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                 K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: chris.txt (Mf, ped, rom)
Authors name: Alasder (alasder@planet-save.com)
Story title : Christine Snedden

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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Christine Snedden 
by Alasder (alasder@planet-save.com)

***

A highly charged awakening to unusual pedophile 
tendencies in a university undergraduate. (Mf, ped, rom)

***

I was eighteen, just starting on my second year at 
university, when little Christine Snedden entered my 
life. It was a shock to the system, not just a figure 
of speech, I mean a real spine-tingling jolt. For this 
kid was only eight, and yet she was the most physically 
attractive, most sensually exquisite female I had ever 
set eyes on. 

She had the sculptured face of a Grecian goddess with 
eyes so deep and dark you could get lost in them, lips 
that curved in a cupid's bow designed for kissing or 
sucking, and genuinely blushing cheeks that each had a 
tiny dimple. She had a fashion model's body and legs 
that tapered from exquisite thighs to incredible delft-
like ankles. And more-than-shoulder-length chestnut 
hair that should have been on an adult famous movie 
star.

Believe me: I am an expert! From the time I entered 
high school until the end of my first year in John 
Hopkins I really believed that the sole purpose in life 
was to screw as many girls as was humanly possible, and 
the prettier the girl the more satisfaction I got from 
the screwing of it. Girls existed solely to fit on to 
the end of my cock!

At first, in junior high school, I was not too choosy; 
if they were available and willing I would have them. 
By the end of high school, I had acquired something of 
a reputation as a stud, but I had also developed a 
taste for female perfection and had set a standard that 
put the selection process of a kumari devi to shame. 
And the odd thing was: the higher the standard, the 
more regularly was I fucking. 

For, although I am saying it myself, I was in pretty 
good shape for a hunk; I was handsome and I knew it! I 
played major league school football, competed in the 
state and some national tennis and golf championships, 
did some boxing and martial arts and, on the whole, 
kept myself fit and trim. I was shaving regularly by 
the time I was thirteen and could muster nine inches of 
solid steel in an erection; and not once did I get any 
complaint from any of the girls - as a courtesy, after 
that first year in high school, I waited until she had 
an orgasm before I shot my semen into her.

But Christine Snedden was another matter altogether! To 
say that this kid was beautiful was like saying 
Michelangelo was good at drawing! She was out of this 
world, and I knew that if I had to take full possession 
of this desirable little property at the earliest 
(legal) opportunity I would have to make my move pretty 
soon because I knew instinctively that, if I didn't, I 
would lose her.

She approached me gingerly, a look of uncertainty on 
her face. "Hi!" she said. "I'm Christine! Christine 
Snedden. I live over there." 

She pointed to a neighboring piece of real estate that 
had sold less than a year before for more than two 
million dollars. If you require a mortgage to move into 
that kind of property you don't qualify for residency 
in our neighborhood. There is nothing within a radius 
of three miles that sells for less than two million 
dollars. We live in a restricted zone with permanent 
security guards and CCTV all over the place. 

The development is called Glencourse and has 
accommodation for about a hundred and fifty families. 
Apart from the security office at the entrance there is 
nothing but private dwellings; the nearest shopping 
facility is five miles away - an out-of-town 
hypermarket - and the nearest human settlement of any 
size is another five miles beyond that.

"You must be David," she said. "Your dad said I could 
use your pool any time." She had a towel draped over 
her shoulders. She pulled it away to trail on the 
ground. Already, although she was flat-chested, she had 
a full figure-eight shape with shallow waistline and 
rounded hips. "I love to swim. We don't have a pool!" 
She sighed.

I wanted to say, "Well, what do you expect for a mere 
two million bucks?" But the words would not form 
themselves. 

She looked defiant. "But mom says we are going to get 
one real soon." 

Instead I said, "I'll join you!"

I was wearing extremely abbreviated shorts. As I stood 
up, I became aware of my erection; it stuck out like 
the proverbial gun. The kid eyed it curiously, but the 
uncertain look evaporated from her face to be replaced 
by the faintest trace of the ghost of a smile. It 
clearly emphasised the love bow of her lips and 
illumined her entire face; she was radiant. I half 
expected some comment like, "Are you glad to see me or 
do you carry a gun in your shorts?" but I suppose she 
did not understand the line because she was 
unacquainted with it.

We swam and dived seriously for about fifteen minutes 
before we started fooling around, splashing water at 
each other, playing touch tag and catch-as-catch-can 
and that kind of stuff for another hour. It clouded 
over and threatened rain, so we left the pool. I 
deliberately led the kid towards our house to dry off 
and change. I had a stiff that amazed even me. In my 
bedroom I wrapped a turkish towel around my middle and 
removed my shorts and rubbed myself down with another. 
Christine had no inhibition. She stripped off her one 
piece and began to wipe herself with what was little 
more than a hand towel. I supplied something larger. 

The sight of her nakedness, the round buttocks and the 
hairless pubis showing a clear-cut cleft of curved pink 
cunt was driving me crazy; there was a turmoil inside 
my gut that I had never experienced before. My mind 
flew to a recent social psychology report which claimed 
that the average age for girls in USA to lose their 
virginity had plummeted in  recent years to thirteen. I 
seriously doubted if this kid would be able to keep it 
that long. I began to doubt if I had will-power enough 
to keep my hands away from her. We compromised.

"Wipe my back please," she said and offered me the 
towel.

I did as she asked, but I guess I don't know my own 
strength. With the slightest touch she jolted forward. 
I put a hand on her chest to support her as I dried her 
from shoulders to buttocks. It was incredible, but I 
could feel her nipples hardening at my touch. I had to 
look. I had never seen anything like it: there was no 
meat there, no indication of any swelling that could be 
called a tit by any stretch of the wildest imagination, 
but the tiny bud stood out prominently,  brightly pink 
from its golden aureole. I flicked a thumb over it and 
it stuck out even more. I returned my concentration to 
her backside, perfectly rounded. I wiped between the 
plump little cheeks.

"There you are," I said with a lot more assurance than 
I felt. "Dried to a hundred per cent perfection." I 
went to my wardrobe to retrieve a long t-shirt with the 
university insignia on it. "You can wear this," I said. 
"There would be no point in drying you if you were to 
put that wet suit on again." I laughed, and with the 
greatest effort of will, I could not hide the 
nervousness. "You can bring it back tomorrow!"

"Are you sending me away?" Those dangerous eyes 
searched my face. 

"Of course not!" I pulled on a thick bathrobe and tied 
it around my waist before I let the towel drop from my 
middle. The Mona Lisa smile played around her lips. 

She wriggled into the shirt. It reached down beyond her 
knees. For safety's sake I guided her from my bedroom. 
The heavy atmosphere was getting through to my libido. 
And with the least further provocation I knew I would 
throw her across the bed and fuck her.

"You can stay as long as you like, Christine. But I am 
not the best company and I would hate to bore you."

She gazed up at me. "You won't bore me, I promise!"

She allowed herself to be led into our sprawling 
drawing room. It was an automatic gesture: I switched 
on the television. There was an early afternoon soap 
comedy that had been repeated endlessly.

"Now that does bore me!" she declared with contempt.

I agreed. "It doesn't bear repeating too often, does 
it!" I threw the remote control at her as she eased 
herself on to our king-sized studio couch. "You pick a 
channel!"

She switched off the power. "I mean television," she 
said scornfully. "All of it is a turn-off." She threw 
the control back at me. "Can't we just talk?"

"Sure!" But I was not at all confident about my ability 
to sustain a conversation with an eight-year old Greek 
goddess. "Want a coke?" I turned to the kitchen to 
fetch myself a beer.

When I returned Christine was laid back in the couch. 
The shirt had ridden up her thighs and her knees were 
spread and the clear-cut groove of her pussy, pink, 
glistening and slightly ajar if not exactly open, was 
on view. She thanked me for the coke.

"My mom is the television freak," she said. "We have it 
all: terrestrial, cable, digital, satellite."

I intended to ask her about her school. Instead I 
asked, "Do you have a boyfriend?" And could have bitten 
off my tongue as I was asking. Christ! What an opener 
to a conversation with an eight year old female kid.

"Of course I do!" she exclaimed. There was a look of 
playful annoyance on her face. "Do you think I am some 
sort of geek or something?" 

"You are certainly no geek!"

"I have a regular boyfriend."

"At school?"

She looked contemptuous. "It's a girls' school." She 
bent her knees to place her feet on the couch. The 
shirt fell back. I had a private grandstand view of 
that perfect hairless little cunt hole." They shoot 
boys who come within a fifty miles of the place." I did 
not doubt it!

"You are an extremely attractive little girl." Christ 
alone knows where they were coming from. No little girl 
likes to be called a little girl; I knew that! Only a 
pervert would say such a thing. I was staring at the 
slightly swollen, pink, glistening little slit.

She ignored the remark, but the look of annoyance had 
lost its pretence. There was scarcely a pause between 
her former statement and saying, "He comes with his 
folks every Christmas to stay a few days with my mom, 
and he visits for a couple of weeks in the summer, and 
we often go on holiday together to Florida or 
California or Hawaii, and we visit them a couple of 
times in the year. His dad is a dental surgeon at the 
reception centre for the marines in New Mexico. His mom 
and mine were at school and college together."

This is no exaggeration: I could have looked at and 
listened to that kid all day. She had a voice and 
personality to match her perfect body. I have never 
wanted anything so much as I wanted Christine Snedden. 
I knew what I would be branded, but fucking this kid 
would be worth eight years in solitary.

"He's coming to visit for a few days next week."

My feet landed back on earth. "Who is?" I shifted my 
gaze to her face.

"Douglas Amies!"

I was lost. Should I know him? Was he a pop singer, 
television star? 

She saw my confusion. "My boyfriend! He says we are 
going to get engaged on my sixteenth birthday. The 
family are coming at the weekend and will probably be 
here for most of the week. Can I bring him over to swim 
in your pool?"

"Of course you can, Christine," I assured her, but I 
think she was aware of the absence of real enthusiasm. 
And that damned smile flitted across her lips. "I would 
like to meet him!" That was a lie; already I hated the 
spotty-faced, smart-assed little bastard. I wanted this 
Venus all to myself. And by the time she left that day, 
more than anything else, I wanted to french-kiss her 
everywhere.

It rained for the next two days. It was during the 
early evening of that second day, Saturday, that Julie 
Snedden appeared on the doorstep. Two things clicked 
into place. I recognized the body immediately although 
I had never seen her before in the flesh. 

"You're Julie Snedden," I said. "I've seen you on 
television!" She was a popular presenter on half a 
dozen different programs. I wondered why I hadn't made 
the connection before. It also explained where 
Christine got her looks. The mother was an older 
version of her daughter. The unmistakable enigmatic 
smile was there as a confirmation. She introduced 
herself. Shaking her hand had the sensation of holding 
a piece of high voltage conduit swathed in the softest 
velvet.

"I can't stay long," she said when I asked her in. 
Already I was making plans to lay this beauty, if not 
that very evening then before the summer was over. "I 
have guests just arrived."

"The Amies family?"

She laughed. It was like musical water splashing 
against resonant marble in the auditorium of a magical 
theater.

"Christine told me they were coming," I explained.

"You seem to have made a hit with Christine." She 
laughed again; it was the kind that is infectious 
because it is sincere.  "I can see Douglas having to 
make a determined effort to keep a good grip on her." 
She offered the parcel she carried. "Anyway, I came to 
return your shirt." The garment had been laundered and 
neatly pressed. She laid it on a table in the hall. She 
refused my offer of a drink. "I really have to get 
back. I just called to say that I appreciate letting 
Christine use the pool. I hope she doesn't make too 
much of a nuisance of herself."

I watched her retreat along the old-fashioned cobbled 
path between our houses. Even the way she walked, with 
swaying hips, was a duplicate of the kid's gait, only 
sexier! The telephone rang. I had to force myself away 
from the view to answer it. My cock led the way and a 
telephone conversation was the last thing I needed.

The rain lasted another two days. On Tuesday morning, 
in brilliant sunshine I sat on the veranda of our house 
reading a newspaper and having an occasional bite at a 
breakfast prepared by my mom. Dad had left for his 
consulting room in the city an hour before.

"Hi! David!" The voice came from ground level about ten 
feet away. I lowered the newspaper. The eight-year old 
waved a hand. "This is Douglas! I told you about him. 
Isn't he handsome!"

My heart missed a couple of beats. I expected a smug 
smile of self-appraisal from a spotty faced, spectacled 
ten year old. Douglas Amies swept all my preconceptions 
overboard. This boy was indeed handsome, but he carried 
it well; had I been unprejudiced I would have said he 
responded with modesty, for which I hated him even 
more.

"Hello, Mr. Goldman." Douglas Amies was getting to me, 
even in his polite greeting. "I'm glad to meet you!" He 
said it as though he really meant it. "Christine hasn't 
stopped talking about you since we arrived."

The boy was a natural for a film or television star! He 
had a smart, alert, clean face with eyes that matched 
Christine's. His hair was golden fleece and his 
physique could have matched the fabulous Jason himself. 
God! I hated him! He stood a full head and shoulders 
above Christine and I placed his age around twelve or 
thirteen. In my heart of hearts I had to concede it: 
they were perfectly matched. Then a salvo was fired 
inside me: perhaps the match was too perfect to have 
the one vital ingredient required in a real sexual 
relationship - endurance! Then another internal 
explosion: for the first time in my life I was aware of 
being sexually attracted to another male!

"Hi!" I said almost automatically. "Nice to see you, 
Douglas."

They were both dressed for the pool and the boy carried 
a beach bag and a couple of towels.

"Enjoy your swim," I said as congenially as I could. "I 
might join you in the pool a bit later." I waved a 
nonchalant hand. "I have some work to do first."

I finished my breakfast coffee, then retreated to my 
bedroom, which overlooks the swimming pool. I watched 
the pair through binoculars for almost an hour, 
concentrating on the girl before switching my attention 
to Douglas. Then it sliced through my brain: the more I 
studied his movements and his maneuvers the greater 
grew the conviction - the boy was gay! 

As a preparation for my second year at university, one 
of the texts I had been reading was 'The Psychodynamics 
of Homosexuality' by Trench, Murphy and Malachi. These 
three pundits had detailed no fewer than eighteen 
simple everyday actions that homosexually oriented 
males performed in a distinct way that marked them off 
from heterosexual or bisexual males. The indicators 
pertinent to a twelve or thirteen year old boy danced 
up and down and yelled 'here we are' in Douglas Amies 
as clearly as a carrot nose on a snowman. I realized 
shockingly that I had a hard-on. I returned my 
attention quickly to the girl. 

I gave up. I threw myself on my bed and started to jack 
off into the towel I had kept by my bed since drying 
Christine. My thoughts jazzed from the boy to the girl 
to her mother. It was something of an instant relief 
when they settled on the eight year old as I finally 
spurted into the towel. Then the internal tornado 
struck again. "Jesus Christ!" I said aloud. I sat up; a 
rising sickness churned in my lowest gut. "I am pedo!" 
The revelation was utterly nauseating. I tried to think 
of other kids I had come across, male and female. 
Nothing! Absolutely nothing! 

I thought about the girls I had fucked as a youngster 
in junior high. Again, nothing - as matter of fact, I 
started to wonder why the hell I had bothered with 
them. I moved into senior high and thought about the 
younger set there. The response was only marginally 
more positive and my thoughts seemed stuck in the 
sensation of my coming to a climax. It was bewildering. 
Then I thought about eight year old Christine Snedden  
standing naked right here in my bedroom, and the effect 
was immediate - a hard-on that would have more than 
satisfied any of my former conquests. And I shot off 
again - just thinking of the kid standing right there 
over against my bed.

Christine and Douglas came over on another couple of 
occasions, and ironically, I was genuinely busy and 
could not join in the fun at the pool. Then Julie and 
Christine were off for the rest of the summer to 
Acapulco, New Mexico and Florida. And before I was 
aware of what was happening to me, I was back at 
university and little Christine, as far as I knew, was 
back in her isolated private school for insulated 
pretty girls.

I was in for a couple of rude shocks. First shock came 
from my tutor in the form of a final warning: I had 
fallen back in my studies in my first year with results 
that were way below par, and if I did not show a 
positively inclined improvement and produced some 
decent grades, like straight alphas, I should not be 
too surprised to find myself out on my elbows or my 
ass. The second shock may have been related to the 
first, but I am convinced there were other underlying 
causes. I had lost my appetite for extra-mural sex. I 
dated a couple of freshers in the first couple of weeks 
back in harness, but could not quite make it! 
Literally, the flesh was up, but the spirit was no 
longer there. On each occasion, the immaculate visions 
of little Christine Snedden, her mother, and the Adonis 
Douglas Amies kept intruding. 

I began to wonder about my sexual orientation. I 
checked myself out against the homosexual scale already 
mentioned and gave myself a low score on that. I 
measured myself  against the tests provided by the 
Skellington-Wetherby profile for pedophiles and 
registered a rock-bottom zero, nought, zonk, nothing - 
none of their pictures aroused me, and the 'dirty' 
pictures left me cold and slightly nauseated. I had to 
conclude that Christine Snedden in my life was unique!

I sought refuge in my studies, and by the end of the 
first term of my second year, I had surprised everyone, 
especially myself and my tutor, by rising to the top in 
six of my seven subjects. 

I made it home for Christmas, but it was little more 
than a fleeting visit: I had the chance to do put in 
some clinical psychology practice in a state 
psychiatric hospital  in California, a chance too good 
to be missed, and an ego-booster, for it is only 
offered to those students who are likely to make it to 
the top as the cream of the profession, and it counted 
as brownie points in the faculty at John Hopkins. I 
made it home for a couple of days around the Easter 
break to play tennis in the state open tournament and 
got as far as the semi-final only to be beaten by the 
man who lifted the trophy. Consequently, it was summer 
before I could relax at home and sit in luxury on our 
veranda or swim in privacy in our pool.

It was d‚j… vu. On my fourth day home Christine Snedden 
turned up in her single piece swimming costume.

"Hi!" she called out. "Remember me?" She let the towel 
drop. "We haven't got our pool yet. Your dad said I 
could use yours for as long as I wanted. Would you like 
to come with me?"

I almost fell off the cane chair at the innuendo. I was 
wearing shorts. I found no difficulty in formulating my 
thoughts. I was still besotted with this perfect little 
angel. "I'd like nothing better, Christine!"

The feeling of it all happening before kept on 
happening. Even the play in the pool was a repetition 
of the previous year. She handled the bulge in my 
shorts several times and I held her up by the crotch 
before throwing her back in the water. After a couple 
of hours, I led her to my bedroom. She stripped off her 
one-piece. I took the towel from her and dried her 
front from her flat chest to her crotch.

I suggested she lie front down on my bed. She agreed. 
There was no way I could resist this. I wiped her back 
dry, then concentrated on the divine backside. I dabbed 
the towel between her cheeks and could feel her lift in 
response. I rubbed further round between her legs and 
again could feel a positive reaction.

"I'll just check that you are dry," I suggested and ran 
a hand over the soft skin of her back, over her 
buttocks and into the cleft of her pudenda. The 
sensation was one of pure delight the like of which I 
had never before experienced - and I must have felt up 
hundreds of girls. I deployed a finger, firstly into 
her back passage then along her slit until I found the 
opening to the tight little cunt hole. It was already 
moist and incredibly soft. I played for a couple of 
minutes before venturing in.

"I could easily go to sleep," she murmured, "with you 
doing that."

"You do that, sweetheart!" I found no difficulty 
slipping a middle finger in as far as the second 
knuckle. I felt her hymen. I let the fingertip press 
against the membrane for a few seconds. Her vaginal 
muscles were twitching and contracting, almost 
imperceptibly at first, then with more determination 
until her hips were lifting clear of the bed and 
falling with an erotic regularity. "Just tell me when 
you have had enough," I said.

"I want this to go on for ever," she mumbled. "It's 
lovely!"

Very softly I slipped my finger in and out in a regular 
rhythm. She became more and more moist until her juices 
began to run on to the palm of my hand. The smell 
coming from her was pure sex. Her buttocks rose and 
fell, at first slightly, then with a determination that 
amounted to desperation. Quite suddenly, she burst into 
a rampant  twisting and turning writhing, breathing 
loudly and rapidly, and moaning as if she were in pain. 

I have seen hundreds of chicks in orgasm, but nothing 
to equal this. Christine Snedden was flying high with 
the angels. Her wetness poured down on my bed. Her body 
was vibrating, quite literally, like a plucked violin 
string. And then it stopped. After a pause of several 
minutes she pulled away from my fingers and turned on 
to her back. She stared at me. There was wonder in her 
eyes, and a kind of mock accusation, and that accursed 
glint of Mona Lisa.

I stroked her face. I asked her if she was all right. 
She nodded a reassurance and swung from the bed. She 
asked if she could have another of my university 
sweatshirts. To keep! We retreated to our sprawling 
living room, listened to some music, talked a while - 
well, she talked, I was happy listening to her. Then 
she said she had to go. At the door she craned her neck 
and bent her face upwards for a kiss. And assured me 
that she would be back. For more!

End

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The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a 
fellow convict in their local prison.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 27