Being a writer means being aware of everything, all the time. I read omnivorously — and in all sorts of nonfiction subjects, too, not just "literature." When I go out for a walk after three or four hours hunched over the keyboard, only half of me is taking a break; the other half is looking around and making notes. And be careful when you go out for a beer with a writer, because whatever you say might end up in a novel. All writers do these things, and all friends and family members of writers know it.

Mostly, though, I observe people. It�s a pretty drab story that doesn�t have characters in it and people are endlessly fascinating. I live alone, and writing is a mostly solitary profession anyway, so I generally have to take overt steps to do my people-watching. There are two or three retired couples on my block whose kitchens I sometimes grace with my presence and drink their mid-morning coffee, and they tell me what-all�s going on with their grandchildren and bridge partners and fishing buddies. These older folks are perfectly aware by now that I�m looking for grist for my mill (as well as possibly staving off loneliness), and they don�t much mind, having decided long ago to trust me not to misuse what they tell me.

There are also several younger families close by, with kids of various ages, whom I see riding their bikes and practicing cheer routines in the yard and drinking cokes in the driveway with their friends. Some of these people know what I do for a living and some don�t. Some of the former ask me occasionally how the new book�s coming along (they seem to assume I always have a "new book," which is flattering) and some of the latter probably believe I�m either unemployed or shiftless or independently wealthy, since I�m nearly always at home.

Right across the street and one house up is Jack, a guy in his forties, who has to travel a lot in his job, whatever that might be. It seems I�m always watching him loading luggage into his car early in the morning or taking it out late at night. And during his absence, his pretty wife, Amy, is the one who goes out to fetch the morning paper and cuts the grass and all that.

They have one kid, a daughter named Miranda, and during the dozen years I�ve lived here I�ve watched her grow from a toddler into a strikingly attractive teenager. These days, I�m most apt to spot her sitting on the hood of her dad�s car in her driveway, head down and thumbing away at her cell phone. Maybe she feels more private out there, without her family looking over her shoulder, or maybe her phone�s reception is different from mine, but I usually take the opportunity to watch her through the front window curtains, wondering what her own story is and whether she might have a place of some sort in one of my books.

And I wish I could just stroll over there and strike up a conversation, ask her what she�s been up to, and invite her to tell me interesting things about her best friends at school and what her daydreams are like — but even though Jack and Amy know I�m a published novelist, I don�t think they would understand my motives if I were to chat up their little girl like that.

Anyway. Occasionally, you have to break out of the tameness of your neighborhood and venture into the wild, and I sometimes do that by driving over to the mega-mall for the afternoon, especially when it�s the middle of the summer like this. I�ll eat lunch in the food court and make sure to sit with my back to a table full of young shoppers who seem to have a lot to say to each other. And I eavesdrop, quite shamelessly. Later, I�ll sit on a bench near the carousel and watch the mothers watching their kids go round and round. (I made a point of striking up a conversation with a couple of the security people awhile back, telling them who I was and what I do for a living, so they wouldn�t regard me as suspect. It�s a hell of a world.)

So I was sitting outside of Nordstrom�s at the west end of the mall recently, just watching the crowds and making notes (some mental, some actually written down) about interesting-looking passers-by, and unusual outfits worn by those with taste (and those with no taste at all), and the small, bored children amusing themselves while their parents peered in windows. And then I happened to see Jack from across the street with his daughter in tow, coming up on my left. They weren�t looking in my direction and didn�t notice me.

Miranda was wearing a rather short white sundress and open-toed white leather sandals with high stacked heels — an extremely fetching outfit for a young girl of her slimness and with her caramel tan. The outfit showed off long, slender legs which I hadn�t really been aware of before, since I usually saw her in jeans. She was small-breasted, which, in that dress, made her look even younger than she was. Her long, straw-blonde hair had been brushed out and framed her pretty face. The two of them looked like they were about to enter the store, but Jack stopped abruptly and held up a finger, then dug out his cell and flipped it open. He stood there, conversing with someone about something that required waving his other hand around a lot, and Miranda shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and swung her little straw purse, and rolled her eyes and appeared vaguely embarrassed. (I could read her mind: Parents! Yeah, whatever.)

Then I saw her attention fix on something off to my right and she got a strange little smile. Glancing in that direction, I espied a group of four boys about her own age, sauntering toward her as they talked among themselves. She cocked her hip and did a little tapping thing with her heel and toe. She tucked both hands behind her back and straightened her elbows and arched her back. And she looked up at the approaching boys from under her eyelashes and tilted her head a little. It was dazzlingly flirtatious and I wondered if one of the guys was her boyfriend. Then I saw that two of them were wearing sweatshirts from Franklin High School, which is not our local school and certainly not the one Miranda attended.

Two of the boys saw her and returned her look, and then sort of faltered. One of the others actually glanced over his shoulder to discover who this very sexy girl might be aiming her attention at. The fourth one hesitantly smiled back at her and slowed down and opened his mouth — but his buddies nudged him and made him hurry up. Miranda watched them pass and then turned away with a triumphant little grin. Playing female games, apparently.

During the few seconds it took for all this to play out, Jack was entirely oblivious of what his daughter was up to. Then he wrapped up his call and began punching in another number, probably a spin-off of the call he had received. He said something to Miranda as he dialed and she nodded patiently as he began talking to someone else. She sighed and looked around. And saw me, fifteen feet away.

I could see her thinking, "Who is he?" — and then it obviously clicked and her eyebrows bounced and she gave me a shy little fingertip wave. I could have just raised a hand in greeting and left it at that. Instead, I deliberately looked over at the receding group of young males, then back at Miranda, and I smirked and raised one eyebrow high.

She knew then that I had witnessed her whole performance. She tucked her chin down and stared at her toes for a moment, then glanced at the boys herself, then looked straight back at me. And gave me a comical shrug — "Who, me?" — that made me laugh almost out loud.

Miranda gave a quick glance at her father, then me. Then she stepped back a foot or two so she was directly behind him. Jack was deep in his conversation and paying no attention anyway. Sending another bright smile in my direction, the girl set a hand on each hip, lifted both shoulders, and did a quick little gyration with an ass-wiggle thrown in — bah-BUMP, bah-BUMP. An elderly couple a few yards away looked a bit startled but no one else seemed to notice. Me, I nearly fell off the bench, at which Miranda grinned. Then she pointed to herself, then to me, and raised her eyebrows. (We were engaging in a lot of silent communication today.)

When I nodded, she tugged at her father�s sleeve. He turned and put his hand over his phone. I couldn�t hear what she said, but he looked my way, raised a hand with a smile, and nodded to his daughter. Then he went back to his conversation and put both of us right out of his mind again.

Miranda skipped over to my bench — really, she actually skipped, like a five-year-old, but with obvious intent — and plunked herself down beside me. She favored me with a dazzling smile that made me blink.

"From across the street, right? The writer? I�m afraid I don�t remember. . . ."

"Yep, the writer. Tom Evans." I smiled back. No one could have *not* smiled at Miranda. "Your father seems to be wrapped up in something."

She sighed a bit melodramatically. "He was *supposed* to be off today and he said he�d take me shopping for new school clothes. But he has something big going on at work — I think he�s expecting to get a promotion out of it — and he�s been on the phone practically the whole day."

I turned sideways to face her. "So. May I ask? What was all that with the boys back there?"

She shrugged, not embarrassed at all. "Oh, just boys. You know. Just fooling around."

"Well, I think you�re going to be their principal topic of conversation the rest of their day. Maybe the whole weekend." She looked pleased at that. I thought about suggesting she go online and look up "counting coup."

"How come you�re out here, Mr. Evans? Shopping?" She was noticing my lack of carrier bags.

"Nope, research."

She looked blank. "You�re writing a book about shopping malls?"

"No, about people. In the old days, you could walk around downtown and people-watch. Now they�ve all moved to the mall, so I�m just following the herd. Actually," I added, "I may just use your �fooling around� in a story I�ve been thinking about."

"Really? I don�t think my father—-" she began doubtfully.

"Oh, you�d be completely anonymous. It�s just that little bit of action itself that caught my attention. An interesting bit of byplay that helps define a certain type of character. And I would change it around some anyway."

"A �certain type�?" She swirled her hair around one finger and tilted her head at me. "What type am I, then?"

Talking about fishing. "Well, a bit of a tease, obviously. As long as it�s safe. I mean, with your father right there and all."

"Well, yeah," she conceded. "I probably wouldn�t have done that if I�d been out here by myself. Um, how would you change it?"

I wondered how honest I wanted to be with this girl. I wasn�t sure exactly how old she was but close-up I thought I was safe at guessing fifteen. "Well, . . . probably I would make that pretty dress a lot shorter, for one thing. To make the intent-to-flirt seem more deliberate, more calculated."

She glanced thoughtfully down at her lap. The sundress was at least six or seven inches above the middle of her kneecap. "Shorter?" She tucked under several more inches of the hem, exposing most of her thighs, and considered it. "Yeah, maybe."

"And, . . ." I continued, "I might have you — the character, that is — leave her underwear at home." I was taking a chance there but I thought I was getting a handle both on Miranda�s personality and on her present mood. I must have been right because she grinned knowingly.

"You�d have me — her — flash a bunch of boys as they passed?"

"Not necessarily. Just knowing she was bare under a short dress would make a girl *feel* especially sexy, don�t you think? She wouldn�t have to actually demonstrate it to anyone."

Miranda nodded slowly. I could see she was thinking about all this in a way she hadn�t considered before: What would make *her* feel sexy, as opposed to turning the *boys* on? The way she was studying my face now made me just a bit uneasy, but I�ve always enjoyed the company of young, pretty women so I just gave her back the most trustworthy smile I could summon up.

She crossed one knee over the over, planted her elbow on top, and set her chin on her thumb. Then she gave me a small, rather knowing, very deliberate smile. And went "Hmmmm. . . ." It occurred to me that, even at fifteen, Miranda was no kind of dummy. And she was perfectly capable of playing a role for effect.

At that point Jack ambled over, folding up his phone and tucking it back in his pocket. "Tom, how are you?" he asked with a smile. He stuck out his hand and I stood up and shook it. "I�m sorry about all that, sweetheart," he added to Miranda. "No more calls until we get home. I promise." The girl stood, too, and flashed me a bright smile — a much younger version than the one she had treated me to a few moments before, I noticed. For her father�s benefit, undoubtedly. "It was nice to see you, Mr. Evans. I have to go spend my Dad�s money now. See ya!" And off they went. And just before they entered the store, Miranda tucked one hand behind her and gave me a little upside-down finger wave that her father didn�t see.

Two days later, I was out on my front porch kind of early, drinking coffee, reading through a printout of the previous day�s work with a red pen in hand, and enjoying the light breeze. It was going to get hot later and I was taking advantage of the opportunity while I could. My house is sort of country-style, with a wide porch that runs across the whole front — lathe-turned posts, railings, the whole thing. I keep a wooden rocker out there, plus a couple of cushioned metal chairs and a small table to hold my beer, or coffee, or whatever. If I sit quietly, people passing by seldom notice me, but I�m not hiding.

In this case, someone obviously was aware of my presence, because I�d only gotten through half my first cup when Miranda strolled around the side of her own house, the kitchen door side, and crossed the street toward me. She was wearing what looked like a tennis skirt, white and pleated, with a matching golf shirt and tennies without socks. Her hair bounced in a ponytail as she checked both ways for traffic (of which there was absolutely none at that hour) and continued at a deliberate pace up my sidewalk. As she climbed the steps, I saw she was carrying a can of Dr. Pepper. No accounting for tastes, I guess.

She stepped over to me and smiled. "May I?"

I indicated the adjacent chair. "Absolutely. You�re always welcome, Miranda." She perched on the edge of the chair and took a ladylike sip of her breakfast.

"Is this more what you had in mind for your story?" she asked. I gave her what I�m sure was a very blank look. "You said you�d make it several inches shorter." She smoothed out her skirt. Ah. Got it.

"You also said . . ." She looked at me from under those thick eyelashes.

"Yes, I did, didn�t I?" I stared at her smooth, young thighs. "So: Are you wearing anything under there?"

"Actually, I don�t think I should tell you. You said it was the effect it has on me — on the character, right? Not whether anyone else knows for sure."

"So I guess actually showing me is right out of the question."

She giggled. "Nope! You�ll never know whether I�m bare-assed or not, will you?"

I looked at her for a moment, sipped my coffee, and wondered. "Miranda, . . . not to break the mood or anything, . . . but aren�t you taking kind of a chance coming over here like this?"

She pushed out her lips and made a sort of "PUH" noise. "In this neighborhood? Mr. Evans, let�s be honest. If I screamed, the cops would be here in five minutes or less. But I don�t think you�re going to attack me, are you?"

"I wasn�t planning to, no. But still, parents tend to be—-"

She waved that away. "My Dad left at, like, five o�clock this morning. The garage door coming back down was what woke me and I couldn�t get back to sleep. That�s how come I saw you over here coming out to your porch. So I decided I should come over and visit. Anyway, my Mom�s not a worrier like my Dad. She probably knows I�m here but she figures I can take care of myself. At least where you�re concerned," she added.

"Well, thank you. I think. Nice to know I�m considered safe." I sat back and drained my cup while my visitor grinned at me. "I�m gonna go refill this cup." I stood and looked at her. "Would you like some?"

She made a face. "No, thanks. I don�t know how people can drink coffee, frankly. Coffee and cigarettes — the two grown-up mysteries."

When I came back out a minute later, inhaling the steam from the fresh cup, Miranda was leaning back in her chair, slowly kicking her leg while she read through the printout I had left on the table. She gave me an apologetic look when I sat.

"Sorry, Mr. Evans, I couldn�t help myself. I�ve never seen a book before that wasn�t already bound and everything." She held up the pages. "It�s interesting. I don�t really know what�s going on here, just from this one chapter, but I can kind of see the place you�re describing and hear the people talking and everything."

"Well, that means I�m doing it right, then. Of course, there�s about two hundred pages that come before those, which is why you don�t know what�s happening in the story."

"It must be really great to be a writer." There was a little wistfulness there. "Do the ideas and the characters just, like, appear in your head, like out of nowhere?"

"Well, they mostly appear suddenly after a long time." She put her elbow on the arm of the chair and her chin on her fist; she seemed to like that pose. But she gave me a serious look.

"Most of the time, I don�t know how I write, to tell you the truth," I went on. "It sounds like bragging, but I have a talent for it. I started writing full-fledged stories when I was about six."

She smiled. "Wow. A six-year-old author. It sounds easy, but it probably isn�t."

"No. It isn�t easy at all. Sometimes, you sit there at the keyboard and it�s like your brain is out of gear. But even when it�s easy — when the words are pouring out of your imagination faster than you can type them — it still isn�t easy."

I took a slurp of coffee. "I have a painter friend who said something about not understanding how I could get the words to go in the right order. As someone who can�t draw a stick-figure cow with a crayon, I asked him how in the world he knew where to put the paint on the canvas. It�s not really something you can explain."

"I think I�d like to be a character in one of your books," she said thoughtfully. "But I don�t know if I would want to do everything you told me to do, even if you are the author."

"That�s . . . profound. Or something."

She grinned again. I was becoming very partial to that grin.

"Well," she said, "I�d better get back and do the pancake batter for breakfast." She stood and canted a hip while her fingers played with the empty drink can. "I think I�ll change my mind about that second thing. I�ll tell you what I�m wearing under this skirt if you really want to know. It�s up to you." She cocked her head at me.

I thought about it a moment. Preserve the mystery? Or not? Assuming she would tell me the truth.

"No, Miranda, I don�t think I want you to tell me. You said you wanted to be the character, so I�ll decide for myself whether you�re wearing panties or not. I�m the storyteller here. And I won�t tell you what I�ve decided, either. It�ll be like Schrodinger�s Cat. Schrodinger�s Panties."

She thought about that several seconds longer than I had, then shook her head. "That�s just too strange to think about before breakfast, Mr. Evans." She paused. "Um. Would it be okay if I come back sometimes? You�re fun to talk to."

"You�re welcome to come over any time you like, Miranda — on one condition. Please call me �Tom�, not �Mr. Evans�." And if I don�t answer the door, come around to the back on this side of the house and look in the window. That�s my office and if you see me sitting there typing, I�ve probably shut out the world. So don�t take it personally, okay?"

"Okay, Mis—- Tom. Write some good stuff for my character to do, right?" She waved as she trotted back across the street.

And three days after that, Miranda upped the ante yet again. I was working at the computer after supper, finishing up a chapter that had finally sorted itself out in my mind after lying fallow for a week, when I thought I heard the front doorbell. I ignored it, as I am wont to do when I�m working. Then, just as I typed the last sentence of the chapter and leaned back and stretched my arms over my head, I heard a tapping at my window.

Somehow, it didn�t startle me as much as I might have expected. My subconscious must have been paying attention even if my forebrain wasn�t. I swiveled around and saw a young female face smiling at me through the window in the dusk. Then a hand appeared and waved. I stood and pointed around to the side of the house and the face vanished.

By the time I reached the kitchen, Miranda was waiting at the side door. As she stepped in, she gave me an apologetic look.

"I�m not interrupting something creative, am I, um, Tom? I took you at your word, but I can—-"

"No, actually, you have perfect timing. I was just finishing something up and now I�m done for the day." I went to the fridge while she leaned against the sink with her ankles crossed. "I made a jug of limeade earlier. Would you like some?"

"Sure." She looked around while I got down two of my Smurf glasses. "You�re not married, right? It seems kind of, . . . um, too neat for a guy living by himself."

I poured the drink and handed her a glass. She took a sip and smacked her lips. "Well, my mother was kind of a housekeeping fanatic. And then I was in the army for a few years, so I learned to be relatively tidy. I take off an afternoon once a week or so and do everything at once, so it makes kind of a break from work."

I leaned against the counter across from her and took her in. She was wearing a very short pair of shorts that showed off 99% of those long, trim legs, with plastic flip-flops and a tee-shirt that ended a couple of inches above an extremely cute belly-button. The outfit was very at-home casual, but I had to wonder if it was especially intended for me to see. Speaking of which.

"You told someone you were coming over here, right? After dark and all?" I knew I sounded perhaps too cautious, but I didn�t want any problems with my so-far benign neighbors.

She shrugged. "My folks had to go to some dinner party my Dad�s boss is giving this evening. They won�t be back till after midnight. I was out of videos and I got bored, so I decided to see if you were busy." She paused. "That�s okay, isn�t it? You really don�t mind my coming over?"

"No, I meant what I said, Miranda. You�re always welcome. I just don�t want you getting in trouble. Or me, either, for that matter."

She smiled. "Don�t worry, Tom. I�m good at keeping secrets." She paused. "Really good." She took another sip and looked down at her feet for a moment. "And I was curious about the story you said you might write, the one you thought I might be a character in."

Well, that wasn�t quite what I had said, but it was an interesting idea all the same. "I was thinking of a sort of �Lolita� story, actually. About a teenage girl who seduces an older man." And I stopped there and waited.

"Hmmm. And why would she do that?" Her expression was amused but interested.

I took my time phrasing my reply. "Well, perhaps she wants to explore her power over the male species, to test her new-found abilities. Or maybe it�s hormones. Maybe she�s just horny."

"You�re saying girls get horny? Like boys?" Another smile.

"Well, when I was your age, girls weren�t supposed to admit it. Nowadays, I get the impression it�s no secret to anyone — especially with the Internet and webcams and all."

My visitor nodded. "Yeah, I�ve seen a couple of clips online, girls flashing the camera or, um, doing things for their boyfriends in video chat rooms." She cocked her head. "You think I — my character — would do something like that?"

Careful. "No, actually, I don�t. I think your character would be too smart to do something like that. She would know that anything sent from one computer to another can be recorded — and is certain to end up online shortly afterward. No, I think your character would be a good deal more discrete."

"Like, she might go and visit him in private, when no one was looking?" She was watching me unblinkingly.

"Um, well, . . . yes, I suppose she might."

"And what do you think she might do then, Mr. — Tom?"

I had to stop making suggestions. Any further and I could find myself in very deep water indeed. "Well, I would have to think about that. The story could go a lot of different ways at that point." I hesitated, then added, "Of course, a good writer is always willing to listen to suggestions from experts."

Miranda studied her toes for a moment. "Probably, . . . she — this character — would want to show this, um, older man what she had to offer." She looked up at me. "Because she�s in charge, right?"

"Yes, the girl in a situation like this is definitely the one in charge."

She nodded slowly. "So I think she would want him to know what he might be missing. Actually, I think she could do just about anything she wanted, as long as he behaved himself. Don�t you think?"

I nodded back. "Yes, I imagine she could. And he�d have to be a complete idiot not to behave." I folded my arms and waited to see what would happen next.

"Well, in that case, . . . I think she, this girl, might tease this guy a little. Just because she can, you know?" She gave me a surprisingly shy little smile and began fiddling with the hem of her cropped shirt. After another moment�s hesitation, she lifted it slowly as high as her throat, revealing that she hadn�t bothered to wear a bra underneath. Another quick movement and the shirt was discarded on the kitchen table. Miranda made a automatic movement to put her hands over her breasts, then caught herself and tucked them behind her.

I just stood there, propped against the counter two feet away and stared appreciatively. She was barely an A-cup, if that, but I�m not especially a fan of overlarge boobs that bounce anyway. Her nipples were bright pink and appeared to be lengthening and stiffening before my eyes. I shifted my gaze to find her looking at me with some amusement.

"Does this kind of thing happen to you a lot, Tom?"

"No, I can�t say it ever has. But it�s certainly a very, very pleasurable experience. You�re an exceptionally pretty girl, Miranda. And with an entrancing physical presence, too."

She blinked. That wasn�t the sort of vocabulary she was used to from younger admirers. But her smile suggested that she liked it. I could feel a growing presence in the front of my jeans.

"I wonder if this character would stop here," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe she would decide this was enough. What do you think?"

In for a dime, in for the whole damned piggy bank. "No-o-o-o-o, I don�t think she would stop, Miranda. She would be so close to, uh, the climax, the denouement of the story. I think she would want to finish it up."

That knowing smile again. "You think so? Speaking as the author?"

"Yes, I definitely think so."

She shrugged, causing her nipples to shift. "I think you�re probably right. I mean, why stop now, right?"

She slowly unbuttoned the front of her brief shorts and slid the zipper down, revealing a small triangle of bright yellow. Then she hooked her fingers in the sides and pushed her shorts down over her narrow hips. When they hit the floor, she stepped out of them and set her long, slender fingers on her protruding hip bones. Her panties were bikini-cut, dandelion-colored cotton, and there was a decided camel-toe in evidence at the crotch.

After giving me a few moments to take all this in, she pushed the panties down as well and kicked them aside with her foot. Now she set her hands on the counter behind her, which pushed her shoulders up and forward, which produced a small amount of sway in those shallow breasts. I had the intuitive feeling she knew exactly how to produce the effect she wanted.

I let my eyes travel up and down that lovely, youthful body. To try to be blas� would be silly under the circumstances. Stripping herself bare like this was a blunt invitation for me to look at her and I certainly wasn�t going to be so churlish as to decline the invitation. So I took my time, letting my attention drift slowly over her narrow waist, her flat belly, her entirely hairless pussy, her slender thighs with a gap at the top, and those long, long legs. My young visitor was not only very cute, and very sexy, she also was pumping out pheromones at a terrific rate. My erection was making my heart pound — especially when she glanced at the front of my jeans, raised an eyebrow, and smiled. Her little pink tongue came out and mischievously touched her upper lip.

"Do you have a hard-on, Tom? Did I do that?"

"Yes, absolutely, to both questions."

"So — What happens now? In the story, I mean?" She cocked her head and seemed really interested.

"Well, . . . again, this plot could develop in several directions. It kind of depends on what sort of character the older man is — whether he�s a Good Guy, or a �user�, or what."

"And if my character were to ask him, what sort of person would he say he was?"

"I would like to think he was a rather gentle, non-aggressive sort of person. Definitely not a user. A pleasant and friendly admirer of pretty young women, not a—-" (I almost said "not a rapist," but I didn�t want that word floating around between us.) "Not a pushy or demanding sort of person, that is."

Moving slowly, but without taking her eyes off my face, Miranda cupped her small breasts in her hands and began massaging and squeezing them, tugging her nipples outward between her knuckles. She shifted her weight, making one hip rise an inch, then the other.

"I think," she said quietly, "that she would decide that�s the kind of person — character — he was, too. So she would feel safe with him." She seemed to consider. "You know, Tom, this character, . . . I don�t think she would have had much experience, would she? She�s so young. There�s a lot of things she�s never done before. And if she feels safe with this older man, she might want to do some things with him she wouldn�t necessarily want to let some boy her own age do. Don�t you think?"

I thought about that. There were certain things I would definitely like to do with Miranda, and certain other things there was no way on Earth I would attempt to do in these circumstances, regardless of the increasingly insistent little voice in the back of my head. Restraint, that was the key. I could only take — share in, rather — what she felt comfortable giving me. Anything else could spell disaster.

"I guess that depends, Miranda. Can you tell me what sort of things you —I mean, this character has in mind?"

She let the palms of her hands slide slowly down her sides, over her hips, and down her thighs. "Well, like for instance, . . . this girl has made out with a couple of boys but she hasn�t let them touch her below the waist. She might decide to let this older man go farther than that. He might even, . . . he might even rub her, you know, there." Miranda�s cheeks were turning red. The flush was spreading across her breastbone and her breathing was becoming shorter. She was definitely becoming aroused by all this.

I took a deep breath myself and threw caution right over my shoulder. Stepping toward her, I cupped my hands over her breasts and let her nipples brush against my palms. She gasped and shivered a little and never broke eye contact. I leaned forward and put a warm breath in her ear. She hunched her shoulder and trembled again. I kissed her ear and then slowly dragged my tongue up the shell of it.

"Oh, god, Tom." She nearly whimpered. She hesitantly gripped my upper arms, as if afraid I would stop too soon.

I put my arms around her and let my hands drift down her shoulder blades and the small of her back and over the small swell of her ass. She clutched my arms spasmodically. I spread out my hands and squeezed her bottom. She felt wonderful.

I was just making this up as I went along, but I knew now what had to come next. Setting my hands on her waist, I lifted her up and set her on the edge of the kitchen table. She weighed next to nothing. I looked up into her bright blue eyes, the irises as large as quarters.

"Do you want me to suck your nipples, Miranda? Tell me if you do. It�s very sexy when a girl says things like that."

She opened her mouth, then had to stop and clear her throat. "Yes, Tom, I want you to . . . Suck. My. Nipples." Her voice was still husky.

I leaned forward but stopped, which forced her to cup one breast in her hand and press the tip of it between my lips. I ran my tongue all around it and sucked it in and Miranda�s arms wrapped themselves around my head. I could hear her breath coming faster, in little puffs, like a small, lovely steam engine. I worked on that tit for a couple of minutes, then switched to the other one.

While my mouth was engaged, I slipped my hand between her legs and she immediately spread her knees apart for me. I let one fingertip brush up and down along the edge of her labia, then slipped the first joint of my finger inside her. She was getting really wet, which was also a major turn-on. At the top of her cleft, I moved my finger lightly back and forth over her clit. I could swear I felt it throb. Miranda twitched and moaned and humped against my hand.

I looked up at her again. "Miranda, would you like me to lick your pussy?"

"Oh, . . . yes . . . I . . . my . . . uh, lick . . . uh . . . puh-puh. . . ." God, she was so aroused now she was incoherent. I couldn�t imagine anything sexier than a young girl made unable to speak because of my attentions.

I pulled her hips closer to the edge of the table and she got the idea immediately, sliding her ass forward and planting her heels on the surface of the table far out to each side. As she leaned back on her hands, I hooked over a kitchen stool with my foot and sat; it put me at just the right height. Her cunt gaped open, red and moist and fragrant. Her pussy lips were narrow and neat and I spread them farther apart with my thumbs, pushing my tongue as far up inside her as I could reach. I burrowed deep into the very bottom of her cunt and then plowed upward, and when I reached the top again I had to pause to swallow the accumulated juices that had gathered on my tongue. Miranda�s head was bent back and her mouth was open wide. I thought I saw little clouds of steam geysering upward between her lips. And when I sucked in her protruding clit between my teeth and polished it with my tongue, I felt a seismic tremor run through her body. Glancing down, I saw that her toes were twitching and pointing in different directions.

Meanwhile, my engorged cock was becoming decidedly painful, crammed down there behind my zipper. But I didn�t dare let it out. If I dropped my jeans and straightened up, I would be at precisely the right height to slide right into Miranda�s cunt — and that was the thing I dare not do. Certainly not this first time, and probably not ever.

This encounter was all about Miranda, about getting her off, about awakening her sexuality, and making her comfortable doing these things, and with me specifically. She was so transported at the moment, I suspected she hadn�t even considered the possibility of being screwed. I figured she�d think about it later, all right — and it would dawn on her that I hadn�t pressed her to fuck this evening, here in my kitchen. And I hoped that would cause her to have good thoughts about me — that I hadn�t taken complete advantage of her state of mind, that she actually could trust me.

I know that sounds devious and manipulative and all, but I simply didn�t want to scare this young girl away. I didn�t know what the future might hold, but I had hopes.

And, of course, there was the practical side: I didn�t want her getting into a panic and screaming "Rape!" at the top of her lungs.

Anyway, I could see that my young guest was on the verge of explosion and I wanted to ensure that it was a big one. I sucked in the whole of her hot little clit and bit down just the tiniest bit, and at the same time, I pressed a fingertip into her asshole, which was barely accessible below the curve of her crotch. She grabbed my head and dug her nails into my scalp as her entire pelvis shook and vibrated. There was a long, drawn-out "uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . ." from somewhere above my head. Then she went boneless and I had to stand up and wrap my arms around her to keep her from falling on the floor.

It took her a minute or two to catch her breath and to come out of her daze. "Oh. My. God," she breathed. (That phrase always sounds silly when used by young girls but it was extremely sexy in this case.) "I can�t believe what you just did. What I just did. I never felt anything like that before in my entire life."

She sat up and draped her arms over my shoulders and stared into my eyes. "You made me cum, Tom. I mean, I�ve cum before, but never anything like that." She just looked at me for another minute, then moved slowly in and kissed me very softly and sweetly.

There�s something indescribable about kissing a young girl who doesn�t have a lot of experience. She was completely sincere about it, not calculating or cold-blooded. She was pouring herself into that kiss in a way she probably wouldn�t be able to do a few years from now, even with a guy she was really in love with. It was a lovely and memorable moment.

When we finally came up for air, I could see the shift to the practicalities in her mind. She was beginning to think clearly again.

"Um, Tom, I think I�d better start thinking about getting back home. In fact, I think I should take a shower before my folks get home. I can imagine what I smell like right now!" Her grin was back. She started to reach for her discarded clothing on the floor but I touched her shoulder.

"Let me, sweetheart." I knelt and picked up her shorts and straightened them out, and she put each foot into a hole and let me draw them up her legs and over her hips. As I buttoned them in front and slid up the zipper, she raised an eyebrow. "Didn�t you forget something?"

"Nope." I picked up her yellow panties, folded them neatly, and tucked them in my pocket. "I claim these as a souvenir." She smiled at that. Then I got up and pulled her tee-shirt over her head and she got her arms through and tidied everything up. Then she pushed her toes into her flip-flops and was again a very sexy young girl, now fit to appear in public.

As we went to the kitchen door, Miranda looped her arm through mine. "Tom, I want to see this chapter of your story when you get it finished." She squeezed my arm. "�Cause I think I might have some ideas for the next chapter." And then she was out the door, giving me that little fingertip wave and tripping down the driveway. I went back to the dark living room and peered out between the blinds. Miranda came into view, looked carefully up and down the street, and quickly trotted across the tarmac and up her own drive. It was after ten o�clock and there was no one in sight. It looked like we had gotten away with it. We would have to be more careful next time — assuming there was a next time. But I rather imagined there would be. Miranda had proven literary talents that could not be ignored.

I began to think about how to present this whole experience to my agent. I wondered whether he would even believe it. I wondered whether I did.

Copyright 2012 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.