She was thirteen when I met her—chest smooth, butt nonexistent, innocence shining from her eyes like twin flashlights. Ahhhh…

             At fourteen, I introduced her nipples to the tweak-and-suck. Lured her over time with warm smiles, mild body pats and attention that her running-the-streets mama and absentee daddy didn’t give.

             At first, she resisted. But I kept the warm smile on my face while slow, methodical hands pleaded my case a circle, rub, and squeeze at a time. Sometimes the arguments were fierce; others, light as a feather. I could see the first-desire glaze in her eyes, was ready to push my fingers to another level when…her lids wiped them clean. And I retreat back behind the non-threatening, friendly smile of a concerned adult.

             I made the rounds of trite come-on lines. But to her virgin ears, they weren’t trite. Instead, they served to take her a few steps closer to coming on board this love ship of mine. My bullshit about her being a delicate flower and me wanting to be her first lover got her shirt down to her waist, nipples into my mouth…but no further. An annoyance.

             Nevermind. I’ve got fierce seduction skills. Skills that made me a living billboard for the saying, ‘eight to eighty, blind, cripple or crazy.’ Combined with my burnished- gold skin, hazel, almond-shaped eyes and buff body, I’d been scoring tail since one of my mother’s friends slapped her tittie in my mouth while babysitting me, therefore, introducing me to the suck-and-tweak. Let the circle be unbroken. So once again, it’s retreat, regroup…revisit the seduction.

             At fifteen, she was comfortable enough, body humming with enough hormones, to attempt teasing me. Clothes became skimpier as fashion dictated—midriff bare, butt cheeks barely covered. She brushed her melons against me, hands lightly rubbing thighs, trying to see if she could get the same reaction from me as the boys sniffing around her. She was, but she didn’t know it. Her walk turned from kid clumsiness to…a sashay of promises. I wrote the unspoken promises in my head for future reference.

             At fifteen and three-quarters, her fingers grabbed my root and I returned the favor by stroking her nub. My mouth plundered her innocent tongue; stoked her imagination of…what if? On to L’petit morbid…the small death of orgasm. Eyes unfocused, her pelvis bucked against fingers slickened by her juices. Then the apologies, the we- shouldn’t-be-doing-this-I’m-too-old-for-you-you-can’t-tell anybody-about-this line. Secrets. Her interest heightened.

             At sixteen, I could smell her sex before she reached me. It’s scent tantalizing and making my eyes glaze this time. I kept my distance, strung her along with slow winks and saucy lip licking. She pushed, hooked. I pulled away. I tasted her frustration, her inability to get what I’d given her from her little, bumbling boyfriends. I pumped into willing partners with her face imprinted in my mind, goading me towards climax.

             Seventeen found her butt naked in my bedroom, her body taut with unfulfilled desires; knowing that I held the answers to her body’s questions. I laid her down gingerly. Stroked hair and whispered lies of love in her ears. She responded as I knew she would—crotch soaking, hands grasping, tight muscles pulling me…deep. Home.

             I introduced her to the Kama Sutra on her eighteenth birthday, Five-hundred Ways to Please Your Lover not two weeks later. No hole or inch of skin was left a virgin beneath my capable hands.

             She wanted forever with me. I wanted only now with her.

             At nineteen, she moved in, happy, replete in her sexual freedom. My mind began moving away, watching the young daughter of the couple at the end of the street. Sensing my distraction, she grew bolder, indecent in her actions. Forget Janet Jackson, she was the Superbowl halftime show. Eyes willed me to see how uninhibited she’d become for me…while working over friends, acquaintances and strangers she’d passed not three words with.

             Money was hinted at by the friends and offered by the acquaintances. A new business venture? I pushed the envelope. She opened it. Photos at first, then videos. A star is born!

             One well-hung brother made me pause. She seemed to enjoy him too much; seemed to prefer his touching and stroking her past the yell of “Cut!” I confronted him. His response? ‘She’s just a trick, man. Gotta loosen them up. Make it seem real. It’s all acting. Just acting.’ I deflated, yet she preened while he cooed back.

             The playground was my favorite hangout now, especially the swings that the little preteen girl up the road loved. I pushed her sometimes when she came out there with her babysitter. The mother and father worked all the time and a too “made up” high school girl brought her there and ignored her while talking on her cell phone.

             The innocent eyes lit up as I pushed higher and higher, mouth giggling the little girl giggle that would soon turn into covered mouth polite laughter with her teen years. I am ignored as I help her from the swing, fingers brushing over a flat chest full of promise. Hands rubbed nonexistent sand from between thin legs and off her soft butt. Damn!

             At twenty, my lover confronted me on the edges of the park after an afternoon of “caring” for the young girl. Her ‘You son-of-a-bitch! You pervert!’ stung my soul. I denied the truth, lured her back with more lies before bucking her “too old” body into slick outerspace beneath me. She calmed, admitted her lust for the well-hung brother in the face of my newfound interest. I tell one. You tell one. Uh uh. Not me.

             I timed her schedule to perfection. She worked. I played concerned adult at the park. She rested. I returned home. She pushed. I pulled away. I pumped into her with another face imprinted on my brain, cries of “Baby girl!” on my lips as I climaxed. She never knew the difference. She denied our past; thought they were for her, unable—or maybe unwilling—to admit the reality to herself. Afterall, life was good. Money hand over fist, a sexy man in her bed…all her high-school educated butt could envision. But, everything that glitters isn’t gold. Everything young eventually gets old. She had to face the truth: Our time was up.

             I made the call the next morning. Vegas? Movies? I’m gonna be a big star! What? You’re not going? Her face saddened then perked up at the prospect of whoredom disguised as stardom. I put on a pitiful face as she packed. Tried to hide my happiness as she sat in the taxi. Covered my laughter behind a well-placed hand as I waved at the retreating car.

             The young girl watched from the corner. Smiled and thrust her developing breasts outward. My pole throbbed as she leaned over and exposed her butt cheeks before, happily, dropping her bookbag to the concrete sidewalk, it’s contents splayed in the sunshine. I walked over slowly—a concerned adult saunter. We smiled. Hands brushed still developing calves as I replaced a notebook. Her nipples tightened. Mine followed suit. Her head dipped, hair brushed my thighs. My rod stiffened.

             She pushed the envelope towards me…I pulled it open that night.

Mississippi native, Sydney Molare, is the author of four novels, Somewhere In America, Changing Faces, Changing Places, Small Packages and Grandmama’s Mojo Still Working. A veterinarian by profession, writing has become her latest passion. For more information or to contact the author, please visit her site, www.sydneymolare.com, or email her at sydney@sydneymolare.com