Message-ID: <46241asstr$1074222603@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <200401151925.i0FJPdOm096162@mailserver1.hushmail.com> From: X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Thu, 15 Jan 2004 11:25:39 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} Drawing Ann, by Peter Faber: M/f, cons, long Lines: 1360 Date: Thu, 15 Jan 2004 22:10:03 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, hecate <15th attachment, "Story 2.doc" begin> disposition-notification to: auto8591@hushmail.com x-asstr-no-archive: no x-no-archive: yes CONTENT DISCLAIMERS: The events and characters in this story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to any actual people living or dead, or to any actual situations, past or present, is purely coincidental. If you are offended by the thought of a consensual, non-incestuous sexual relationship between an adult man and a thirteen-year-old girl in which the girl "makes the first move," then please read no further. I would strongly prefer it if Peter Faber were acknowledged as author wherever the story appears. AUTHOR'S NOTE: In addition to being my first piece of erotica, "Drawing Ann" is an attempt at meeting a literary challenge. The younger end of the M/f genre is dominated by what people in a.s.s.d have rightly termed a "dirty old man" sensibility, which tends both to dehumanize the female characters, and to present the male characters as unsympathetic sociopaths. It also nearly always entails either incest or some form of coercive sadism or both. The challenge I've set myself here, then, is to imagine an entirely consensual, non-incestuous, non-violent, only subtly pathological M/f relationship that seems psychologically and emotionally plausible from both protagonists' points of view. This means that the story is long, and takes its time getting to the "good parts," because in order to make those passages credible, each character needs a fully-developed personality and a set of motivations that will be convincing to a readership familiar with orthodox Western sexual mores. Impatient readers can skip right to the end, where the real sex occurs. Finally, any feedback to a.s.s.d. would be greatly appreciated. Drawing Ann, by Peter Faber (M/f, cons, long) I suppose I should start this story by introducing myself. My name is Tom Barrow. Any observer, looking at me, would see a commercial artist not particularly famous, but good enough at his job to earn a consistently comfortable living through freelance work thirty-two years old, of above average height, in good physical condition, with unruly sand colored hair, brown eyes, some freckles, a sharp nose, dimpled chin, orthodontically-straightened teeth, and a wiry build. Since I'm nominally an artist, I try to maintain a wardrobe true to type, which means lots of black garments, clunky shoes bought via internet from New York boutiques, embroidered guayabera shirts. This is all easy enough to imagine. Any bohemian neighborhood in any major American city would yield hundreds, if not thousands, of exact matches to this description. For the purposes of this story, however, my banal external appearance matters very little. What is important instead is my inner life, and a set of strange experiences it has caused me to have. That's the "sex story" part, which I will recount for you in due time. Though I hesitate to speak in pathological terms, those are really the only ones Western culture makes available to a man in my situation. I am, among other things, what your friendly neighborhood forensic psychiatrist, using the jargon recently made popular by the Catholic Church, would call a "high-functioning female-object ephebophile." Which is to say I do not fit those profiles that journalists and sociologists of crime are so quick to trot out when discussing people with a weakness for young pubescent, in my case girls. I do not have difficulty enjoying the company of adults. Young girls are not my exclusive sexual preference, though they give me a unique twinge. I do not look like a "sicko." Not for me the pocket-protector, the greasy hair, the oversized aviator glasses, the abnormally sibilant voice, the obsessively-catalogued stack of dog-eared Dutch kiddie-porn magazines, the pot belly, the unmanaged body hair, or the filthy basement lair. I often have girlfriends of legal age, slightly older than me or slightly younger; I have no large collections of children's games; I make no effort to follow the inane fads and crazes that preoccupy so many young people today. What's more, I'll never be able to have children myself my family's summer house was downstream from an old paint factory with a "waste seepage" problem. So my career in incest is over before it began. That leaves a career as a "predator," and I'm afraid I'm equally hopeless at that. I have nothing of the necessary drive, the necessary single-mindedness, or the necessary sociopathic disregard for other people's feelings. More importantly still, I definitively lack that incubus-like gift for seduction that true-crime writers unfailingly ascribe to their "sickos." I am not a red-eyed devil, wearing a trench-coat and sitting on a park-bench, capable of singling out and captivating "vulnerable" children with a mere glance as they frolic in the sandbox. To be honest, I have often wondered if the irresistible yet repulsive monsters the psychologists and true-crime writers have created in their profiles actually exist. Their data on the subject seem to be woefully limited. These experts do not have anything approaching a systematic sample of all men who are sexually attracted to young girls. What they have instead is a comprehensive sample of the men with these proclivities who have been caught for indulging them. This is a very different group not all pedophiles and "ephebophiles," but simply all such people who feel the urge intensely and violently enough to act in ways that become visible to law-enforcement. Making generalizations from this group is like trying to create a "profile" of heterosexual males by looking exclusively at rapists. To think that the psychologists' profile is in any way typical, then, is to be deluded. In our society, with its strange tendency to fetishize "innocence" on the one hand, and to watch eight-year-olds doing burlesque in child beauty pageants on the other, we dream about sex with the young, read about it in tabloids, hear about it on television, and then, hard as rocks, sing ourselves to sleep with the notion that the only people interested in it are easily-identifiable monsters dangerous, yes, but also a tiny minority of society as a whole, and utterly different from the "rest of us." We invent the "sicko," in other words, to be a convenient receptacle for certain impulses we want to deny in ourselves and perhaps in our children as well. Unruly desires are much more widespread than sociologists of crime would have us believe. This, however, takes us some distance from my story, which begins about two years ago, in a solidly middle-class American suburb with a name I will not divulge. This town does not have the asphalted moonscape look of a new subdivision instead, it has fairly narrow streets, with mature trees, immaculate lawns, a few neighborhood parks, and closely-spaced houses dating from between about 1920 and 1960. This is the sort of neighborhood where the locals hang seasonally-appropriate flags from their front porches throughout the year rabbits and eggs, witches on broomsticks, turkeys in gingham applique, "Noel" with jingle bells attached. It is in one of those temperate coastal regions where the weather stays fairly mild throughout the year. The mild weather, in fact, was one of two reasons why I selected what is otherwise in fact a rather dull and un-cultured place. The other was my great-aunt, who, after outliving her husband by twenty years, died childless and left her snug little bungalow to me. Once all the various legal procedures had been completed, then, in early June, I left my girlfriend, moved to this particular bit of suburb and set up a studio in what had previously been my great-aunt's dining room. It wasn't long before I'd gotten settled and began doing some work. Most of what I do is straight-up illustration atmospheric drawings for stories in magazines, those little grey sketches of New England interiors and homey objects that you see in certain gift catalogues, and so on, in whatever style they ask for from Yayoi Kusama to Norman Rockwell. One Tuesday afternoon, I got a call. "Hello?" "Hi Tom, this is Enid Lambert, art director at Merchandiser's Liquidators. We do newspaper circulars, and Freddy Green told me you'd be a good illustrator to contact. Would you be interested?" I had never heard of Enid or the company she worked for, but Freddy was art director at a major national magazine. A recommendation from him one of my best clients meant I was pretty well obliged to take this job. It was a signal that he was asking an important favor. "Sure, Enid, I'd be delighted. What sort of thing do you want me to do?" "Well, this circular will feature girls' and misses' summer apparel swimsuits, underwear, a few shorts, shirts and dresses." Ulp. For reasons the introduction to this story should make clear, this was exactly the kind of job I did my best to avoid. Illustrating ads of this kind would involve models, posing, and long hours in the presence of my kind of young lady, wearing not a lot. I had turned down offers like this several times before, and, on the rare occasions when I'd accepted, I'd made sure I was comfortably attached to a girlfriend of legal age. This time, I was single, alone in a new place in a most vulnerable position. But Freddy Green had put me in a tough spot. Having a blackball from someone like that ends a career. With a flutter in the pit of my stomach, I realized I really couldn't say no. "Alright, sounds fine. What do you want, exactly?" "Well, if we like your work, this could be a continuing engagement, but what we want this time as a kind of test run are some drawings of items that are overstocks from the Fabercrombie and Itch Fab Junior line maybe you've heard of it? for girls eleven to thirteen. We'll Fed-Ex you the clothes we want you to show on the models we'll mark which pieces we want in color and which in black and white. We'll also email you some jpegs to show you how the drawings should look." After some further talk about deadlines, payment and email addresses, the conversation ended. The first step was to find a model. In the city I'd left, that would have been easy just call up Stage Moms Inc. and specify the desired age. Here, the problem was more complicated. A quick look at the phone book revealed a distinct lack of child modeling agencies, and I didn't know anyone in the neighborhood yet, though there seemed to be plenty of families. School had just ended, so I decided to solve the problem by posting handbills in local businesses, calling for an attractive and patient girl between the ages of 11 and 13 willing to model for a commercial artist illustrating a national publication, pay at fifty dollars an hour, et cetera, et cetera. Not a bad summer job, all told. The clothes, along with the appropriate model-release paperwork, arrived in the mail. This job would be even more treacherous than I thought. I have to admit I remain bewildered by the way in which other men, given what the marketplace throws at them, manage to profess not to be attracted to pubescent girls. Each garment came in various sizes, I assume to fit a variety of possible models within the age range. There were a couple of different training bras; an assortment of panties, some no-nonsense and others varying degrees of thong; a bikini; a one-piece swimsuit; a midriff-baring pair of low-riding short-shorts that laced up the sides, leaving crisscrossed stripes of bare skin nearly two inches wide; an array of baby tee-shirts emblazoned with slogans like "Cutie Pie" and "Angel;" and a pair of filmy sun dresses. The only thing left was to see who might turn up. **** The first two candidates were like Cinderella's ugly stepsisters. One was seriously overweight, with strange teeth and a squirrel-like manner; if she were a younger child, she would have been considered "cute" and, indeed, her elaborately-printed resume boasted several appearances in television commercials. The other was equally seriously underweight, a blond and bug-eyed skeleton, with a nose that looked like it had been taken from a Barbie doll and affixed slightly askew by an inept plastic surgeon. Both were plastered with make-up, not stopping short of metallic blue eye-shadow, and worst of all both came equipped with desperately pushy mothers. These ladies, built like false-breasted refugees, their knees square-knots projecting from spindly legs, their skins tanned to cowhide by years of cigarette-smoking, excessive sunbathing, booze and appetite-suppressants, would have been looking over my shoulder constantly, "managing" my drawings and making sure their little darlings were represented in a sufficiently flattering manner. No thanks. The third, however, was something else entirely. On a Tuesday, late in the morning, four days after I'd put up the ad, the phone rang. "Hello?" "Hi, are you the guy looking for a model?" This was probably not a mother's voice. It sounded on the high side, though the pronunciation was crisper than usual for a kid. "Yeah, that's me." "Good. Uh, I was wondering, have you found somebody yet?" "No, I haven't, actually." "What do I need to do to audition? I think it'd be kind of fun, and fifty dollars an hour is a lot of money." I didn't have the heart to tell her that Stage Moms Inc would ask ten times that. "How old are you?" "I just turned thirteen." "Ok. Why don't you come by my place this afternoon with your mother or father. The job's pretty simple, actually. In fact, it can get really boring all you have to do is put on some clothes and stand there until I'm done drawing. It's not like being a model is on TV; if you got the job you wouldn't be dancing around in front of a wind-machine or anything. You won't be hearing me egging you on in a foreign accent, either you know, 'you ah a tye-gah, puhrr at me vis lahnguid pleh-jah' and all that. Drawing is quiet, and a lot slower. Plus I'm pretty ordinary." She giggled. "That's Ok, everyone says I'm weird, so I'll make up for that. And I actually kind of like just zoning out and thinking about stuff. But my mom's feeling sick." "Then maybe it'd be better to schedule a different time? Like this weekend?" "No, my mom's super sick and doesn't really leave the house or anything." "Hm. If I were going to hire you, I'd need a parent's or guardian's signature on a release form; otherwise it wouldn't be legal to publish the drawings." "Can I, like, just give my mom the form to sign and bring it back?" "How would I know you hadn't forged the signature?" "Well duh. You could call my mom and ask her if she signed it, right?" "I guess so. Why don't you come by this afternoon, say at two? I live at 224 Darkbloom Lane. You know where that is?" "Yeah, I've been stuck in this shithole all my life. I know where everything is." "I am ever so sorry you don't find it to your liking, Miss," I said, putting on a little sass of my own in my best Grandfather Barrow Brahmin-Lockjaw accent. "I too find this fair city wanting on occasion. But one must make the best of what one has, mustn't one? Would you nevertheless be kind enough to reveal your name?" Another little giggle. "Morgan Benson. But that's because my mom's so pathetic and trendy that she named me after Morgan Fairchild. I mean, hellow? It was like 1989. Couldn't she have thought about how lame and eighties that would sound? Everybody but her calls me Ann." Hm. A nice sharp mouth, a dreamy streak. I began to tremble a bit. "Alright Ann, see you then." "Cool. Bye." Right after I hung up the phone, the magnitude of what I'd done began to sink in. I had just invited a girl barely thirteen to my house, unsupervised, to audition for a job modeling not only sun-dresses and jeans, but underwear and bathing suits. This was the kind of situation in which things could go disastrously wrong. Some other voice seemed to have done my talking on the phone that voice even might have flirted, the tiniest little bit. This was the kind of thing I dreamed about on occasion, but not at all what I normally did, or had ever done. It felt like my blood pressure had doubled. I tried listening to my favorite recording of Cosi fan Tutte, but it had none of its usual calming effect. On the contrary, the music, the opera's parade of mistaken identities and frustrated loves, seemed to make everything worse. All that was left was to fidget, chest tight with anguish, for the next three hours. Mercifully, the doorbell rang early, at ten minutes to two. I got up, opened it, and saw her there in front of me. Ann had just locked her bike an old, beat-up black one-speed and left it on the porch. She was about five feet two inches tall, and dressed in a version of the "alternative" uniform baggy frayed-hem olive cargo pants, well-worn Doc Martens, and an oversized black tee shirt with the name of some band or other on it. She had very dark hair, shoulder length and a bit wavy, rather large dark blue eyes, graceful black eyebrows, a button nose, a delicately pointed chin, fetching dimples in her cheeks, and a complexion that ranged from rich, succulent pink to very pale cream. What I could see of her skin lower arms, face and neck was impeccably smooth, almost uncanny in its pale, unblemished uniformity. In the presence of this miraculous apparition, for reasons I have tried to analyze repeatedly but still don't understand, I felt a deep and peculiar sense of calm. No pent up beast beating at the cage door, no nervousness, but instead a kind of clarity. "Hi Ann! I'm Tom Barrow, pleased to meet you," I said, extending my hand. Ann shook my hand more firmly than I expected, looked me in the eye and smiled. She had braces on her teeth. "Hi." "Come on in I'll show you around my studio. Then I'll have you try some clothes on and do some test poses. Would you like something to drink, a Snapple maybe, or a Coke?" "Do you have kiwi-strawberry?" "I'm pretty sure I do. Just a sec. Have a seat on the couch and I'll be back." I went into the kitchen , retrieved the appropriate bottle from the refrigerator, opened it, and poured it into a glass. Then I got a lemon iced tea for myself and went back through the swinging door into the living room. Ann was standing up, looking around. "You have a lot of art," she said. It was true back when I was an ambitious student getting my MFA at an elite school, with dreams of being a "major painter," I'd traded lots of pictures with a few other students whose work I liked. One of them had actually gotten famous, and another two were moving in that direction it probably would have made my life easier to sell some of their paintings, but I couldn't make myself do it. I liked being reminded of how we were all "real artists" together, during that brief spell at least. So the walls of this little house were covered in pictures, some realistic, some expressionistic and rough, some wildly abstract, a few nudes. "Yeah, those pictures are mostly by friends of mine from art school. We used to trade our work." "Which ones did you paint?" "Well, there aren't any of mine up. It's been a long time since I painted pictures like this, and the ones I used to do weren't anything special. My stuff is all illustration now I draw it on the computer, because that's what art directors prefer, and it's more decoration than anything profound. Basically, I'll draw whatever they ask me to." "So you mean you can draw anything?" "Yeah, pretty much." "No way. Show me." "OK," I said, heading off into the studio, which was separated from the living room by a pair of French doors. "Let me get the computer ready." I took it out of sleep mode, and sat down at my drafting table, where I had a large screen and a pen attachment in place of the mouse. "So come around and tell me what you want me to draw." "How about Calvin, from Calvin and Hobbes?" "Isn't that before your time? It's been years since that was in the paper." "Yeah, but I have all the books it's my favorite." "Ok." Graphics program set to "ink," a few strokes of the pen, and voila, Calvin doing a handstand, balancing Hobbes, in stuffed-tiger form, on the soles of his feet. "Wow! That's so cool. Calvin's totally hard to draw." "Watch out, that's a trap," I said, repeating despite myself what art teachers always say. "Nothing is actually hard to draw if you practice enough, and if nobody tells you it's hard drawing's just a physical skill that gets better as you work on it. The thing that's really difficult is deciding what to draw in the first place." "I guess it's like ice skating you've got to practice." "You ice skate?" Temperatures in this town ranged from forty to eighty degrees it hadn't even occurred to me that ice skating would exist in such conditions. "Yeah, there's an indoor rink open year round. It's dinky, and during the day it costs a lot to use it, but I practice early in the morning or at night." "So, you're a girl, I bet you figure skate." "No way. I used to the costumes were fun, and I liked spinning and jumping and all that, but the other girls who do it are total stuck-up bitches. They're always talking about what their parents are buying them, and how they're going on expensive summer vacations and everything. And they aren't even very good skaters. So two years ago I changed to speed skating." "Wow. So are there lots of girls to speed skate with?" She looked at me like I had just grown a second nose. "No. Girls are too lame to speed skate. I practice with the guys." "Oh, I see. What else do you do in your spare time?" "Read, mostly. I want to be a writer stories and things. My dad was a writer Paul Benson?" She said, naming the famous literary novelist as if he were someone nobody had ever heard of. "Wow, in college we thought he was really hip! My friends and I read all his stuff...I'm impressed. What's your favorite book?" She colored a little. "By my dad, do you mean, or aside from his?" "Why not by someone else?" "Well, it used to be 'The High King,' but I just finished this totally random book the librarian accidentally put in the young adult section 'Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man?' I had to read it really slowly, but it was amazing, especially the beginning where he's a kid and wets the bed. That's exactly what it's like!" "Now I'm really impressed. That's a difficult one." She blushed, smiled without showing her teeth, pulling her lips tight across her braces, shrugged and looked at her shoes. "Well, if nobody tells you it's hard..." "Touch," I said, grinning. "I guess we should talk about the job a bit. If you were going to model for me, you'd need to wear a bunch of different things there are a few sundresses, shorts and shirts, but also some bathing suits and underwear. If you don't feel comfortable posing in underwear or a bathing suit, that's fine, I could use you for the other stuff and find another model to do the rest." "Don't worry about it. Sam, my mom's ex-boyfriend? He liked taking us to nude beaches, so I'm used to not wearing anything. Being inside, anyway, means I don't need to put on lots of goopy sunscreen I've got to, like, totally cover myself with SPF a million or else I fry. And what's so bad about underwear, anyway?" "True enough. I'm wearing some right now, as a matter of fact boxer shorts." "Good," she giggled. Now I was the one blushing. The nude beach thing had taken me by surprise. "Here's the box of clothes I'm supposed to use for this project. Why don't you pick out something to wear while you do your test pose? You can change in the bathroom, which is down the hall and on the left." "Ok." She started rooting around in the box, looking at various items and size labels. After casting what might have been a sly glance in my direction it was so quick I couldn't quite tell she picked out the smallest thong, in pink satin, and a white stretch-lace training bra. Then, clearly blushing but without saying a word, she went off to the bathroom at a trot. Now, I have to say, that initial feeling of calm was fading fast. Nude beaches? Had she just picked what I thought she picked? I had no idea what to expect. The only thing left to do, I decided, was to sit down at the drafting table and wait. I heard her bare feet coming down the hall and through the living room. Then there she was in the studio. Smiling, face deep red, she did a little pirouette for me. It took me a moment to collect myself. The outfit she arrived in had covered up all the interesting parts of her body. They were now mostly in plain view. Ann was not skinny; she'd clearly done a lot of speed skating. Her build was sturdy and athletic, a bit slim on top, but with solid thighs and rounded calves, all overlaid by a firm, silky layer of baby fat. And that flawless pale and pink skin, covering her entire body in a smooth, creamy expanse. I noted the beginnings of a feminine waist, but just the beginnings: the overall shape was still a girlish column. The satin front of the panties dipped slightly into the cleft of her vagina. The training bra was a little tight, and bit into her skin, accentuating that thin layer of plumpness. I could just make out her nipples, puffy red-brown cones, tenting the lace; her breasts themselves were slightly pointed and a bit smaller than the two halves of a lemon cut lengthwise. The thing that really took me by surprise, however, was her behind beautifully framed by the thong, her buttocks were substantial muscular globes, high and firm. The effect was strange and disorienting, but also irresistible. That ass was a lone, intense banner of sexuality attached to an otherwise not yet fully sexual creature. When I had recovered my composure, I told her to step onto the little platform I used for models, in front of the drafting table. Standing up, I showed her the relaxed position I wanted, hands at sides, weight shifted to the left leg, body turned at an angle to my desk. She followed along and stood there, again with a little smile that didn't show any teeth. "Is it ok if I talk to you while I stand here like this?" "Sure," I said, "as long as you don't get carried away and start moving around. Also, when I'm working on your face I'll need you to be still. Whatever happens, though, be sure to let me know if you get cramped up or need to go to the bathroom." Another giggle. "You mean you don't want me to just go right here?" "No, I think that would probably count as too much devotion to the job." With a final smile, we got quiet again, and I began working. This was just a test-run. The folks at Merchandiser's Liquidators hadn't gotten me the sample jpegs yet, because, they said, they were working out a "new graphic concept," so I wasn't sure exactly what they wanted. This one would be for me, then. And that was just fine. I started to draw, following the contours of Ann's body with my eyes in my usual slow, careful way. Needless to say, I found myself getting hard, and hoped it wouldn't be too visible when I'd finished drawing. As far as I was concerned, she'd gotten the job the moment she walked in, but I wanted to make her feel like she was passing a real test, so I decided I'd have her stand long enough to do a fairly well-finished picture. We talked as I worked, and during a break or two, about a range of topics broader than I'd expected from a kid her age yes, the predictable pop culture, especially "South Park" and "Dawson's Creek," but also literature and old movies. Her favorites were "Bringing up Baby" and "The Maltese Falcon," and she shared my soft-spot for over-the-top film noir, like "Out of the Past" and "Kiss Me Deadly." We talked a lot about our favorite film noir plots, and how hard it is to sort out all the twists and turns. "I made a timeline for the Maltese Falcon," she said, "so I could figure out the story, but to fill it all in I had to watch the movie like ten times. And I still don't know how Bridget O'Shaughnessy met Floyd Thursby in the first place. It's almost as if the only thing that's important is making you feel like there's some kind of really complicated conspiracy going on; it's not that big of a deal whether you actually understand it or not." "You know, I hadn't looked at it that way before, but I think you're onto something. The story is just there to set a mood it's almost better if you don't have a really clear idea what's going on, because then the feeling of mystery is more intense. Like the mirror scene in 'Lady from Shanghai.'" "Yeah. That is soooo cool. I can't believe you've seen 'Lady from Shanghai!'" "Well, I'm more impressed you've seen it it's history for me, ancient history for you." "It's no biggie. Old movies are all they ever have in at the library, and my dad wrote about them all the time in his journals, so I want to see what he saw. The only thing is getting used to watching black and white." We probably worked for about four hours all told, though I tend to lose track of time when I'm drawing. As the shadows got longer, and our conversation died down, we lapsed into a silence that felt considerably more intimate than silences usually did when I worked with models. It seemed almost as if my eyes were tangibly caressing her body; she would occasionally send me a slow look signaling that she felt those caresses too, and enjoyed them. There was a strange feeling of heat at the nape of my neck. "Well, that's it, Ann. The drawing's finished. You did an excellent job posing. Not everybody has that kind of physical endurance." Something in her eyes seemed to snap back into focus. "Oh, thanks. Can I see it?" "Sure. Come on over." I rolled back my swivel chair in order to give her space to come and look at the completed drawing on the screen. As soon as Ann got to the space I'd opened up between the drafting table and my swivel chair, she turned her back to me, flashing the entirety of that luscious, thong-split behind, and then, so quickly I had no idea what was happening, flopped backward into my lap, scooting the chair back in front of the computer by moving her bare feet along the floor. It was all I could do to keep my breathing regular. "So, Ann, do you like it?" From my lap, she saw a black-and-white drawing of herself posed in three-quarter view, deep-shadowed, with her swelling bare buttocks and a sultry expression. They'd never print this one in a family newspaper. She nestled down into my lap, moving so my cock, which had previously been caught between her left thigh and mine, sprang up into the furrow between her buttocks. She pressed down a bit more and I felt her cheeks squeeze together on my cock once, and twice. Then, she leaned her back against my chest, buttocks still gripping my cock, and, in a soft voice, asked "Do you think I'm pretty, Tom?" Somehow, I managed to stammer out a "yes, yes I do." A few seconds later she sprang off my lap, red faced and giggling. "I could feel your heart beating," she said, and then, doing a passably queenly Hepburn, skipped back to the bathroom, saying "look at me! I was raised on the side of a hill!" She came out dressed in her cargo pants and black tee-shirt, holding the panties and bra in her right hand. Still Hepburn, she proffered the underwear with a slight curtsy: "Perhaps you would prefer these to the intercostal clavicle?" "Er...the interests of science...but...but...oh well," I said, trying my best at distracted Cary Grant not nearly as successful an impression as hers, I'm afraid. Then, herself again, she looked at me nervously. "So, do I get the job?" "Yeah," I said, with a grin, "do you ever get the job but I'd decided to hire you when you first walked in. You're a tough girl to ignore." This elicited another little smile, another blush, and another look at the shoes. I went back to my drafting table and took the release form off a stack of papers. "Just get your mother to sign this and bring it back to me when you come in next time. Also, make sure she knows I'll call her to check in." "This is so cool," she said excitedly, "when do you want me to come back?" "Well, I have a bunch of projects going right now, so if you'd like we can wait a week." I wanted to give her some time her flirting had gotten her a pretty intense response, and I was worried she might be embarrassed or scared. "Nah, that's ok. It's summer, and I don't have anything to do. Can I come tomorrow? Say maybe at noon?" "Sure." "Cool! I'll see you then, I guess," she said, smiling. "Yes, you will! Sorry to take up your whole afternoon, Ann." "Don't worry about it," she said, blushing, "it was really fun. I think you're cool." Then, like that, she was out the door, on her bike, and off into the summer twilight. **** After Ann left for her house, I spent the evening in a fog. She'd gotten me so aroused that I immediately went to the bathroom and took care of things. That did a lot to reduce the tension, but even so I found my thoughts drifting back to what had happened that afternoon almost every chance they got. And every time I thought about her I felt a little stab of joy. Such an amazing girl, so beautiful. What books would I give her? Had she seen "Blow Up" yet? Preoccupied as I was, I also felt the ideas flowing fast. That evening, I took care of work landscapes for a story on orange-growing at double the usual rate. For the first time in years, I even did a bit of drawing for nothing but my own pleasure. The jpegs from Merchandiser's Liquidators arrived, and I saw what they wanted. Their new "graphic concept" was pretty much what I expected realistic charcoal- or pastel-style drawings of girls, shown frontally, with barrettes in their hair and expressions of twinkly nineteen-fifties innocence. My guess was that this bore a very close resemblance to their old "concept," which was how things usually went in this particular low-rent segment of art-director land. A far cry, in other words, from what I'd drawn earlier that day, but perfectly do-able I'd have to imagine Ann with barrettes in her hair and teeth without braces, and find some way to make a thong and translucent training bra look "innocent." Looking back, I'm amazed I wasn't more nervous. The situation I'd put myself in was extremely dangerous. Had she wanted to, Ann could have ruined my life with a few words. But for some reason I felt confident she wouldn't, though I had no idea exactly why she'd acted the way she had. The answer to that question, as you'll see, became a bit clearer in the course of her next visit in part, I suspect, thanks to the inhibition-lowering power of two large glasses of wine. She showed up early again this time at 11:15, a full forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. I was wandering around the house barefoot, getting things ready for a little lunch some olives, some prosciutto, a few bits of the exotic cheeses I order online, a nice loaf of crusty bread, and a bottle of Rioja, which I had opened so I could pour a single glass, and intended to finish after Ann left, as a way of dispelling what I was sure would be a fair amount of pent up tension. Debussy's Preludes were on the stereo the doorbell rang during "The Girl with the Flaxen Hair." I figured it was probably a delivery-person, since it was so long before our session was due to start. When I opened the door and saw Ann beaming up at me, her face flushed from the bike-ride, I was taken aback. This time she was wearing a pair of low-rise jeans with enormous bell-bottoms, the same Docs, and a grey spaghetti-strap shirt that showed her graceful collarbone and the smooth tops of her breasts to good advantage. "Hello there! I wasn't expecting you quite so soon." "Oh, I'm sorry...I just kind of got excited. If it's too early tell me and I'll go." "No, not at all. It's nothing I was just making myself a little lunch. Would you like some?" "Sure." "Ok. Then follow me in to the kitchen and I'll set you a place." She came in as I was getting a napkin from the requisite drawer. I put down a plate, knife and fork in front of her. Then I went and got a tumbler. "So, Ann Snapple, Coke, or fizzy water?" "Can't I have wine, like you?" she asked, gesturing to the wineglass I'd put at my place. "Aren't you a little young for that?" "Mom and Sam used to let me have some sometimes." That seemed pretty far-fetched to me, though knowing what I came to know later, it was probably true. But, I figured, I was in a deep enough hole already. Why not let her try some wine? "Ok. I'll pour you a glass." "Thanksh, kid," she said, doing her Bogart. I filled our glasses and we began eating. Ann certainly wasn't a dainty eater. She consumed the food with gusto, breaking off hunks of bread and making ham-and-cheese sandwiches. "Mmm. I've never had any ham like this before. What is it?" "It's called proscuitto it's a kind of ham from Italy that gets aged in salt for a long time before it's sold. To make it tender, they slice it really thin." "Wow. That's so cool. I didn't know they sold things like that at Foodmart." "They don't, actually, I have to go to ________," I said, referring to the nearest metropolitan area, "where there's a special Italian butcher shop. The pigs this stuff is made of get fed exclusively on parmesan cheese that's part of what makes it so good." "No way. That must be pretty expensive." "Maybe, but I think it's worth it to eat well. Eating can be just a routine, something you do to fuel up, but it can also be a way of enriching your life. And, you know, it's not that much more money in the end." She looked at me with a grin and a distinct twinkle in her eye, then took a big swallow of the wine. It stained her lips a deep red. I was almost beside myself with desire, but decided I should talk business before my presence of mind left me completely. "Did you remember to ask your mother to sign the release form?" "Yeah," she said, pulling the paper, folded into a little rectangle, from her right hip pocket and handing it to me. "Thanks," I said, unfolding it and taking a look. There was a signature that looked convincingly adult and 'mother-like,' along with a phone number. "Do you mind if I give your mom a call? In the signature her name looks like...Lydia?" "That's it, Lydia. An even worse name than Morgan, if you ask me." "I don't know, it has a kind of dignity about it. Lydia Benson. Sounds like a woman who's got a long, graceful neck and a sophisticated way of talking." "Bzzzt, wrong answer," said Ann, with a little sneer. "You're kind of right about the neck, but otherwise, totally off base. You'll see when you talk to her." "I guess so," I said as I walked over to the phone. It rang twice, and then I heard a slurred voice at the other end, "H'lllo?" There was a television chattering loudly in the background. "Hi, Lydia? This is Tom Barrow, the illustrator who's interested in hiring your daughter to do some modeling. I sent Morgan home from her audition yesterday with a release form for you to sign, and she's brought it in to me. I just thought I'd call to make sure everything's in order." "Uh...yeah...she mentioned something abou' that I think. I def'nately signed...a form. Seems fine t'me. When she starts bugging you too much...just go hed...and sen' er home. She c'n be a chatty pain in the ass. And she eats too much, so don' feed 'er. I don' see quite why y'd wan' 'er as a model anyway...all that skating makes 'er chunky, like some kinda linebacker." "Actually, that athletic look's what I'm after. Thanks, anyway, for your time." "No counting f'r taste. Suit y'rself," she said, hanging up with an abrupt click. I turned back toward Ann, and found her looking at me with embarrassment. She'd drained her wine glass while I was talking to her mother, and I'd caught her in the process of filling it up again. "I'll bet she said something about how much I weigh and the skating thing, right?" "As a matter of fact, she did." Ann took another big swig. "During school, I go to speed-skating practice from four-thirty to eight AM every day except Sunday. This summer, I'm running every day and going to the rink four mornings a week. I paid for my own suit and skates by doing a paper route, I get myself up and bike over to practice on my own, but it still ticks her off that I do it. She thinks it makes me ugly. She wishes I was thin." "Well, I hesitate to bad-mouth a girl's mother, but she's full of shit. It makes you astoundingly gorgeous." Now she was blushing and looking at her shoes in that irresistible way she had. "You think so?" "Yes, I think so. Have some more prosciutto. We don't want you to waste away." She giggled and took some, face glowing. This time the look in her eyes seemed to indicate that she was well on her way to tipsy. "By the way, what's she sick with? Her voice sounded awfully slurred." "Nobody's really sure. The doctor gives her a bunch of pills each week, and she just takes them and lies around the house with the lights off and the curtains closed, watching soaps or just sleeping. Sometimes it's like she's dead, you can make all the noise you want and she won't wake up. She's pretty much been like that since my dad died, though it's gotten worse over the last couple years she met Sam, her ex-boyfriend? before it was so bad. He broke up with her like a year ago, and we've been alone since then. That's why I go to the library all the time and read. It sucks too much to be at home." "Do you mind my asking how your dad died?" "Nah. He was in a car accident when I was little, like five or so. I barely remember him. I can kind of imagine him, though, from his stuff mom still keeps it in boxes in the attic." "So what was the famous Paul Benson like?" "He was a super cool dresser, and really nice, and handsome and smart. He smelled like vanilla pipe-smoke and wrote these thick novels in a study downstairs and watched old movies and listened to classical music. He also wrote lots of love letters to my mom they're so sweet." "Why did someone like that move to this town in the first place?" "Mom says it was because of me. He thought that this would be a good place to raise kids, and bought our house with his royalty money a bit before he died." "What about Sam?" "Mom met him like a year after dad died. He was ok, I guess. He's, like, a foreman at the Donnel McDouglas plant, and all into labor union stuff. When he was living with my mom he was gone a lot, at union meetings and out with his friends from work. Sometimes he could be really funny, but he could also get pretty mad at my mom, and they'd have these big, loud fights. They got way worse right before they broke up." "Oh. That must have been difficult." "Yeah. It really hurt when he left, cause having him around made my mom a little bit better. They'd take me out and we'd all do stuff together like going to the beach. Once Sam and mom broke up, I started really getting into skating and spending lots of time at the library. Coach Pitt can be strict, but he just does it to get you to work harder. He doesn't treat me any different from the guys, even though I'm a girl and way younger than everybody else. And he kind of looks out for me. One day when I got the flu he even drove to my house and took me to the doctor. Ms. Honeycutt, the librarian, is cool too. She tells me good books to read and lets me stay after hours to watch movies sometimes." "How about school?" "It's ok, I guess, but the classes are all really boring. I've got a best friend, Stacey, but all the other girls kind of hate me. They put honey in my locker and stuff like that and say I'm a lesbo because I skate with the guys." "What grade are you in, seventh?" "Yeah, but I'm younger than everyone else, cause my birthday's in June." "Oh, that's the worst. I had the same problem in seventh grade. Everyone made fun of me all the time. They called me a nerd because I liked to sit in the library looking at art books, and because I had this horrible headgear that made me look like Hannibal Lecter when they put that mask on him in Silence of the Lambs if the mask were glittery fluorescent purple, that is." "Yeah, it sucks," she said, laughing. "At least I don't have it that bad." "No, it could be worse you could have incredibly ugly early-eighties headgear. Anyway, you'll get your revenge later. Trust me." "Whatever. I'll believe it when I see it." "That's good enough for me." We ate quietly for another few minutes, and I watched Ann finish her second glass of wine. As she reached for the bottle again, I put out my hand to stop her. "Woah, Nellie! I don't want you passing out while you pose. Plus, isn't there a law against biking while intoxicated?" "Awww, Tom, you're no fun." "Nope. I'm just an old fogey. So what say we get to work?" "Sounds good. What do you want me to wear?" "Let's start simple, with one of the sun dresses." We left the kitchen and went out to the living room, where Ann rummaged through the box of clothes and pulled out a sundress in her size. It was in some kind of pale blue synthetic, with spaghetti straps. She set off to the bathroom to change, and I went to my drafting table. Soon, I heard her bare feet coming down the hall. Before long there she was, a vision, lips stained and face flushed with the wine, nipples tenting the fabric, legs smooth and muscular, sublime ass forming a high, firm bustle under the dress. She got up on the platform. "Ok, why don't you show me how you'd like me to stand?" "Sure," I said, walking over, a little self-conscious because of the hard-on that had been growing since she arrived. Just after I'd stepped on to the platform and turned to face her, she reached both hands up to the spaghetti-straps of the sundress. Then she gently slid them off her shoulders. The dress wafted to the floor, settling in a wreath around her feet. She wasn't wearing any underwear. She stood there splendidly naked, looking at me with an earnest, not to say smoldering, expression. Now I could vouch that every inch of her skin was as perfect as what I'd already seen, smooth and dewy with youth. Her puffy little nipples stood deep-colored on their pointed new breasts; her smooth stomach made its way to the top of her vagina in a single muscular sweep. A few dark, wispy hairs were visible along the cleft, which parted gently around the pale tip of her clitoris. I could tell by the way her ribs moved with her breathing that she was excited. I stood speechless, rooted to the spot. After a few moments, she stepped over the fallen dress, moved towards me and, very gently, put both hands on my cock, which now tented my pants. "So I guess I make you hard?" she said, a bit giddily. "Yes, you certainly do. You are absolutely the most beautiful girl I have ever seen." As I said this, Ann began unbuttoning my shirt, starting at the top. Things had now passed the strange and moved headlong into the surreal. I decided, maybe for the first time in my life, to give in to my desires totally, and let things go where they would, no matter where that might be. I was terrified, but my ears rang with excitement. Soon, the shirt was off, she'd lightly run her hands down my torso, and was unbuttoning my pants. I could feel her fingers against my stomach as she reached around the waistband. The boxers were off in a second after that, and I stepped out of my clothes. Now we were both naked, and stood facing one another. This, I'm afraid, is a moment when I have to break with genre conventions. Unlike the usual heroes of stories like these, my cock is not extraordinarily huge it's what I suspect is smaller than average size, circumcised, about seven inches long, about an inch and a quarter wide. It had never been as hard as it was that moment, jutting up at a thirty-degree angle. The feeling would have been painful under different circumstances. Ann wrapped her right hand around my cock, looked at it with a smile, and began gently stroking up and down. It felt wonderful, but I wanted to take the lead a bit, so I pulled her close. She let go of my cock and wrapped her arms around my waist. I felt the length of her muscular, naked body against mine, her nipples hard as pebbles pressing into my ribs, and ran my hands up and down her back, feeling the firm smoothness of her skin, its warmth, the way it gave just the tiniest bit to the pressure of my fingers. Then I looked down at her, and when she turned her face to meet mine, I gave her a kiss, gently at first but then she pressed back, and soon our tongues were rubbing deeply together. I moved my hands down to her marvelous ass, and squeezed her firm, smooth buttocks. I felt my cock pressed between us. As we kissed, I rubbed it lazily up and down her body, feeling the tip pass over her ribcage, and up to the base of the soft, shallow dip between her breasts. We stayed like that, kissing, for some time; eventually she pulled away, put her right hand back around my cock, and, looking up into my eyes with the most intense expression of desire I'd ever seen, slowly got down on her knees. She began by pulling my cock down a little, and using the tip of her flexed tongue to lick a clear bead of pre-cum from the end of it. Then, very slowly like someone who had practiced, I thought incredulously she ran the tip of her tongue along the underside of my cock, sending an almost electric set of shivers up my spine. She traced the tip of her tongue in patterns over the length of my cock, moving along the sides, the top, and the bottom again, before concentrating her attention on the head. It was deeply colored, nearly purple, and leaking precum. Holding the shaft in her hand, she ran the tip of my cock over her face slowly, leaving a little trail of precum on her chin, cheeks, eyelids, forehead and nose. After taking each of my testicles into her mouth, and turning them gently with her tongue, she kissed the tip of my cock lightly, and pressed it into her mouth. Then she took it in a little further. I felt the broad part of her tongue caressing the underside of my cock-head, and then her whole tongue wrapping around it, smoothing and stroking. The shaft protruded gloriously from her wine-stained lips. Suddenly, she moved her lips even further down; I felt the tip of my cock plunge deeper in her mouth, and saw her throat clench as she gagged a little. Her enthusiasm excited me even more, but we were clearly pushing into terrain she wasn't ready for. So I put my hands on her head, sliding my fingers into her thick dark hair, and gently pulled her back, until just the tip of my cock remained in her mouth. Slowly, I began moving her head back and forth over the first few inches of it. She started sucking, rolling her tongue around my cock and rocking on her knees to reinforce the motion I'd started. Her hands were kneading my buttocks, grabbing tight. Gradually I gave her signals to increase the speed, at the same time using my hands on her head to hold her back and keep her from choking. Finally the feeling got so intense I couldn't draw it out any longer. "Ann," I said, gasping, "I'm going to come." Then I pulled my cock out of her mouth, sending a squirt of cum onto her face. Quick as lightning, she reached around, stuffed my cock back into her mouth, and swallowed the remaining spurts. After I'd finished cumming, she pulled back, letting my now-softening cock fall between my legs. With the tips of her fingers, she scooped the semen from her face and put it in her mouth. "Don't worry about cumming in my mouth. I don't mind the taste of it, and even more it really turns me on to swallow it. If you want to see it on my face, that's cool but leave some for me," she said, flashing a grin. I could see some gleaming drops of semen caught in her braces, and a little string of it at the corner of her mouth, connecting her upper and lower lips. "Now I'm going to clean you up," she said, licking the remaining semen from her lips, taking my soft cock back into her mouth, and stroking it steadily with her tongue. Before long I was hard again and slick with her warm saliva, but I'd decided it was time to start returning the favor. I took her hands and led her to her feet; then I bent down and put an arm under her knees. She got the message and put her arm around my neck. I straightened up, lifting her, and carried her through the living room and into my bedroom. As I walked, she kissed my neck and gently flicked it with her tongue. Finally, I lay her down on her back on my bed, still unmade from the morning. I kicked the knotted covers off, and sat so I was straddling her waist. I could feel my balls resting on her smooth pelvis, and it was all I could do to make myself take it slow. Better talk a bit to cool things down, I thought. "You know, you just gave me one of the best blow-jobs I've ever gotten." She blushed and smiled that close-lipped smile. "Really? That was my first time, kind of. Sam and I used to fool around when Mom was too out of it he jerked off into my mouth a few times, but I never gave him head." She said this as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world; only after she left did I have a moment to be taken aback. "After I got home yesterday, though," she continued, "I went and watched a porno he left at our house to see how to do it. Sam hid the video like two years ago and totally forgot about it but I remembered it was taped under the sink in the bathroom. Mom was so zoned, it was pretty easy to sneak into the family room after she went to bed and check it out. I watched the blow-job part twice. The second time, I took a cucumber from the fridge and played along. The tongue thing that I did when your dick was in my mouth? I made that up myself." Her voice softened, and her eyes took on what I think was a look of need. "When I came over today, I wanted to do something that would really make you like me." "You know, I thought you were fantastic the first time I saw you," I said, bending down and kissing her, gently, on the forehead. "I don't just like you, I really really like you." Becoming Bogart with a wink, "you're the shtuff dreams are made of." "You think so?" "Yeah," I said, my voice getting a bit husky with desire, "let me show you how much I think so." First, I knelt beside her and took a look at her body, lying pale and glorious on the dark blue sheet, with the afternoon light pouring in slats through the blinds. I bent down and began kissing her, starting with her lips, moving slowly to her chin, along the line of her jaw, down her throat to the small, delicate dip at the base of her neck. The creamy smoothness of her skin was a perpetual source of wonder to me; it felt miraculous under my hands and lips. Slowly, I moved from the base of her throat to her budding left breast, which I took in my hand, feeling its wonderful mix of firm and soft. Her breathing was speeding up, and her blue eyes were glazed with excitement. I bent down and took the nipple in my mouth, gently caressing it with my tongue, feeling it harden between my lips. I turned my head, resting my ear on her chest her heart was racing. After moving to her other breast, I pulled away and gently ran my hands down her ribcage to her pelvis; when I reached the skin immediately above the cleft of her vagina, she shivered and moaned lightly. Her clitoris was swollen, light pink, and protruding from between her labia. I bent down, traced some arabesques on the tender skin of her mons veneris, and moved my hand further down, avoiding the clitoris itself, but lightly caressing her labia; I could feel a few sparse, wispy pubic hairs, matted with her warm juices, against my fingers. After teasing her a bit more, I drew my right index finger over her clitoris, grazing it delicately. She sighed and spread her legs further apart. I moved so I was kneeling between her muscular thighs, and got my first good look at her young vagina. It was glorious, dewy with her fluids, a few hairs running like the veins of a leaf over her smooth, pale labia, which were slightly parted to reveal the more deeply pink, glistening flower within. I ran my index finger along the cleft, which was even wetter than it first appeared, and then easily slipped it into her she gasped as I did it. There was no hymen. I began gently finger-fucking her. Ann started to moan. I bent down and explored her with my tongue, gently caressing her labia and then moving deeper, savoring the salty, musky taste. "Oh, that feels so good," she murmured, as I placed my hands on her pelvis, running them up from there to her little breasts, and flicked her clitoris with my tongue. Soon, I felt her stomach and diaphragm tensing and relaxing, then her legs as well, as she began the climb to orgasm. I continued, lightly, steadily stimulating her, moving my hands and inserting a finger to feel her building tension from within. She moaned, deeply and loudly, and her body trembled. Ann's orgasm lasted a surprisingly long time, and I enjoyed the feeling of her contractions on my finger as I moved it slowly in and out of her. As I returned to my knees, still between her legs, she looked up at me, staring intensely. "Tom, I want you to fuck me." "Are you sure you're ready? You haven't known me for very long, you know." "That doesn't matter I love you. I want you to fuck me." "I love you too, Ann," I said, watching her eyes soften even further at my words, "and I'd be delighted to oblige." I bent so I could caress her belly and pelvis with my cock-head. As I moved into position between her legs, I could see a silver trail of precum marking its path across her skin. Slowly, guiding my cock with my hand, I slid it between her labia, running it along the cleft to moisten it further with her juices. Then, gradually, I felt myself entering her. Soon, the entire head of my cock was in her vagina. I pushed forward further, and began feeling her, warm, moist and smooth against my cock. In stories like these, it is usual to describe the tightness of the young girl's pussy and in this case, the genre convention fits. She was tight. I felt the thrilling pressure of her warm vagina walls all along the first four or five inches of my shaft. "Go deeper, Tom, I want you to really fuck me." She drew her legs back, and then hooked them over my shoulders, driving my cock further inside her. She gasped a little as we reached the final inch; I could feel the head of my cock pushing at her cervix; but she pulled her knees forward on my shoulders as a sign to continue. I pushed, feeling the tip of my cock penetrate her cervix. My pubic hair pressed against her smooth vulva. "Oh God," I said, looking down and seeing her, open mouthed with ecstasy. Soon, I began moving in and out, fucking her slowly, and then faster. Her hips responded to my thrusts, and as the speed increased, she began moaning, very softly. After a few thrusts, the moans grew louder, and I felt her contract with another orgasm. The additional pressure made me come as well the flash of pleasure was so intense it seemed as if it would pull me out of my body entirely. When I was done, I slid her legs off my shoulders and lay on top of her, propping my weight on my elbows to keep from crushing her. I felt every inch of her body, her little breasts pressed against my ribs, her firm, muscular stomach and pelvis, my softening cock in her vagina, her smooth pubis, and her substantial thighs against mine. We lay like that for a long time, gently kissing. Finally, we pulled apart from one another. "Eeek," Ann said, "looks like we dribbled on the sheet." And so we had there was a wonderful glob of cum, dark and cold on the fabric. "No worries. The mess is part of the fun," I said, lying down on my side and wrapping her in my arms. "Yeah," she said, reaching down, scooping it up with her finger, and popping it into her mouth. We dozed together for a few hours by then it was seven in the evening, dinner time for Ann, at least when her mother remembered to make it. So we set an appointment for the next day's posing session, and she left. I poured myself a glass of wine, whipped up some pasta for dinner, and began to draw. At about eleven, while I was hard at work on more groves of oranges, the doorbell rang. When I opened it, I saw Ann. "Hi. After mom went to bed I snuck out. I tried getting into bed, but I don't want to sleep alone anymore." "Neither do I. Come on in." <15th attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. 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