Evelyn peeked out through the curtains on the big bay window in her parlor. It was a beautiful summer morning. The sun was shining brightly from a brilliant blue sky.
The drive at the side of the house was worn down to bare earth in the tire tracks, but between those tracks, there was a thriving, humped-up strip of healthy green grass.
The woman watched Mr. Bellows amble up the drive and ignore the stone walkway leading to the wide wooden steps on the large front veranda, heading instead down the side of the house toward the back door.
On that fateful day 14 months earlier, before leaving to board the train that would take him to the Pacific Theater Army Processing Center in San Francisco — Evelyn hated to remind herself of that day — Harold had taken an entire hour to remind her of each of the things she would need to take care of in his absence, consulting a meticulous list he’d written out, which was now pinned purposefully to the wall next to the pantry door in the kitchen.
Mr. Bellows, the black man making his way around her house, featured prominently on that list.
“I’ve spoken to him at length,” Harold had explained. “He’s a good man. You’re to get in touch with him if you need help with anything.”
Mr. Bellows was a handyman in the purest sense of that term. And unlike Evelyn, he was a very good driver, so it was only through this kind, elderly black man, that the woman had any use for the 1939 Plymouth P8 Deluxe Coupe that for the most part stayed cooped up in the double-door shed at the side of her house.
Mr. Bellows regularly drove Evelyn to and from her job at the Woolworth’s store, and every Friday afternoon, as arranged, he would come by, start up the Coupe and drive down to the general store on Main Street with Mrs. Johnson in the back seat so Evelyn could replenish her food and house supplies.
And it was on those Friday afternoons that Mr. Bellows checked the car battery and the oil, and kicked the tires to be sure the car was properly maintained and kept in running condition.
But today was Wednesday morning, not Friday afternoon. And Mrs. Johnson would not be joining him in the Plymouth. She was sending him to pick someone up at an address across town.
Mr. Bellows committed the address to memory without making eye contact with the woman. He’d never learned to read.
Evelyn was nervous as she watched the big car back out of the drive and head off down the street. He wouldn’t be gone long — 20 to 25 minutes perhaps.
She straightened her skirt and looked around the room, trying to calm herself.
She’d woken early that morning, nervous, anticipating, uncertain what to wear. She’d chosen something simple — a very nice, cotton, short-sleeve blouse with buttons down the front, and a modest and plain skirt that fell to just below her knees.
Beneath that modest exterior, Mrs. Johnson had chosen more daring attire, pulling those pretty things out from the bottom of her underclothes drawer that had lain hidden there for the past fourteen months, those lacy things that she’d worn to please her husband.
She actually felt a pang of guilt as she put them on, slowly, delicately, as if she was carefully wrapping a very special gift for a close friend, tucking her lovely breasts into the lacy brassiere, seeing how it barely contained them, connecting the tops of her silky stockings to the straps of her garter belt, and finally, pulling those skimpy bloomers on.
She gasped nervously as she surveyed her sexy image in the full-length mirror on the back of the door to their bedroom. The black lingerie looked so bold on her. She looked positively wicked.
Harold loved her like this — intense, brazen, shameless.
She knew she would be there, like this, for her husband when he came home. She would love him. She would cherish him. She’d be everything he wanted.
But right now, on this day, she needed this for herself. She needed to look good. She needed to feel good. For the first time in fourteen months, she was going to let her sexuality out of its cage.
She’d been a bundle of nerves since Saturday, alternating between intense physical longing and a deep dread, a fear that she was about to do something that might go completely wrong for her. She wanted it so much. It was almost a physical ache. It scared her.
Evelyn was a virgin when she married Harold of course, but sexual feelings had come to her early in life. She’d felt an uncomfortable enthusiasm for those games she played so willingly with other children — those ubiquitous show-me games.
The memory of a delicate scent tickled her as she stood there in the parlor of her big house. That scent triggered a memory of another time and place.
It had been so long since she’d thought of it, years, many years in fact.
It was a warm summer day and she was hidden away in a hot and stuffy backyard woodshed, playing one of those games with another girl. There was a palpable nervous intensity in that shed. There were no giggling boys this time, just the two of them — two girls, playing a very naughty game.
It was Evelyn who pushed the game further than usual, not just pulling her bloomers down to give her friend a quick show, but taking them right off, extending the play.
There was something exceptionally wicked and exciting about doing that with another girl, sitting up on the wood pile, leaning back, lifting her dress, spreading her legs wide, letting the girl see her like that, even reaching down and pulling her lips apart so the girl could look between them, showing her everything.
And then her young friend returned the favor.
That ancient, childhood memory came back to her now like it was yesterday, being there in the shed, looking at the soft folds of her friend’s immature little cunt, seeing it naked, the shape of it — so much like her own, but different too. It seemed puffier, and the little bump between her lips was bigger and sticking right out.
Without even thinking, she had leaned closer for a better look. It was then that the scent had come to her, a sweet-sour girlish scent.
Something clicked inside the woman, stirred by that sweet memory, an uncomfortable association that resonated within her… understanding. She squeezed her thighs together unconsciously. Everything about this made her nervous.
Throughout her teenage years Evelyn had been a proper girl, dutifully saving herself for the man she would marry.
And when marriage came at nineteen, Evelyn was finally able to embrace her sexuality. She quickly came to love sex. It became a very fulfilling part of her young adult life, having a lover, coming together regularly and often to share uninhibited intimacy and urgency, taking care of each other.
But all of that was gone now.
She had every intention of being a good wife for Harold and waiting patiently for his return from the war. And in the mean time, she thought she’d been quite successful in locking up her adult sexual passions, her desires, her feminine needs. She had very deliberately folded them all up and placed them carefully in a big wooden chest, packing them away for safe-keeping, like precious possessions that she would not be needing for a very long time.
But someone had found that chest and opened it, rummaging through the contents, and now Evelyn Johnson was standing in her parlor, filled with sexual passion and urgency, consumed by it, like fourteen months of unfulfilled need had suddenly overwhelmed her all at once.
She was fully aroused. Her adult cunt was warm and moist, and humming softly to her, conspiring against her better judgment, sensing imminent release, anticipating a workout.
Evelyn shook her head, trying clear it. She was still struggling with the lewd and frightening reality of what she was about to do.
It might have been understandable to anyone, even the most pious of people, that a healthy young woman like Evelyn, left all alone, might have needs, desires, passions that might make her think about straying, and imagine seeking release from a source other than the most current version of her now-stale fantasies of her absent husband.
Although an unfaithful act would be completely inexcusable, any reasonable person might easily say, ‘Yes, I can see how she might be tempted.’
And after so many months, tempted she was.
In fact, it had progressed well beyond temptation at this point.
The deal was actually sealed. Before this day was done, 28-year-old Evelyn Johnson was going to be unfaithful to her dear husband. He was away fighting in the war, and she was going to cheat on him. She was going to fall purposefully and willingly into an illicit, physical encounter with a stranger, someone she had just met, someone who was coming to visit her. She had planned the whole thing. She was going to have sex with another person.
But it wasn’t the milkman, or the baker, or the man next door, or her priest, or her husband’s brother who was coming to visit her that day. In fact it wasn’t the need to be penetrated deep and hard that had driven her to extract her lacy under things from hibernation and put them on. It wasn’t the want of love from a big strong handsome man that had fired up her sexual passions and lured the 28-year-old into infidelity.
It was something completely different, something out-of-the-ordinary, something soft and cuddly. It was a cute little bundle of girlish femininity.
Evelyn had just sent her driver to pick up a pretty little nine-year-old who she’d spent some time with in the change room at the Woolworth’s store the previous Saturday.
Something happened to Evelyn in the change room that day. A very naughty and wicked little fire began to burn inside her as she stripped that little girl nearly naked and helped her try on a dress. Being alone with that pretty little girl, taking her clothes off… it felt good, it felt very good. It felt better than she’d felt in a very long time, and she wanted more.
When Evelyn came out of the change room, she gave the little girl’s aunt some money in exchange for having the youngster come to her house one day a week, to help her with the cleaning and chores.
Evelyn’s adult cunt purred softly, whispering sexy things to her.
She had plans for that little girl, and contrary to what her aunt might believe, none of those plans involved housework.
She had nervously mapped the whole thing out like a master criminal planning the perfect caper, leaving nothing to chance.
She was certain she knew how to approach the girl. She was going to move slowly and cautiously. She was going to give young Rebecca the comforting gift of adult attention and approval, and genuine friendship. She was going to offer the girl that special kind of unconditional, parental-style love. She was going to make friends with that poor, lonely little waif. She was going to pull the girl to her bosom, and cuddle her, and hug her, and kiss her in a very motherly way.
And then, when the time was right, once the girl’s guard was down, Evelyn was going to gently offer the nine-year-old a very different kind of love, a warm, grown-up, feminine kind of love.
Those motherly hugs and kisses were going to become measurably more intimate. She was going to let her slender adult fingers take very deliberate and increasingly sexual liberties with the girl, finding the chinks in her thin armor, sneaking under her clothes, touching her, inching closer and closer to those tender, private places, flirting with her, flattering her, whispering soft words of encouragement, calming her, caressing her, molesting her, seducing her.
It was almost unthinkable. It was like she’d fallen asleep one day, and woken up in another world.
Evelyn was a happily married woman. She had never before imagined being unfaithful to her husband. And yet here she was…she had just issued instructions to her driver, her handyman, telling him to go and fetch a pretty little girl, and bring her back to the house… for sexual purposes.
And the things she was planning to do to that child… well, let’s just say that Evelyn had no intention of limiting herself to a few nervous hugs and discreet little touches.
She was going to take her time, but Evelyn was an extremely motivated adult woman. And she was in an elevated state of sexual arousal. She was in heat and she was determined that she was not going to be denied her delicious little prize that day. Everything was going to go according to plan.
Her instincts had taken over. This had become a predator-prey situation in its purest form. She was going to be on that little nine-year-old like a hungry lioness on a defenseless lamb. She was going to lure that unsuspecting little girl into her lair, coax her gently out of her clothes, and then devour her — slowly, intimately, sexually.
After fourteen months of complete sexual denial, Evelyn was consumed by a powerful hunger. She needed to feed, and there was only one thing on the menu — a sweet, immature little girl, with a completely hairless, tasty little cunt between her legs.
Whatever else happened, and whatever the consequences later, Evelyn Johnson had made a solemn promise to herself — before the day was done, she was going to put her adult tongue in that little girl.
It was pretty much all she had thought or dreamed about since Saturday. It was more than a fantasy. It was a consuming passion. The woman was driven by a lewd, lascivious and absolutely irresistible desire to make love to the nine-year-old girl that she’d stripped nearly naked in the change room at the Woolworths store where she worked four days earlier.
She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to control her intense arousal. It was intoxicating. She had to consciously force herself to calm down and take her time. She didn’t want to rape the girl.
Evelyn crossed the room, her eyes unconsciously drifting, looking for anything that might distract her and clear her dark thoughts.
She stopped to look at a very familiar spot on the wall. It was cutout of a poem that had been hung in a very decorative, carved wooded frame. It was a bit of an heirloom, but not one that was worth any money really. It had come to her from her grandmother.
There was a prominent bold heading across the top, with an eight-line poem underneath. It read:
Harper’s Weekly, September 17th, 1887
Monday’s child is fair of face
Tuesday’s child is full of grace
Wednesday’s child is loving and giving
Thursday’s child works hard for a living
Friday’s child is full of woe
Saturday’s child has far to go
But the child that is born on Sabbath-day
Is bonny and happy and wise and gay
Her eyes lazily scanned each line, and then drifted back up.
Evelyn’s adult cunt flushed as she let herself twist the third line of the poem into a lewd thought. ‘Wednesday’s Child…hmmm, would she be loving? Would she be giving?’
Evelyn was certain that she would.
The woman’s heart leaped when she heard the squeak of the Plymouth’s springs, as her car bumped up over the small, dirt hump at the end of the drive. She sailed quickly across the floor to the front window and peered out through the curtains, watching the big car come to a stop near the stone path up along the front of the house.
Evelyn stepped quickly to the front door and opened it. She stood there holding the screen door open as Mr. Bellows stepped out of the car and walked around to let the girl out of the passenger side.
The woman watched expectantly, hopefully, as the girl stepped tentatively around the front of the car, looking nervously up at the big house.
There was a moment of hesitation when their eyes met, then recognition.
Evelyn felt a flush of warmth sweep over her as the girl smiled and quickened her step, bounding up the stone path to the front veranda, leaving Mr. Bellows alone by the Plymouth.
“I’ll just leave the car here then ma’am, and I’ll be back at four to bring missy home?” the man said.
It wasn’t really a question, though it was worded like one. He was simply confirming the arrangement and the woman’s expectations of him.
“Yes, thank you Mr. Bellows,” Evelyn said.
The girl was stepping lightly up onto the veranda as Evelyn watched the black man amble down her drive, walking away from the house.
She glanced quickly around at the other houses, unconsciously checking for nosy neighbors. No one seemed be taking notice of the girl’s arrival.
Their eyes met once more as the girl arrived at her door.
“Hello, Rebecca,” Evelyn said sweetly, almost overwhelmed and completely disarmed by the charming beauty of the little angel on her doorstep.
There was something different, like a shiny newness in the girl, that made her look even prettier than Evelyn remembered.
“Come in, c-come in,” Evelyn stammered, opening the door wide.
The woman very nearly swooned as the pretty little lamb stepped willingly into her lair. Evelyn paused to take a deep breath as she turned to close her front door. The metallic slap of the deadbolt lock falling into place seemed ominous and final.
It was almost too good to be true. She had the entire day to make it happen. She had a pretty little girl all alone with her in her home…an innocent, juicy little peach that was ripe for plucking.
Evelyn closed her eyes and forced her lurid fantasies into remission, driving those lewd thoughts from her mind, composing herself before turning to face the child.
“My goodness,” she blurted clumsily. “You look absolutely lovely today, Rebecca.”
The girl grinned and blushed.
She looked so different from their first meeting, four days earlier on the floor of the Woolworths store downtown. She had seemed so unkempt, so waif-like that day, with her unkempt hair and her unwashed look — like a beautiful but tarnished piece of silver.
But today, her natural beauty was shining through. She looked fresh and clean, lovingly groomed. Her hair was pulled into ponytails and tied with red ribbons on each side of her head. Her high-trimmed bangs highlighted the charmingly girlish look of her lovely face.
And the dress was nice — not new, of course, and perhaps even a hand-me-down, but lovely nonetheless. It was a typical girl’s summer dress, a short-sleeved, pale green button-back thing that flared out in a wide skirt that hung to just above her knees.
And those little knees were naked, inviting the woman to imagine those equally naked, soft girlish thighs hidden under the material of that summer dress.
Rebecca’s tall white knee socks were tucked into a pair of scuffed-up canvas sneakers that had probably been white at one time, but could now only be described as dirty grey.
“Here, let’s take these shoes off,” Evelyn said, kneeling in front of the girl, tugging at the laces on her sneakers.
The woman had a very defendable reason to remove the girl’s shoes. She truly did not want Rebecca traipsing around her house, or walking on her Persian rug, wearing a pair of dirty sneakers. But, as she removed the girl’s shoes and turned to place them on the mat by the door, the reality of that moment was not lost on Evelyn. She was intimately conscious of the fact that these little shoes were only the start.
The woman’s eyes browsed up the girl’s body, hesitating momentarily at a spot just below her waist. The pale green dress hung loosely on her, disappointingly hiding all evidence of shape or form underneath, but she paused anyway, letting herself anticipate the inevitable unveiling of Rebecca’s undergarments, allowing herself to imagine the shape, the color and the texture of the pretty little bloomers the girl had chosen to put on that day, allowing herself to imagine what it was going to be like to take them off her.
Their eyes met. The girl looked so expectant, so compliant. But there was a hint of vulnerability and nervous uncertainty there as well.
Evelyn smiled, reassuring the girl. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said warmly, rising to her feet, taking Rebecca’s hand in hers. “We’re going to have so much fun today.”
Evelyn led Rebecca into her parlor and sat down on the big, high-back sofa, leaving the girl standing in front of her, still holding onto her hand.
The woman actually twitched, feeling a nervous ticklish sensation flicker its way across her adult cunt as she looked at the charming little nine-year-old standing in front of her.
Evelyn responded instinctively to a momentary impulse, and moved prematurely, parting her knees, inviting Rebecca to step between them, wrapping her arms around the girl, giving her an innocent little hug, hoping that she hadn’t erred by moving too quickly.
“Oh honey, I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m so glad you came today,” she whispered softly, urgently, confessing her desire, apologizing for it.
Evelyn bit her lower lip and closed her eyes, disappearing into a wonderfully warm sensation as she felt the little girl’s arms wrap around her, and hug her back.
“Mmnnngh,” Evelyn sighed softly, turning her head to nuzzle the girl’s neck, pressing her adult lips onto soft naked skin, kissing her, breathing in a very pleasant, clean scent.
“Mmmm, you even smell irresistible!” Evelyn blurted.
“Um, I had a bath last night,” the girl replied clumsily, as if an explanation was required.
Evelyn pulled back a little and looked into Rebecca’s face. “Oh, did you?” she asked.
The girl nodded. “Aunt Millie didn’t want me to, ’cause I usually have a bath on Saturday,” she explained. “But I cried, and then Uncle Ted said I could have a bath if I wanted one.”
It was Evelyn’s turn to blush. “Oh, really,” she said, smiling warmly at the girl.
The woman had been completely disarmed. Here she had been thinking, and planning, and scheming of the ways she was going to take advantage of this defenseless little girl, and seduce her, and molest her, and use her sexually.
Was it possible that this little girl’s understanding of what was going to happen to her that day was that sophisticated? Could she possibly have sensed how intimate her contact with the adult woman was going to be, to the extent that she was willing to risk a confrontation with her aunt so that she might be able to bathe, and prepare herself for that intimacy?
“And who did your hair this morning?” Evelyn asked.
“I did,” the girl replied, blushing lightly.
“Because you were coming to see me?” Evelyn asked.
The girl’s blush deepened as she nodded her reply.
“Well, it looks beautiful,” Evelyn said. “You look beautiful. And I’m so flattered that you that you did this for me. But I’m curious, what did your aunty think about you looking so nice this morning?”
“Well, she looked at me kind of funny,” Rebecca answered. “And she asked me why I was all dolled up.”
“And what did you say?” the woman asked, remembering the momentary suspicion on Rebecca’s aunt’s face at the Woolworths store on Saturday, when Evelyn came out of the change room with the girl.
Rebecca shrugged.
“Sweetheart, this is very important,” she cautioned the girl. “Remember what I said to you on Saturday. We can have a lot of fun together. We can be special friends for each other, but it has to be our secret. We can’t let your aunt find out. Do you understand?”
The girl nodded.
“Tell you what,” Evelyn said, pulling the girl into another hug. “We can fix this. You can tell your Aunt Millie that I gave you an apron to wear today, so you wouldn’t get your dress dirty. And I’ll send a note back with the driver telling her that you shouldn’t dress so nice when coming to work here. Okay?”
“Okay,” the girl responded.
“And next time, don’t ask to take a bath the night before,” Evelyn continued. “You can have a bath when you get here, if you want.”
The woman almost added… ‘we can have one together’… but cautioned herself against such an intimate reference so early in the game.
“I just have to remember to turn the hot water on before you come,” she added.
The girl pulled back a bit from their embrace. “You can turn hot water on?” she asked quizzically.
Evelyn smiled. “Yes,” she explained. “We have an electric tank that heats the water when we turn it on.”
“Oh,” the girl replied. “My Uncle Ted has to heat up the water on the cook stove out in the summer kitchen.”
Evelyn smiled. She was absolutely struck by the beauty and naivety of this young girl, so soft, so innocent, such a lovely face, such wondrous eyes, such a pretty little mouth.
“I am so glad you came to see me today,” the woman whispered softly, reaching brush a couple of strands of hair off her cheek, watching the girl blush and lower her eyes shyly. “You are so pretty…like a lovely little princess.”
She could sense a little bit of nervousness in the girl’s body, but no serious anxiety, no tension, no fear.
Evelyn leaned forward and touched her lips to Rebecca’s forehead. The girl murmured softly, but made no attempt to pull away.
Evelyn kissed her forehead again, and then inched downward, kissing the tip of her nose, making the girl blush.
Things were happening far too quickly. The girl had just stepped into her house moments before, and Evelyn was already entering the danger zone.
This wasn’t how she’d planned it. This was supposed to be a slow seduction. But she couldn’t stop herself, she wanted this little girl, she wanted to hold her, she wanted to hug her, she wanted to touch her, she wanted to kiss that pretty little mouth.
The woman’s heart was thumping nervously in her chest as she discarded any thoughts of caution and gave in to her immediate desire, making her move on the girl, right then and there.
Evelyn Johnson murmured softly, closed her eyes, tilted her head slightly to one side, and boldly grazed her adult lips down onto the nine-year-old girl’s sexy little mouth — pursing them lightly, kissing her, giving her a series of tender little love-pecks.
And these were not innocent, motherly kisses. These were urgent, insistent, tenderly-placed lover’s kisses.
Her plan was out the window. The woman had no idea where she was going next. She was acting on impulse alone, seizing the moment, reveling in it, feeling her adult cunt flush with warmth as she gently planted a series of tender little kisses on Rebecca’s lips.
And as it happened, she did not have to make the next move. The girl made it for her, murmuring softly, snuggling in closer, slipping her slender arms further around Evelyn’s back, offering the woman a nervous, responsive hug.
It was an extremely subtle gesture, almost unnoticeable… a little murmur of contentment, a timid, girlish attempt at an embrace.
But for the sexually charged woman, it was a signal, a message, received loud and clear. The girl was responding to her. She was receptive. She was willing.
The nine-year-old might not completely understand the significance of those intimate signals, but in effect, Rebecca had just given a grown woman permission to sexually molest her. She might as well have whispered that consent directly in Evelyn’s ear…’It’s okay. You can have me if you want. I’ll be a good girl for you.’
Evelyn moaned softly and pressed her adult lips directly onto the nine-year-old’s mouth, initiating a long, sensuous, closed-mouth, lip-rubbing kiss, moving gently, holding it, making it last.
The girl squirmed tentatively and snuggled even closer, letting the kiss happen.
There was no pretending now.
Evelyn Johnson, a sexually mature 28-year-old, married woman, was all alone in her parlor with a pretty nine-year-old girl. She was sitting on the edge of her sofa with that little girl between her knees. She had her wrapped in a lover’s embrace and was kissing her passionately on the mouth.
No one could possibly have mistaken what was happening in that room for anything even remotely described as innocent.
And there was absolutely no resistance in the girl. Evelyn was in heaven. Her adult cunt was buzzing softly, flushing, lubricating, anticipating a workout with the youngster.
She slipped her lips off the girl’s mouth, tracing a line of tender kisses across her cheek to her ear, taking a moment to catch her breath, whispering softly.
“Mmmm, I want you Rebecca,” the woman confessed in a gaspy whisper. “I want to take care of you. I want to love you.”
The woman moved her knees instinctively, spreading them wider, making more room for the girl between them, coaxing her into an even closer embrace, letting the nine-year-old’s body push the hem of her skirt right up into her lap.
The result was immediate and electric.
The woman’s body jerked excitedly as one of the girl’s soft thighs pressed up against the very center of her adult sexuality.
Evelyn flinched nervously as she felt her body respond, switching to auto-pilot, pressing back, her pelvis twitching, moving instinctively, rubbing from side to side.
It was brazen. It was bold. It was unforgivable. She was rubbing her adult cunt up against a nine-year-old girl’s thigh.
Evelyn felt the girl’s body tremble lightly at that extremely intimate contact and then melt, relaxing completely, submissively, giving in to the woman’s bold sexual aggression.
The cat was out of the bag, and so were Evelyn’s hands, moving, flirting downward, touching the girl, feeling her.
“Oh, fuck, I want you so much,” the woman gasped as she cupped Rebecca’s girlish bum in her hands and gently squeezed those cute little cheeks through the thin material of her little summer dress.
She pulled back looking into the girl’s lovely face, seeing confusion and nervousness, but not a hint of fear. The girl’s lips were parted. She was breathing deeply. Her eyes were half-closed.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Evelyn whispered. “I shouldn’t use bad words in front of you.”
She hesitated. The girl looked so innocent, so submissive, so willing.
“It’s just that I can’t help myself, I want you so much.” Evelyn added, leaning down to touch her open lips on the girl’s, letting their warm breath mix.
“I want you so fucking much,” Evelyn whispered, using the word again.
She needed the girl to understand the grownup, sexual nature of the things they were doing, the things they were going to do, and oddly, using that word seemed an appropriate way to do that. It was something intimate, something very naughty that she could share with the girl.
It is important to remember that Evelyn Johnson was not a vulgar woman. She was a proper lady. She never swore, not even in anger. The only time that word ever rolled off her tongue was in the privacy of her bedroom, in the heat of passion, when she whispered that intimate obscenity and others to her husband, conspiring with him in the animal intensity of their sexual arousal.
And now she was using that word with a little girl, for the exact same purpose — for intimacy, and to engage the girl in a secret sexual conspiracy. She was using the word ‘fuck’ to teach a nine-year-old girl about sexual intimacy, to help her understand it.
But she was also holding back.
If the Evelyn had actually been speaking the completeness of her mind in that moment, confessing all of her intimate desires to the girl, then in fairness, she should have added the following:
“I want to lick that pretty little cunt of yours. I want to tongue-fuck you, sweetheart.”
Because that is exactly what the wickedly horny, sexually deprived woman was thinking as the fingers of her right hand slipped down the back of the girl’s legs, flirting their way past the hem of her little dress, finding soft, naked, girlish skin, touching it.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” she whispered softly, letting her breath slip between the girl’s open lips, following that breath with the bold tip of her adult tongue.
Rebecca squirmed in the woman’s arms. It all felt so strange, so wicked, and it was happening so quickly.
She knew that funny things were going to happen during her visit with the lady she met at the Woolworths store. She knew the lady wanted to do things with her, things that grown-ups aren’t supposed to do with little girls.
She should have said no. She should have told her Aunt Millie that she didn’t want to work for this lady. And if her aunt insisted, she could have pretended she was sick that day, or she could have told her aunt and uncle that the lady had kissed her and touched her inappropriately that day in the change room.
But nine-year-old Rebecca didn’t do any of those things.
Instead, she talked her uncle into letting her have a bath the night before. And that morning she chose a pretty dress to wear, and fixed her hair up in ponytails with two bright red ribbons.
She knew what the lady wanted from her, and it was a little scary because she’d never done anything like this before. She’d been warned about grown-ups who like to do things with little girls.
But she liked this lady, and she’d made a decision. She’d decided to ignore those warnings.
She didn’t know all of the things that were going to happen to her that day. She had absolutely no sexual experience at all.
And several times over the last four days, when she allowed herself to imagine what might happen in the woman’s home, Rebecca had pictured herself standing in a big room, not unlike the room she was in at the moment. She saw herself just standing there frozen, helpless, embarrassed, unable to move, as the woman slowly and methodically removed her clothes, all of them, unwrapping all of her girlish secrets, stripping her as naked as the day she was born, leaving her defenseless and completely available for whatever it was that those grown-ups like to do to little girls.
So there was absolutely no doubt.
The little girl knew what she was getting herself into when she walked into the woman’s home. She knew that at some point during her visit, she was going to be stripped naked and sexually molested by Mrs. Johnson, and no one was going to come to her rescue.
It made her incredibly nervous and a little scared to think about being bare naked with the lady, and doing naughty things with her, and keeping it secret from her aunt and uncle.
But strangely, it also made her feel flattered and special, and mischievous and tingly in an excited sort of way, knowing that the pretty lady wanted her, had chosen her.
So in a general sense, she may have known what she was getting herself into, but nothing in her young life had prepared her for what she was experiencing at that moment. Her body was trembling, her mind was racing, and her fingers were clenching nervously as she struggled with the alien sensation of having an adult woman’s tongue pushed into her open mouth, circling around, playing with hers, exploring.
And the sound and feel of the woman’s heavy breath and her soft whimpers were oddly familiar. It reminded her of those strange sounds that she sometimes heard coming from her aunt and uncle’s bedroom late at night — nervous, anxious, sexual sounds, sounds that made her feel funny between her legs as she lay there under her blankets.
“Mmmmnth.”
It was the girl’s turn to whimper as the slender fingers of the woman’s right hand slipped up under the back of her dress, up onto the material of her bloomers, touching her bum, feeling it, gently squeezing her cheeks, feeling her up, molesting her.
There was not even a hint of resistance in the girl. There was no effort to protest or retreat from the intimate touch of the woman’s hand.
Evelyn’s left hand joined in, working quickly, hiking up Rebecca’s dress in front, draping it over the material of her own skirt in her lap.
For the woman, it was like the temperature in the room had just gone up several degrees. Down there between her legs, she could now feel the soft naked skin of the girl’s thighs brushing over the tops of her stockings, and above that, touching her own naked skin, and above that, making contact with the warm crotch of her sexy black bloomers.
Evelyn’s pelvis squirmed delightfully, celebrating the intimacy of that contact, brazenly rubbing her adult cunt up against Rebecca’s naked leg.
They were at the threshold.
Continue on to Part Three
