at the number of dead, the decision to memorialise every one of the fallen by name, either in individual graves if there was a body to be buried or on suitably grand and proud monuments if, as was horrifically frequent, there were not even pieces to allow for a burial. They also reacted well to the story of Rudyard Kipling's remarkable contribution to the endeavour, since even our poorly educated youth recognise his name as the author of the bedtime stories some of them, but sadly, not all, had heard when they were younger.
Kipling's own son was one of the 'lost, presumed dead'. And it was he who suggested a striking thing to the Commission: that the graves of unidentified soldiers bear the words A Soldier of the Great War, and the subtext Known Unto God, about the only positive way of expressing the sad fact that the grave held an unknown, unrecognisable body.
On seeing this reminder, I had a premonition, amounting to an absolute conviction, that the school would turn out to be Irish princess Keira's school and that she would be one of the attendees. And that did, indeed, turn out to be the case.
I gave my talk in a daze because Keira was, of course, in the room. Because, of course, our eyes met, and it was only with an immense application of willpower that I was able to tear mine away and make it seem I was addressing a roomful of children instead of just one. That day, however, my talk was addressed to just one child out of the roomful.
As I drew my little lecture to a close, I invited any who wished to do so, to stay on after if they wanted to ask any questions. Would Keira choose to remain? From our two eye contacts, I felt pretty certain she would, but it was always possible that my fascination for this delightful preteen had made me misread matters badly.
But no, she stayed on along with three or four other girls and boys. I have no idea whether the girls included any from the day before; Keira's beauty and sexiness whited out everything in any mental picture. The poor boys, of course, were simply of no interest at all.
It goes almost without saying that, in this age of paranoid pedophiliaphobia, there was a bored, dim-witted teacher in attendance as well. The questions and answers went well. Keira was an active participant, which was nice as it provided many opportunities to look at her legitimately, even if my thoughts were rather less so. I desperately wanted to establish what was in all this for Keira and concluded that it was attention. It seemed to me that the poor sweetheart was simply starving for attention and that she must be failing to get it elsewhere.
When it was all over, I manoeuvred to be leaving the school on foot at the same time as her. We therefore passed the school gates, still chatting. I decided to simply keep walking in the direction she was headed, while we continued our light conversation. Keira had curiosity and a quick brain, so I was genuinely enjoying her company. I was enjoying the time as well, my spirits buoyed by lovely flashes of her eyes, sparkling smiles, titties juddering under her white school blouse in time with our steps.�
Although in no way flirting, Keira was clearly delighting in being able to exercise her femininity and of having a man's attention. We were walking towards her home, where, I learnt, she was the fifth of seven siblings, the two youngest being brothers. She was indeed from a London Irish family. Lower income. Harassed mum. Father not much to be seen.
She told me that at school she was called 'the witch' because of her red hair, and was bullied somewhat, although she could take it. I took a risk and said I'd have thought she would be better called 'the enchantress’. Fortunately, this went down well and she glowed with pleasure. She was clearly unused to compliments and her lovely face became lovelier still as she shone with pleasure. I was nearly floored by the beauty of the extra glow that suffused the white, white skin of her soft cheeks.
Just at this moment, we happened to be passing a pub with open-air street seating, and I went for risk number two: I said I really fancied a half of cool beer, and would she like to rest her feet and have a quick lemonade. She agreed with pleasing alacrity. When I brought us our drinks, I said lightly that perhaps she had better not mention this to anyone because, although it was really harmless, some idiot might make something of it. "It'll be our secret! Promise!" she exclaimed. It delighted me that we were now in some way in league, a tiny step taken down the path of closeness.
I allowed myself to admire her during the few short minutes that we spent sitting across from each other over our drinks. The best thing was that she allowed herself to be quietly admired as my eyes absorbed her another time. She looked so pert, sitting prettily with a nice straight back, allowing her small titties in their training bra (padded I thought) to raise two tight little cones under her white school blouse, which was tucked neatly into her deliberately short grey school skirt, from which emerged her two lithe, thin, coltish yet shapely legs. These were demurely crossed, which action actually brought more than fair amount of thigh into view.�
I sipped my beer, my mind forming images of the delightful little preteen cuntlet being squeezed tight shut at the top of those legs, of the sweetly smooth, flat tum above the V of her sweet, virgin preteen pussy, which I prayed boasted a few silken, gently curled auburn pubes – a pale gold sprinkling on a pearly-white pad made to be kissed, of the little white titties, firm and conical, with pale pink aureolas and nipples with that hint of whiteness typical of redheads, that were concealed within that bra… My eyes rose to the open collar of her shirt, pearl-white skin with lightest dusting of freckles, leading to the slenderest of necks that no normal person could not long to nuzzle and cover with soft kisses while inhaling young girl fragrance.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" Keira's voice pulled me back to reality, while her actual words startled me. Good grief, was I really being that obvious? One look at her smile reassured me. "I do indeed," I answered. "I think you're one of the loveliest sights I've set my eyes on in a long, long while."
Keira glowed with pleasure again, the dear. Then she went on to tell me that at her school, where they called her the witch, her schoolmates all said or implied the opposite, saying that she was foully freckled, bony and lanky, and that boys only wanted to talk to the girls with the biggest – beauteous blush! – boobs.
I despaired inwardly at the stupidity of the herd, incapable of seeing, recognising, or appreciating true beauty when it was placed right before their eyes! I decided to court danger and expressed the same thought out loud. It went okay because, once again, I was rewarded by a smile and blush that set me aquiver. Keira's sweetness and loveliness had me in a daze of delighted lust. How I wanted to plant soft kisses on those motile, pale pink lips that looked so deliciously sweet, to dip the tip of my tongue between them to experience the taste of a small virgin mouth.
To distract myself, I told Keira about a trip I had run to the WWI lines in France. She became very interested and told me she had only once left England – a package tour to Spain, which had not been fun at all. Her father had … here she broke off, but I could guess … her father had spent the time pissed on cheap Spanish beer, mum had had trouble keeping her eyes on the crowd of kids when all she wanted to do was sunbathe.�
I said I sometimes led groups on such tours, explaining that it was in fact quite a common thing to go on historical tours. Keira immediately asked if there were tours like that she could go on, although she wondered if her parents would let her or agree to pay.
A slightly Machiavellian stratagem was beginning to form in my mind. It would do no harm to find out if this was worth thinking through. I told her I was starting to organise just such a tour, of just three days over the August bank holiday, and why didn't she speak to her parents about it, to see if they might agree in principle. She should tell them that it was a group of mainly much older people but that it might be possible to include her, if her parents agreed.
Since we would need to talk again, we exchanged mobile phone numbers as we finished our drinks. Exchanging phone numbers also taught me her real name, Niamh (pronounced “neev”). I would have to start thinking of her in this way. When I got home, I looked it up and discovered to my delight that the word means “radiance, lustre, brightness”. This could not have been truer in Niamh’s case!
After that, we each set off in our different directions. I did however, stand and watch her walk to the end of the street in order to enjoy the sight of her lovely little thighs and rear as she departed with jaunty steps. It seemed to me that something was developing here and that things might turn out very nicely indeed. My penis advised me by its constant, slight engorgement that that would be a very good turn of events.
Part II
On getting home, it took me less time than I would have liked to cum copiously and powerfully as I played over the images of this little darling that had accumulated in my mind. I undressed her mentally. Naked, she would be so beautiful: I pictured her still girlish face, framed with red curls, a pleased smile playing on her lips as my eyes roved down her fragile neck to the two little titties, the size of espresso cups, jutting firmly, yet softly and lusciously, from her slender chest, then further down to her tiny waist and flat tum for my eyes eventually to land on a nearly bald cuntlet, decorated with just a few copper-glinting pubes and some light russet freckles, dimpled at the top with rounded labia leading to … well, to heaven. Her long, straight legs not having filled out yet, there would be one of those delicious gaps at the very top, inviting a rampant penis to slide in and rub up against the base of the V of her pussy. Gently grasping hands could each grip a half-moon of her delightfully pert bottom, to impart motion and even spread it to expose a little pink rose for an exploring finger.
Little Niamh really was getting to me, particularly as I sensed potential availability. But it would not pay to get my hopes up, and even dreams, daydreams, and wet dreams can be satisfying.
My heart turned a somersault when, three days later, my mobile phone rang and it was Niamh!
She was phoning to say that she had spoken to her parents about a possible historical field trip, and that they had at least not rejected the idea out of hand. Only they wanted to speak to the organiser about it. I suggested that we meet at the same pub as before to discuss things. (This also the alluring advantage that it would also allow me to feast my eyes on firm, silken, preteen girlflesh).
We met at the appointed time and sat down to a pint of bitter for me and a lemonade for her. I left Niamh to settle at the same table that we had occupied last time while I went inside to fetch the drinks.
I looked at her as I approached with the drinks and took a seat opposite her, and felt myself overwhelmed by a duality of sensations. The first was a real and growing affection for this sweet, bright, keen, and interesting creature with whom it was a genuine pleasure just to sit and talk and plan a trip, and the second was an all-consuming lust for the totally delightful body that nature had given her. It was a confusing feeling, but a nice confusion. On the one hand, I was beginning to sincerely want to take care of her, talk with her and rear her, develop her and comfort her, in a parental sort of way. On the other, I wanted to pull her clothes off, envelop her in my arms, and gorge myself on her little titty cones until she began to pant, pausing only to delve my tongue into her delightful little mouth or lap at her virgin pussy, wrapping her luscious little thighs around my face and ears while my fingers delved into the sweet flesh of her shapely preteen bum.
Niamh flashed me a smile as I was sitting down and then suddenly blushed her lovely blush; she must have felt or seen something of this dichotomy reflected in my face. The way she was dressed had not helped either: she was not in school clothes, and, since our meeting was some hours after our phone call, had clearly dressed for the occasion. And she was dressed to charm. Deliberately? Innocently? Who knows? In reality, I suppose it was a bit of both, but she was dressed in a way that could have been designed to knock me sideways: a pale blue tee-shirt, hot pants of white twill, and sandals. Her little breasts proudly tented the light material of the tee without assistance from any bra, as could be told from the agonisingly sweet and appetising way they jiggled a tiny bit whenever she moved. The hot pants could have been painted onto her, they were so tight. The cloth was just too thick to delineate a camel toe, but, other than that, faultlessly replicated the delightful rise of a tiny padded mons, that could not have been more than a couple of inches wide at the top. Niamh, to be sure, had a tight miniature pussy there at the top of her long, slender legs and silken thighs.
I pulled myself together as a little pearl of precum trickled into my pants.
“It’s so nice to see you again,” I said, meaning it in every possible way. I then went on to explain how I organised the history tours. I would take a minibus load of history buffs to France and we would drive around the battlefields, stopping at places of special interest along the Western Front, for instance Arras, with its tunnels; the battlefields of French Flanders and the Artois; and going to view some of the memorials, one of my favourites being the Canadian memorial at Vimy Ridge. One could also go on to the Ypres Salient, and a good way to end the trip was to go to the imposing Menin Gate to hear the Last Post being played under its arches at 8pm, as has been done every day since its completion in 1927. Wars last longer than their official beginning and end dates.
I could see from Niamh’s eyes that she was fascinated. History was beginning to mean something more to her than the droning of some under-educated teacher at her school going through the motions. Still, it had to be difficult for teachers to bother: the catchment area for her school was a far from favourable one and the parents probably had no idea and couldn’t care less either.
All she needed, I said, was a passport and the written permission of her parents. I assumed she had a passport, hadn’t she told me she had been to Spain? She nodded, yes. The group I was taking was of men and women pensioners, a club of recently retired people. It was not ideal that, if she was allowed to go, she would be the only youngster, but on the other hand, she could think of it as going with a busload of parents – or was that too awful to contemplate? She said that actually worried her less, the greater worry being what it might cost. Her parents did not have much money to spare.
I smiled broadly as I told her I had good news. Since the club was paying and there was one spare seat left in the bus, it would actually cost nothing at all, so long as on the two nights she was okay with sharing a twin room with one of the ladies. All she’d need was a bit of pocket money for ice creams and drinks if she needed refreshment. Niamh really perked up at this news and said that her parents were suckers for freebies. We both laughed, and I was once again pleased to see a sort of easy complicity developing between us. In addition, she was still more beautiful when she laughed, her auburn pigtail whisking from one side of her slim neck to the other, the curls kissing her soft marble-toned skin.
After a little while, she smiled and said she had to go. She wanted to tell her parents and, if they were still happy with the idea, which she thought they would be, would tell them to call me.
The long-awaited call from Niamh's parents, Sean and Maeve, came the next day. We introduced ourselves and I suggested that I could come and speak to them about the trip their daughter wanted to go on. I realised that they were just going through the motions of what was the right thing to do; they were more than happy not to have to shift themselves. We agreed that I would drop by just after work the next day.
The next day therefore found me, dressed in an in old but nicely respectable blazer and slacks, knocking at their door in the rely evening. Maeve let me in and offered a cup of tea. We sat down in the sitting room and I took out some papers – brochures about history tours and so forth. They looked me over and saw what I intended them to see: a respectable old codger, practically old enough to be Niamh's grandfather, with a mania about history. They told me that Niamh was very keen to go on this trip and double-checked that it would not actually cost anything. I confirmed that, saying that all she would need was a bit of pocket money for ice creams or whatever. I told them the club story again and they understood. Some of Niamh's siblings passed through the room as we were speaking. Some went to the kitchen to graze on food, others to rooms upstairs, others still to idly flip TV channels. The whole house felt overcrowded and under-attended, with no-one caring, or capable of, paying attention to anything for any length of time, except for Niamh, who sat in and listened keenly. The television played on in the background throughout, turning everything to a sort of near-white noise. I realised with amazement that no-one in this slobby, but nonetheless friendly, household had even noticed, as they drifted through their neither rich nor poor life, that one among them was an angel of beauty (and brains).
The moment I had worried about most – obtaining their letter of authority, passed with ease. I explained that all that I needed was Niamh's passport (which Niamh produced, having already retrieved it from a drawer) and a letter of authority to be in charge of their daughter on a trip abroad would be necessary. This caused concerned looks to appear on the parents’ faces until I said that I had a pre-prepared one. The issue for them was literacy, and nothing else. I had barely allowed myself to hope that it would turn out to be that easy. I explained that all they needed to do was to sign the form, witnessed by a solicitor as bothersome officialdom required, and that would be that.
The mention of solicitors had them looking worried again. Once again, I had the easy way out ready and waiting for them. I explained that I had done this before, and everything needed could be very easily done practically on the spot. Why didn't I call the solicitor who did these things for me and she could do it all in a brace of shakes. In fact, I could call now as I knew she worked late: we could go to the pub [look of intense relief on father Sean's face!] and she could probably drop by on her way home. (There was no 'probability' involved, as I previously engaged a solicitor to be ready for this).
We therefore adjourned � trois to the pub and the solicitor kindly turned up, where, after I quickly summarised its contents to them, Sean and Maeve signed the document I had drawn up authorising me to act in loco parentis for Niamh xxx, date of birth xxx, passport number xxx, and the solicitor took it to do the proper recording of it back at her office before returning it to me, as we all agreed there in the pub.
Things had gone swimmingly. Sean happily downed a couple of pints, Maeve dispatched two large G&Ts, and I delighted inwardly at having obtained a document so wide-ranging in the authority Niamh's parents had given me that I was to all intents and purposes her new official guardian.
This brings me back to Machiavelli. I had taken considerable care when drafting the document, making it long and complex, firstly in order to distract lazy minds from digging into to it too deeply but also for my own purposes. It was, in fact, not just a simple letter of authority to take a child on an educational excursion, but a lasting power of attorney that would open all sorts of possibilities to me should things turn out well.
There was also a second part to the scheme I had devised. There was NO club, NO planned trip. My plan was to get Niamh all fired up with the idea of such an exciting trip and then to announce to her that it was unfortunately being cancelled because some of the group had fallen ill. She had already shown indications that she was alright with doing things in league with me and what I proposed to do – and prayed she would go along with – was to alleviate her disappointment by saying that we could still do the trip, but just the two of us, since her parents' letter of authority would be okay for that, but that she should never tell her parents and always say, if ever she talked about it, that she had been on a group trip.
Niamh's parents left her pretty much alone to prepare for her trip. She phoned me a couple times in order excitedly to discuss what sort of clothes she should take and other trivia. Her parents had other things on their mind in any event: they were planning a trip of their own to see relatives back in Ireland and were more than happy to have more space in their car, as they had to take the youngest children. Her excitement at this first independent trip was intense and we had some wonderful chats. I loved the sound of her girlish voice as she tried to sound grown up. Sometimes I couldn't resist caressing myself as we spoke, and could hear my voice getting warmer (along with other parts of me) as the conversation went on.
I waited until just a few days before the trip to call her and say we needed to speak face to face. Once again, I felt it would be better if we met in public and so suggested our usual pub with its open-air tables. An hour later, we were face to face and I broke the bad news to her that the trip was being cancelled due to illness. Her disappointment was so intense that she looked like she was on the point of crying. It would have broken my heart if I had not been being cruel to be kind – because there was kindness in my intentions, even if they were not all strictly honourable, at least as they might be understood by everyone.
"Hold on a sec," I said. "There might be a way to sort this out, but only if you're happy with the idea."
She put her misery on hold for a moment and looked at me expectantly. I told her that I had been really looking forward to the trip myself, not because of the bloody club, but because I was thinking how much more fun it was going to be with her along. This was one trip I really didn't want to see cancelled. What if – big if, I took just her? It would have to be a big, big, secret. But if she was prepared to promise secrecy, cross her heart and hope to die a thousand horrible deaths, we could go, just the two of us, and no-one would be any the wiser. Was that idea okay? Or too weird?
Niamh's eyes flickered with thought, but I could see that it wasn’t from shock, but that she was using her quick little mind to check the plan for bugs. She pronounced herself: "Why not, that would be super!", before going on, "And no-one needs to know, except for us, of course."
Then she suddenly blushed, beautifully as always, perhaps at the way she had said "us".
For my part, I really loved that word "us". Extraordinary as it may seem, big things can and do begin life from tiny little building blocks of words and ideas. And I was beginning to feel that something amazing might come of all this.
Part III
And so it was that three days later, I picked Niamh up from her house, in a minibus which I had hired nonetheless for the sake of verisimilitude. Her parents had left for Ireland earlier that morning. We set off for Dover.
We chatted merrily as we drove down the motorway. From time to time I was able to look over and caress her enchanting form with my eyes. She had her lovely hair in a simple pigtail and was clothed in a plain T-shirt (with a bra underneath, this time) and form-fitting jeans that hugged her slender thighs. Her light, lemony, girly smell wafted through the vehicle. My spirits lifted. I was going to court and bed this little beauty before the trip was out. Niamh was sparkling, talking about everything and anything – what was outside the window as we passed, how long the ferry would take, where we would go on our first day, where we would stay. She didn't have to try to impress, but she worked at it anyway. And succeeded. Her looks spoke for themselves (to those with the eyes to see), but her mind spoke for itself, too. She was observant and smart. She could link things to make a subject interesting. She could joke; and she could take a joke. After falling in lust for her, I was falling in love with her. I would have to be very, very careful.
I wanted this to be truly good.
Niamh, I think, felt this too, in her own way and reacted accordingly. It cannot have been a coincidence that she ensured our eyes frequently met, and, when they did, that she held our glance for that extra split second before breaking into a sweet smile; that she sat beautifully straight so that her lovely little boobs pointed perkily and then rotated her body from the waist, thus emphasising their presence; that, since she was in jeans, she sat with her legs a little open, presenting a nice clear view of the little mons ensconced within. I should underline that none of this behaviour was in the slightest bit slutty: these were just the natural and nearly innocent actions of a girl just discovering that someone finds her pretty (read, in my case, gorgeous) and that this is something new and nice she can do to practice her previously unrecognised prettiness before appreciative eyes.
No one so much as questioned me as to who we were and what we were doing. We drove on board and parked the van. The crossing was quick and easy. We went up on deck to breathe the air and look at the sea. At one point, it felt entirely natural to curl an arm around her shoulder in the wind. She cuddled against me in response. It was only for a few, all too short moments, but there was a comfortable closeness. We were enjoying something together. We were together.
On arrival in the early afternoon, we drove straight out of ugly Calais, a nasty town spoilt by its communist and near-communist local governments, and made our way the hundred kilometres or so to Arras, a beautiful town fully restored to its pre-war (or wars) glory after its near total destruction. I had booked us into a chambres d'h�tes in an old house a few minutes' walk from the Place des H�ros, a medieval town square of exceptional beauty. Our rooms were furnished with antique furniture, and Niamh oohed and aahed at this. I had, of course, booked two rooms for the sake of propriety, but this was a quiet place and I began to wonder if tonight would be the night when I seduced my little lovely.�
Settling in did not take long, and I suggested a walk. I headed for the Place, knowing that she would enjoy going up the Belfry, with its magnificent view over the town and the countryside beyond, peaceful now, but the scene of so much war. Evidently feeling a little far from home in this new environment, Niamh took my hand as we walked. My heart sang as I felt her slim fingers take mine and I longed to never let go.
Refreshments – and sugar for energy – were needed first so we went and bought chocolates from a chocolatier on the square before sitting down at a caf�. Niamh praised the chocolate, immediately appreciating how much better French chocolate is than English. After that, the climb up the stairs to the view platform at the top of the belfry left us panting but not exhausted. After descending, we explored the tunnels, created by the town’s original builders in the Middle Ages – they quarried the stone for the town from them – right under the town. These were of course used during the World Wars as well.�
It was evening and time for supper. I led us to a superb little restaurant with proper French cooking. (Over recent years, many French restaurants have started cheating and serving food prepared semi-industrially not in their own kitchens, but not this place!) I felt sure I could trust Niamh to react in the right way to being thrown in at the deep end of haute cuisine. I did, however, warn her to expect something a little different. This was a 'r�staurant s�rieux', as the French would say, and the menu was accordingly not extensive, with a choice of just three starters and three main courses. Niamh said I should choose, so I ordered for us both: a light salad with half a lobster (already shelled), to be followed by something I had to look up – quasi de veau, which turns out to be a particularly lean and tender part of the rump. For wines, I ordered half a bottle of Alsatian Gew�rztraminer to go with the lobster, and another half of decent beaujolais to go with the veal.�
We were beautifully served by the staff, who evidently took us to be a rich granddad taking his granddaughter out for an educational treat. That being something the French always approve of, we got special treatment. Niamh had changed, before setting out for the restaurant, into a pretty blouse and plaid skirt that she had very sensibly packed and looked as pretty as a picture. All the staff fussed wonderfully and took extra care of la jeune demoiselle, while I gloried proudly in her beauty.
Niamh marvelled at the gorgeous presentation of the food in this lovely little restaurant and responded exceedingly well by tasting the novelties without any hesitation and discovering that she loved them. Although never having been given wine before, she appreciated the Gew�rz, with its strange eastern, spicy taste of lychees, and showed courage of discrimination by adding that she had preferred it to the beaujolais.
We took our desserts and coffee slowly, feeling full and relaxed after the grand meal. Niamh chose this moment to say something that floored me totally. With a smile and a sparkling eye, she said:
"Thank you so much for the great meal. I'm really enjoying being groomed. In fact, I'm loving every minute of it, since I never expected it to happen to me."
My jaw dropped. I clamped it back shut as soon as I was physically able. Then I hazarded a look at Niamh. Her eyes were sparkling. She was smiling. There was even a hint of devilry in the lovely blue-green eyes.
But I was still floored. Reeling. What was I to say or do in response to this?�
Then I realised that the only proper way out was to take it like a man and come clean.
"Dear Niamh," I said. "You're quite right. Something (and everything) about you spoke to the inner me from the second I first laid eyes on you. I felt I just had to get to know you better. Or else I'd never have forgiven myself."
Niamh smiled mysteriously. But she looked pleased, so things were alright. In fact, they became more than alright, when she continued:
"Anyway, you can consider me well and truly groomed now. That's what I wanted to happen."
Wonderful Niamh! I loved the way she slipped from child to young woman and back. In a low voice, I told her that, were it not for the fact we were in a respectable restaurant, I should be flinging the table to one side and showering her with kisses. She giggled, a little girl again. Then she blushed like a young lady. My desire for her redoubled. At the same time I promise myself that I would really, really take care of her.
Our trip to France took on a completely new character. Carefully choreographed seduction plans no longer had to be formulated; this was going to be a honeymoon.
Niamh and I started looking at each other in a new way. I could see a gentle questioning look in her eyes. How were things going to go now? I'm sure my eyes shone with love (and I hope not too obviously, at least to those around us, with desire).�
I settled the addition, and we set off back to the hotel. Somehow or other, and entirely naturally, we were hand in hand. Her slender little fingers gripped mine warmly and then relaxed. We walked a little way. Letting go for a few moments, I encircled her waist with one arm. She was so slender that my hand rested partly on her side and partly on her flat tum. She cuddled against me briefly. A wave of lust came over me as I realised that we were walking happily back to a hotel where we would be able to consummate this.
We walked in comfortable near silence through this quiet, unfamiliar town, where no one knew us and where anything was possible. This was a moment beyond words. The thoughts of both of us were surely turning to what lay ahead. The night was young and hours of mutual discovery awaited.
We re-entered the hotel, got our keys, and headed for our rooms. Niamh gave me a sweet look and said she needed to go to her room, but would I come and say goodnight in a few moments.
My excitement was practically boundless. However, I also realised that, by having announced that she was “groomed” and ready for love, it was now incumbent on me to make this event as beautiful for Niamh as it would undoubtedly be for me. This was going to be – had to be – a night of love, a night of introduction to physical love, a night of utter delight, and a night of beautiful discovery for the two of us.
Back in my room, I took a very quick shower and brushed my teeth. I slipped on some underwear to control my partially erect cock and slipped into a dressing gown. I stepped across the small hotel’s silent, empty corridor and entered Niamh's room.
The little darling was snuggled up in bed, her head on the pillow and the rest under the covers, russet locks framing her little, freckled face. She smiled tentatively, but the look in her eyes was warm and also determined.
I sat down on the bed beside her as one would if about to kiss a child goodnight.�
Niamh fixed her eyes on me expectantly. I gazed back. “You are so, so sweet and lovely,” I whispered, and reached out a hand to stroke her pale little brow. In that instant, I became a child molester, albeit the child in question responded softly and willingly to my touch. Gently, I caressed her brow and stroked her hair. She had brushed it, so it ran over and through my fingers like living silk. I cupped a soft, childish cheek in my palm. Niamh snuggled into it and smiled. Leaning forward, I inhaled the clean sweet scent of young girl and kissed her smooth little forehead. Niamh sighed with a quiet little ’whoosh’. The scent of little girl became more heavenly still.
“Could we cuddle?” she said, moving an arm as if to raise the sheet. Lifting it slightly, I slipped under the cover, losing my dressing gown as I went. This left me in just my underpants, under which a huge erection resided. Niamh rolled into my arms and we lay there face to face. She wasn't naked, but wearing a soft cotton bra and panties. Even so, the feeling of so much smooth, warm, soft skin in contact with mine was heavenly. I pressed her to me, and felt her little breasts, the size of mandarin oranges, push against me with a delightful resilience. She moved her lower body so as to settle my erection against her soft thighs and then, a little experimentally, pressed closer to me, a brave smile playing across her face. Little Niamh was certainly not lacking in courage. Slowly, slowly, as if involuntarily or maybe through some kind of magnetism, our faces moved closer and closer until suddenly our lips were gently touching. When her soft pink lips at last met mine, it occurred to me that only now could I say that I truly understood the meaning of the word 'ecstasy'. Breathing each other in, our lips melded.
It was a magical moment. Less than an hour or so ago, we had been two moths fluttering around each other, now we were learning to be lovers. I cherished the moment, cherished the softness of her virgin lips and sweet breath as she yielded softly to intimacy. This was so brave of her, so greedy of me, but, all in all, so good.
I longed to taste her. Very gently, lovingly, I sent my tongue to seek out her lips and insinuate itself between them. The heat of her breath caressed it. Niamh snuggled closer and I felt her lips part, oh-so-slightly, and then the wet warmth of a smooth little tongue-tip emerged to meet mine. We both gave a little groan of delight and Niamh wiggled her legs more tightly still against my pulsing penis.
Niamh’s lips were soft and sweet. Her timid tongue was silky smooth, as only young tongues are, and tasted of heaven. The kiss became deeper as our lips pressed harder against each other, mouths opened wider as arousal grew, and tongues duelled for the tastiest slavering, our heads moving this way and that in search of the angle that would lead furthest in. We panted and hugged, body to body. Niamh’s tiny titties were nearly, but not quite, flattened as they pressed against my chest, two spots of burning pressure. My erect cock pulsed and dribbled with pleasure as we moved.
I think we both felt that we might orgasm from just kissing if we continued a moment longer, because, suddenly, as if choreographed, we pulled apart and lay on our backs, panting, under the light sheet. Niamh turned her head to look at me and I turned mine to her.
“That was almost too wonderful for words,” I sighed. She responded with a smile.
“I didn’t know you liked me that much!” she said. “No one has ever made me feel so good.”
Talking softly, I told Niamh, meaning every word of it, that from the moment I had set eyes on her, I had been sure she was special, but now I truly felt it. She was a little treasure, a bundle of delight. I wanted to care for, cuddle, please, and sometimes spoil her – if she would let me. Furthermore, there ought to be a law against anyone being as sweetly sexy as she.
Niamh giggled at the last remark. Then, after a pause, said: “It’s strange to hear you saying all these nice things about me. I told you; mostly I get teased about being freckly and red. So I pretend it’s ok and funny just so as to have people to be with, like those other girls at the park.”
“Niamh,” I said, “most people don’t have the brains they were born with, and even fewer people have eyes to see. Your beauty doesn’t reach them, because they think in terms of tits and bums, whereas with you, one needs to look at, and admire, your lovely soft cheeks framed by your glorious hair as a complete picture. One needs to look at and into your grey-green eyes, to see the bright person within and the sparkle they promise. One needs to gaze at your body and the way you move to understand that you are both a delightful and a sexy person.”
I was trying to explain to her that delightful people are far sexier than sexy people are; although I may not have said it clearly enough. We were, however, only at just the beginning of something, so there would be – I would make – a million other opportunities. I wanted to tell her endlessly that she, Niamh, was the one-in-a-million and that was the way I wanted to treat her.
Sex is important because it binds, but it’s also just as important because it gives exquisite pleasure, particularly when the two people are just right for each other. And it is fun. It was extraordinary in our case that a nearly elderly man and a darling teen barely out of, or maybe still partly in, childhood should form such a match. But there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, as some writer once said.
I decided that we must be recovered from the incredibly potent feelings we had experienced. I was still slightly shaky from the unbelievably stunning experience of deep kissing an underage nymph, and Niamh from her first charged sexual kiss.
In fact, with the resilience of youth, she was moving towards me, coming back for more.�
“Can I ask you a naughty personal question?” I whispered as her face approached mine. With her lips touching mine, she nodded yes. I could feel, but not see, her lips shaping a smile as she did so.
“I would like to know – the question has been tormenting me – if you are a true redhead.”
Niamh widened her eyes questioningly. I explained that real, true redheads are also redheads “down there”. Was she?
The charming girl blushed to the roots of her hair. In fact, the skin on her slender chest also blushed. Maybe even her thighs blushed! But they were under the sheet.�
“Then I’m a true redhead,” she said. Then, with a slight gulp, she added, “You can check”, before blushing again at her temerity.
What a darling! I said that what I would like to do is have a proper good look at her and maybe kiss her all over. With that, having first settled my erection in my pants, I gently pulled the sheet off us, opening up the whole length of her lithe little body to my gaze as she lay on her back.
She was so slender! Her slim neck (kiss and nuzzle) led down to smooth shoulders (caress and kiss) and a delightful flat tummy (wet kiss just below belly button). Her skin was as fair as fair could be, marble white with a light sprinkle of russet freckles, mainly on her upper chest. I tried to kiss each and every one of them, but of course failed. Niamh curled and stretched under these worshipful kisses, sighing languidly at the warmest of them.
I took her hands and caressed her slim fingers. I kissed her palm. I kissed the crook of an elbow – such soft skin there. I nuzzled my nose into her smooth, hairless armpit. Niamh wriggled happily at this. Ah no, there were actually a few golden little hairs there. I kissed the spot again.
I slid a hand under Niamh’s back and, with my palm on her little shoulder blade, which itself was hardly larger than my hand, I gently rolled the little teen towards me, so that I could unclip her bra.
Once loosened, I let the same hand slip back, under the little strip of cloth, towards her front. It reached the exquisite swell of her little rising titty, firm and warm, smooth as cream. Unable to stop or slow down, my hand was suddenly filled with the delicious piece of girl flesh. I moved my mouth to Niamh’s to inhale her sudden exhalation as I grasped this lovely little piece of her, my fingers delving into the warm springiness of a virgin girl’s still partially formed breast. Our tongues entwined as I stroked the little mound, a fingertip tracing the entrancing smoothness of her little aureola and touching the pea-sized nipple at its centre. Niamh moaned into my mouth as I lovingly mauled first one and the other breast.
I had to see them! Pulling away, I got her bra off and gazed at two of the loveliest titties ever produced by nature. Two firm, pale-skinned, little cones stuck out at me, each topped with a completely smooth, pink aureola about the size of a quarter. Her nipples were palest pink and stood out proud and invitingly. My heart skipped a beat. No – it thumped fit to burst!
I quickly manoeuvred down the bed, so that, with Niamh lying as she was, more on less, on her side, her gorgeous preteen titties were right in front of my face. I planted my lips on the lower one, pressing into the lovely little mound, before very gently sucking a tiny nipple into my mouth and nuzzling into luscious flesh that smelled of youth and springtime. Niamh whinnied and pressed herself harder into me. “Now the other one,” she exclaimed, wriggling to present it to my lips. I was only too happy to taste the second of the delightful pair, which I then tried to swallow whole, sucking it all into my mouth while I ran my tongue over and over the nipple. With my hands on her tiny shoulder blades, I pressed Niamh’s breastlets over and over into my face, mumbling that they were too lovely, adoring her little moans and grunts as I did so.
We were close to orgasm yet again. How I wanted to cum, cum, cum with and over this wondrous little being who was enjoying such sweet, forbidden sex with me!
But I also knew that there was better yet to come. Pulling myself together, I replaced her gently on her back and kissed my way down from Niamh’s wondrous titties, past her belly button, down her stomach, to where another mound of delight lay.
“Now for the answer to that question of mine,” I said softly. ”But first I’ll close my eyes.”
Niamh giggled. After a soft kiss to her little mons through her panties, to which Niamh responded with a little answering heave, I hooked my fingers into the elastic and pulled them down and over her legs. Niamh helpfully assisted by bending and wriggling them.
“I’m opening my eyes now.”
I was leaning over Niamh. My eyes were greeted by a sight that no photographer, and only the rarest of great painters, could possibly do justice to. In the centre of my vision, there lay before me a perfectly formed, tiny little pussy, small enough to be a preteen’s. Very lightly fledged with short, snaking silken hairs, the colour of pale red gold, Niamh’s pussy glistened whitely at the top of two alabaster thighs, long and straight, slender yet shapely. Her sweet slit was a thin pale pink line, from which there only emerged a peek of the hood of her clit. Above the V, where the golden hairs thinned out to nothing, Niamh’s lovely tummy moved with her breathing.
Niamh was trembling slightly. In a state of awe at such beauty, at the idea that this little girl was offering herself to my eyes, and to me, in so sweet a way, I leant forward the few inches required and kissed the little mons once again, this time with my lips on her bare young skin. Niamh shivered, giving a little push back in response.
Reverentially, I caressed first one and then the other coltish thigh from her knee to the soft skin between her hip and groin. Niamh gave a little writhe of pleasure and parted her legs slightly, just enough for my hand to be able to stroke the ineffable silkiness of her inner thigh. She was so soft there! So kissable!
I moved so that I was between her legs, which she parted further for me with a soft little sigh. Gently, I kissed the sweet knobbles of her teenage knees with their slightly harder skin, before tracing with my lips up one of her inner thighs. The delicious scent of the arousal of an innocent, underage girl made my senses swirl. I pressed my lips down on the widest expanse of her inner thigh in a long, hot kiss, inhaling deeply. I could feel little trembles within the muscle under her delicious skin. Then, with little butterfly kisses, I kissed Niamh further and further up until my lips settled lightly on little girl labia. Niamh’s trembling was such that it was almost a hum. She was breathing in and out with little gasps. When my lips paused for an instant on her delicate lower labia, dampened by dewdrops of little-girl juices, Niamh shifted her little cuntlet so as to meet my lips and press back on them. The little darling was in fact kissing me with her cunt, moulding her mound to my mouth as my lips met it.
My face was buried between her lithe legs. In my mind’s eye, I held the picture of the glorious little organ I was so busy kissing, sparse pubic hair of reddish gold, leading to a delightfully delineated slit, the ‘nether smile’ of a sweet young virgin. Niamh’s movements presented her little virgin hole to me. My tongue dove in, followed immediately by a gasp from her. To the accompaniment of her gasps and sighs, I drove my tongue in and out of her delicious cuntlet, faster and faster. I made sure that from time to time I also licked up her lovely labia all the way to enticingly engorged little clit. Sensing her climax coming, I drove my tongue hard and fast into her tight little vagina while mashing my nose to and and fro on her clit. Niamh almost shrieked as she came, pulling my head tighter to her mons by the hair of the back of my head. At last she fell back, panting. I was panting, too.
Sliding back up the bed, wiping my face on the sheets as I did so, I enfolded the little sweetheart in my arms, and pressed my lips to hers, inhaling her last few gasps.�
“That was incredible,” she said quietly. “I thought I knew what cumming meant, but that was something else.”
“That’s because you are something else,” I murmured back. “No one has ever, ever, affected me the way you do. You knock me down, out, over, and sideways, little Niamh, yes, you do.”
She responded by giving me an extra tight hug and a smile.
“But what about you?” she whispered. “You haven’t come yet, have you?”
I had been on the verge of cumming for nearly an hour now. I ached deliciously with my desire for her. My cock was screaming for one thing, and one thing only. It wanted, along with the whole of me, to dive deep, deep into Niamh’s divine little pot of gold, there to burst its little heart out in the tight silken sheath of sweet Niamh’s virgin cuntlet.
“You’ve been making me nearly cum all this time and it’s been the loveliest torture to have been wanting you and wanting to cum all this time.” I said, placing little kisses on her lips as I spoke. “And more than anything I want to make real love to you, to go right inside you, and cum with you in my arms.”
“I want that, too,” my little Irish angel said as she snuggled closer. “Please do it right now, I’m ready.”
With a smooth motion, I got my underpants off and drew her closer to me so that my dick, at long last released from its confines, found itself ensconced, due the difference in our heights, in the valley between her two warm, gorgeous thighs, its head homing up towards its destination.
Rolling Niamh gently onto her back, I felt her part her legs in preparation for the invasion. Hunching myself slightly on my elbows, I looked down at Niamh’s sweet face, its expression a mixture of expectation and slight nervousness.
I bucked my hips a little forward and felt my cock make contact with her little golden mons. Pulling down, I translated the sensations being transmitted to me from it, as it trailed down her little labia until the tip located and settled in the little oval opening to Niamh’s tiny tunnel. Niamh made a little ‘aaah’ sound. Precum dribbled and I felt an extraordinary warmth at the tip of my cock.
Lowering myself down a little further on my elbows, so that I could see little Niamh’s face clearly, I was stunned by the beauty of how her childlike features shone with sexual desire. Very gently and very slowly, I began to push into her, watching the play of the myriad sensations assaulting her reflected in her changing expressions.
As for me, my feelings of bliss were near inexpressible. First there had been that hot little kiss of virgin labia as the tip of my cock had found Niamh’s little hole. This was followed by a sensation close to burning as my cock had gently inched its way into her superheated little tunnel, all slick and lovely from its previous tonguing, only to be suddenly swallowed as its widest part passed the rim of her tight cuntal sphincter. The whole process was further magnified in my mind by the instant replay I was seeing on Niamh’s darling face. As I penetrated deeper into the tightness of her slippery sheath, and felt myself more and more of my cock being taken into that sweet virgin’s womb, I also watched the wondrous display of pleasure and surprise on Niamh’s face as I filled her more and more. A man-size penis was driving its way into a small teen cunt and the two participants were both experiencing pleasure nearly beyond words.
The long, slow, luscious penetration came to an end. I was inside my little darling, all the way to the hilt. My heart sang and my dick throbbed right in the very depths of this delicate but also passionate little being. I began a slow fucking in and out of her lovely tightness, then, lip to lip, tongue to tongue, our movements synchronised into a passionate bucking and thrusting until I burst into a orgasm like no other I had ever experienced, sending jet after burst of satisfying sperm into the very depths of my underage little lover, while Niamh pumped her little tongue into my mouth from the force of her own orgasm.
Ours spasms subsided little by little. We lay there, sticky, sweaty, and exhausted, shaken to our depths by the experience we had been through. My detumescing dick was still deep inside her. When it jerked from the aftershocks of this earthquake cum, Niamh’s little pussy muscles would give it little answering squeezes.
We kissed, tired and pleased with ourselves, happily entwined and still umbilically joined by my cock, which was even now held in the sexy grip of Niamh’s darling, just deflowered, little cunt. I didn’t want ever to take it out.
“That was incredible,” Niamh whispered in a trembling voice. “I felt so full, so…” Her voice trailed away.
It was beyond words for me too. I kissed her lips and cheeks, stroking her auburn hair.
We both fell asleep for a little while. I woke later in the night. We were still wrapped in each other’s arms. I had to go muss up the bed in my room, to ensure there were no problems with the hotel. It was painful to have to leave her but, thankfully, Niamh didn’t wake up. After a few hours sleep in my own bed, I went in the early hours, back to Niamh’s room and that is where we both woke up a couple of hours later.
When Niamh opened her eyes, I was gently stroking her soft, rounded young cheek and thick, silken hair, having woken just a few minutes earlier. Her little face broke into a smile.
“So it wasn’t a dream,” she mumbled.�
“No, dearest, it wasn’t.”
Niamh pressed herself to me and we rolled on top of me as I lay on back. With a happy and wicked look, she pressed her little pelvis down on my cock, which was trapped between us, and nuzzled into my neck.
I said we really ought to freshen up, brush our teeth, and air the room, as it smelt sultrily of all we had done the night before. Niamh agreed with a smile. Leaping out of bed with youthful energy and a wicked smile, she did a little teasing display of her lovely naked body, and disappeared into the bathroom, telling me to follow her. Sex clearly agreed with Niamh as much as it did with me.
After stripping the bed and opening the window to air the room, I joined Niamh in the shower and we spent a delightful few minutes soaping each other. The feel of her wondrous titties all slippery with shower gel brought my engorged dick to a fuller stand. The feel of Niamh’s little hands soaping the shaft made it harder still.
“I know we need to go down for breakfast and we shouldn’t be doing this right now,” Niamh said suddenly, “but would you do me a favour?”
“Anything,” I responded.
“I felt so full, and it felt so wonderful when you were inside me last night. Would you put it in again? But just for a moment.”
This was irresistible. What does one say to a slim, lithe, lanky preteen who is asking to be penetrated? Particularly when she is holding your lecherous erect penis in her two little hands! There was also something picant about the idea of a penetration with no intention of cumming, of just sliding one’s cock into a young girl for her to feel the fullness and you to feel the tightness.
Right there in the shower, I gripped Niamh under the armpits and slid her little body up mine. Her tight little titties slithered up my chest. My cock slid down her lower tummy and mons, a glorious sensation, to end up between her legs. Niamh gripped her legs around my waist. Resting her back against the wall of the shower, and I positioned my cock at the entrance to her little vagina and allowed her to slip slowly down onto it. Slowly and delightfully, to an accompaniment of little groans from Niamh, I penetrated her tight little tunnel until I was fully inserted.
It was a heavenly feeling to be holding this slight young girl impaled, so to speak, on my overjoyed, pulsing organ. Niamh’s face reflected a multitude of feelings, mixing pleasure and shocked amazement.
“Oooooh… that… feels… so… good… Hold me… Push…”
Niamh squirmed against me and then said it was enough. I withdrew from her in the same slow way, enjoying the feel of her little cunt sucking back on my dick all the way, as if it wanted to hold it in and squeeze it. We finished showering with no further sex, except for me kneeling to plant a grateful kiss on her mons with its sparse decorations of golden hair.
Part IV
And so we dressed and went down to breakfast, once again the perfect adult relative and his young ward – except now we had a big secret that buoyed us up, and put a little glint (visible only to me, I trusted) in Niamh’s eyes.
Niamh displayed a marvellous appetite for breakfast, consuming cereal, yoghurts and fruit salads galore, while I contented myself with a large caf� au lait and a croissant. Being a cautious person, I also ensured Niamh took a morning after pill. Over breakfast, we talked about where we would go next. What the night ahead held, after our educational tourism, was pretty clear to us both! The excitement in the air was palpable and I just hoped the hotel staff was putting this down to youthful exuberance.
Niamh changed into jeans and a t-shirt for the day of touring. This of course did not stop her from looking as lovely and attractive as ever. The world and the people in it are wonderfully strange: how could it possibly be that no one could see what I was seeing – a totally desirable, luscious and freshly-fucked little teen, dancing with delight at the novelty of love, the wonders of sex, the excitement of sporting two firm little breasts that anyone with any sense would kill to kiss, and a tight little pussy to die for.
We set off on the short drive to the Canadian National Monument at Vimy Ridge. I consider this to be one of the most beautiful war memorials ever created. I particularly wanted Niamh to see the giant white limestone statue of Mother Canada, standing on a parapet of the same stone, looking over the countryside below and mourning 60,000 Canadian soldiers lost in those parts. Her robe flows down over the parapet and, in a very artistic touch, is carved into it as well.1
Niamh liked the monument very much. She remarked, rather wisely I thought, on the strange mood it produced: that the place was sad, but without being miserable, so that the atmosphere was sort of special. I agreed with her entirely. We walked about companionably for an hour or so and then went back to the bus.
A busload of middle-aged visitors had just arrived. They started speaking to Niamh, congratulating her on taking an interest in such places at so young an age. I quickly grabbed a snap of them chatting; this would be a record of the companions with whom we were supposedly travelling. That was handy.
Next Niamh and I drove slightly further to Neuve Chapelle, where we visited the Indian Memorial, which Niamh was fascinated to see was built in Indian style.2 Unlike other countries’ military cemeteries, Britain’s are not uniform, serried ranks of stones, but have different designs and layouts, making them, in my view, particularly respectful of the fallen.
We wandered through it, hand in hand. From time to time, when we were not in the direct view of others, we exchanged happy, secret glances. It was thrilling to think that while others simply saw a possible granddad and child walking, the couple we represented was quite different! Niamh clearly felt this as strongly as I did.
After a short walk around the memorial, we drove on to Ypres – Wipers, as the Tommies called it – in Belgium.
Although one would hardly think it possible, standing in the Market Square, looking at the medieval architecture of the Cloth Hall and other buildings, Ypres was practically totally destroyed during WWI and rebuilt.
This was to be our second and last night. Having arrived in the early afternoon, we checked in to the accommodation I had booked. Located within the moats that surround central Ypres, our hotel turned out to be a delightful place. It was an old house and our rooms – I had of course booked two – had wonderfully high ceilings and a pleasant view over a secluded inner courtyard.
Having settled in, Niamh joined me in my room for a cup of coffee. With the door safely locked, she settled on my lap and we exchanged a long French kiss. I had been longing all day to hug, hold, and feel my little darling. I gently pawed one of Niamh’s delightful breastlets through her tee-shirt while she clung to me and wiggled her pert little bottom down on the erection that was growing in my trousers.
“I don’t think we should now, much as I’d love to,” I whispered. “We ought to use the daylight for sightseeing…”
“…And the night for something even better,” Niamh concluded, adding with a charming little moue: “I suppose you’re right.”
A few minutes’ walk brought us to the Market Square. After looking around, we wandered through the winding medieval streets. We even found a real English church in one of them. Of course, there wasn’t a soul inside it.�
Next, we took a walk along along the ramparts, overlooking the moat and the Flemish flatlands beyond. All very pretty in peacetime! Evening was approaching, and it was time to turn our minds to Belgian gastronomy and in the first instance, Belgium’s truly wonderful beers, of which they have over 1000 different brews.�
Having taken a table with a pleasant prospect of passers-by, I wanted to order something uniquely Belgian for Niamh – a “lunch beer”. These beers are less than 1.5� alcohol and, in fact, until the 1970s were given to children in Belgian schools. (Today, there is even a movement to renew the custom.) However, our waiter did not recommend them, as they would prove a little less exciting than a kriek, beer made with fruit such as cherries or raspberries. Niamh therefore got a small glass of slightly stronger Brouwerij Lindemans Lambic Kriek, which she loved. It presented a fascinating combination of tastes, the sourness of the lambic spontaneous fermentation combining with the sweet tartness of cherry. For myself, I chose a local beer, Cuv�e Delphine from De Struise Brouwers, 13 kilometres up the road. This Belgian take on stout is aged for a year in bourbon barrels and is superbly smooth, despite its strength.
We dallied over our ap�ritifs until it was time to go to the Menin Gate for the Last Post, which has been played there by the fire brigade every day at 8pm3 since 1928. This was to be the last of our historical experiences and was a fitting culmination to them.
From there, it was another short walk to a wonderful restaurant specialising in steaks accompanied, of course, by the best French fries in the world, which are Belgian. By then, however, my thoughts, and seemingly Niamh’s too, were turning to the adventures ahead. We did the meal a small injustice by getting through it quite fast, so we could get back to our hotel.
On the way back, Niamh suddenly gave a little snort of laughter and tugged at my hand, so that I should turn to her. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered into my ear:
“I want sex!”
“You’re getting rather forward in your young age!” I laughed. “But I couldn’t be more in agreement with you.”
We practically ran to our rooms and soon Niamh joined me in my room. She was wearing just a long tee-shirt instead of a nightgown. It only just covered her delightful little bottom, so her slim, lithe, toned legs and thighs were in full view. My heart gave a skip. Niamh jumped onto the bed and lay there on her back, legs crossed, watching me as I finished taking off my trousers.
Standing in just my tenting jockey shorts, I dimmed the lights and then proceeded to take them off, bringing my erect penis into full view. Niamh’s eyes widened and sparkled. She quickly pulled off her teeshirt, exposing two magic, practically conical, titties with tiny perky nipples to view.
I practically threw myself at her. Lying side by side, I feasted my eyes on her little delights4, and then stroked and kissed them. Once again, the whiteness of Niamh’s skin, with its light coating of freckles took my breath away.
Niamh, meanwhile, was holding my cock in her hand, stroking it and pulling gently at it. The feeling of this small, girlish hand on my man’s dick was indescribable. Just thinking about how I would soon be pushing this lusting thing of mine into her diminutive little pussy nearly made me cum on the spot. Some pre-cum did in fact ooze out at that moment, but this did not phase Niamh in the slightest, and she simply used it as nature intended to lubricate her motions.
I had to see her little pussy. I eased her panties off to bare the beauty spot.�
And there was Niamh, totally naked, lying prettily on her back, a vestal offering on the white sheet, creamy whiteness on bright white cloth. Her auburn hair was spread in delirious glory to frame her sweet face. Her little titties practically glowed, delicious morsels of white girl flesh topped in pink. Her mons5 was a miniature mound, aflame with sparse, golden strands of hair that had yet to begin to curl.
She smiled sweetly and writhed her little body expectantly.�
I pulled the top sheet over us, and folded her into my arms.
We did not fuck that night: we made love. Hours and hours of wonderful wet kisses, slurps, and penetrations until we both went happily to sleep.
**********************************
The next day consisted of the drive back to England and the return of Niamh to her parents. I drove up with her in the minibus and stopped outside her door. Her parents came out to collect her, asking if she had had fun and not been too much of a pain.
I explained that we had just dropped off the others in the group at the railway station, so they could make their way home and was delivering Niamh last. And no, she had been fine all through the trip and everyone had enjoyed her company. Niamh nodded and smiled in confirmation.
We said our goodbyes and I returned to my home, wondering what the future held.
Two lonely, worrisome days later, I got my answer. Niamh called and asked if I could help her with her homework – she had asked her parents if that would be okay and they had said yes, if I was prepared to do so.
I did not say no.
******************************
Postcript by Niamh
I found this manuscript in a box of papers in the attic, as I was clearing things in preparation for a move. It was written by my LG over twenty years ago, obviously just after we first met.
Everything happened as LG describes. And yes, I did start going to see him for help with my homework (and more besides, of course!)
I used to call him my LG because he was my lover and my guardian. We had fun when we realised that those initials, which are also those of the Korean white goods manufacturer, were derived from the re-branding of the Asian company, originally called, in a very far-eastern way, Lucky Goldstar. This seemed entirely appropriate, he said, since he was Lucky and I was his Goldstar.
Our story is unusual, but I think very romantic.�
Over the next few months, I went over to LG’s more and more often to do my homework, and I soon started to do really well at school.
This went down well with my parents, who then did a very wise thing: they chose to see only what they wanted to see. I will never know if that decision was conscious or not. But they raised no objections and let me see LG as frequently as I wanted.
Soon, I was overnighting or spending weekends at LG’s, working on “school projects”. After two years, I basically moved in with him and only went back home to my parents once in a while. It was “for my advancement.’”
LG and I became very adept at juggling the dual roles we each had to play in our lives. Strangely, no problems ever arose and we were both very happy. Life with my lover and guardian was pure joy.
Education-wise, I was one of the very few from my school to go to university, graduating, of all things, in chemistry.
To my great sadness, LG died not long after I graduated and got a job as a government chemist. He died neatly and tidily, in the same way as he had lived his life. It was an embolism. One day, he developed a headache. It became bad enough that he went to hospital. He died the same night. I was by his side.
Following that awful loss, I discovered that he had left me the house and all his possessions.
After two years of grieving, I took up with a former fellow-student and came to love him. He is a doctor, in private practice. He only knows of LG as my guardian, the man who changed the course of my life from lumpen hopelessness to what it is today.
We have two young children – daughters – and we are a very happy and loving family.
I don’t know that I would wish the same sort of life for my daughters, but I do know that I would not wish any life for myself other than the one I have had. Only a very few are lucky enough to have two happy starts in life.
1 There is an excellent photo of this here: The mourning figure of “Mother Canada” on the Canadian National Vimy Memorial, France. | Flickr - Photo Sharing!
2 Described here: Neuve-Chapelle Indian Memorial
3 More info here: Last Post Ceremony at the Menin Gate, Ieper - Ypres, Belgium and a video here:
"Last Post" at Ypres Menin Gate Memorial - YouTube
4 Reminder to myself: Niamh was between Tanner stage II and Tanner stage III.
See: Puberty Breast Development - Women Health Info Blog | Women Health Info Blog. The image on the far left best depicts Niamh.
5 See: Pubic Hair Development | Women Health Info Blog. Niamh was between the second and third left images on the diagram.