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Archive name: modern.txt (FFM, rom)
Authors name: Ximenes (ximenesgreek@yahoo.co.uk)
Story title : Modern Times

--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
--------------------------------------------------------

Modern Times
by Ximenes (ximenesgreek@yahoo.co.uk)

****

Well, things have certainly changed round here in 
Chesil. When I think back to 2003, I can't believe how 
we let ourselves be so put-upon back then. We had 
drunks and druggies making the town dangerous at 
weekends; we had litter and graffiti all over the 
place; we had young girls getting themselves pregnant, 
and then demanding council flats, in order to get away 
from their parents. But that was before People Power. 
(FFM, rom)

****

If you don't like the way the world is going, it 
sometimes helps to explore your nightmares in writing. 
Here's one of my nightmares, worked through. It's 
cathartic to write it down. This scenario couldn't 
really happen - could it?

I've also tried to write in such a way that my own 
gender as narrator could be either male or female. Do 
you think it's convincing in either gender? 
Constructive feedback welcomed!

Apologies to American readers - like all my stuff it's 
very much set in rural England where I live. Some words 
and terms may be unfamiliar. 

Well, things have certainly changed round here in 
Chesil. When I think back to 2003, I can't believe how 
we let ourselves be so put-upon back then. We had 
drunks and druggies making the town dangerous at 
weekends; we had litter and graffiti all over the 
place; we had young girls getting themselves pregnant, 
and then demanding council flats, in order to get away 
from their parents.

But that was before People Power. Back in 2003 I was a 
newly appointed Social Worker. I couldn't move for this 
pressure group and that legal restraint - you had the 
feeling that everything was lining up on the side of 
the social inadequates who made the town unsafe to live 
in. The bearded, sandal-wearing, muesli-eating 
Guardianista liberals were in full cry, and the rights 
of repeat offenders were put above those of the People 
as a whole.

Not any more. When Bush, God Bless Him, got in for his 
third term and Tony Blair was no more than a distant 
nightmare, there was an impetus on both sides of the 
Atlantic to sort things out so that we could all live 
safely. Here in Chesil, England, we started up a "Town 
Watch" organisation. We weren't police and didn't have 
their powers; we were a sort of "Guardian Angels" 
outfit. 

We patrolled the streets at night to begin with, armed 
with staves. But we found we had to be more assertive 
if we were going to have any effect. Each time we 
intervened - removing drink from kids; searching known 
druggies for stuff - we'd have the lawyers onto us like 
a ton of bricks. But each time we found that popular 
support in the town was so overwhelming that nobody 
would convict us. 

Whatever the law said, we were doing what people 
wanted. And the outcry in our favour grew so large that 
even the politicians in London couldn't ignore us. And 
it grew from there. We'd go into pubs and check ages of 
drinkers. We'd put a 10.30 curfew on the under 16s and 
take them home if they broke it. 

This sort of thing was happening spontaneously across 
all England, and in the U S too. If we'd just been a 
local aberration in Chesil we'd have been smashed flat 
by the system. But the politicians had to respond to 
what the public demanded, and we were in the vanguard 
of reform. Wow, try that for a power buzz!

Nowadays "Liberal" is as obsolete as "Communist". 
People Power rules, and each local community sets its 
own by-laws and enforces them. The police are 
answerable to us first, and the difference between the 
Police and the Town Watch has become blurred as so many 
of the local police want to join us.

My role in this new reality? I've landed a plumb job 
because of my Social Services background. In Chesil we 
run a ten bed hostel for wayward girls, aged anywhere 
between about 8 and 18. They include runaways, and 
girls who have come up before the magistrates for 
drunkenness, rowdyism, drugs, truancy, sex offences. 
The hostel is always full. 

My job is to ensure these girls are reformed before 
they are allowed back into society. Their parents have 
no say in the matter - they were officially designated 
as "failed parents" by the courts, and have lost most 
rights over their children.

Let me give you a couple of examples; show you how well 
the system works!

TASHA

Tasha is just sixteen. She is a big, very strong girl 
with a vicious temper. (We used to dignify it with the 
title "anger management problem", but that led her to 
think it was a medical condition and therefore that she 
wasn't responsible for her actions. Now, she knows she 
is just a bad tempered girl and is punished if she 
causes offence).

Tasha used to get into fights in school and at weekends 
in town. The Town Watch logged her outbursts, and 
eventually she beat up another girl so badly she was 
taken to Court. The magistrates decided that she was a 
risk to others, and that her parents had failed to 
bring her up acceptably - they were "failed parents". 
Tasha was sent to the Chesil hostel, indefinitely, for 
correction.

Tasha's sentence is open-ended - she won't be released 
until we - I - feel she is reformed. She has to 
maintain a three month period with no vicious outbursts 
(the idea being that within a three month period she 
would be bound to be provoked several times, and must 
show that she doesn't respond with violence).

Tasha has found this very hard. For the first few weeks 
there were violent outbursts several times a day. Food 
was thrown all round the place, furniture smashed, 
staff and other clients attacked. (In these cases we 
used isolation in darkness to show society's 
disapproval, and after a fortnight Tasha began to 
modify her behaviour. Few need that long in isolation).

The psychologist worked with her, and she had intensive 
coaching in her schoolwork (Tasha is a low achiever, 
and under another condition of her sentence she can't 
be released until she has reached minimum educational 
levels in English, Maths, Science and ICT). She'll 
never reach the national average level in any of these, 
but she's reached a stage where she's functionally 
literate and numerate. That's good enough for the 
Chesil beaks.

Tasha is going to be ready for release soon. That's 
where the best perk of my job comes in. The one to 
compensate for all the abuse and violence at the start 
of the process. Because with our older girls, those 
above sixteen, we operate a sort of mini "finishing 
school" at the hostel. The girl moves into a small 
flat, separate from the main hostel but within its 
grounds. Under my supervision she does all her own 
cooking, laundry, and cleans the flat. This teaches her 
self-sufficiency. Trips out with me to the supermarket 
and the Job Centre or F E College follow, as we get 
Tasha re-oriented to the outside world. 

If all goes well she gets a telly and video player in 
the flat, and the use of a phone. (She doesn't know we 
intercept and check every call she makes, but you can't 
be too careful these days). She is entitled to day-
visits to her parents, but in Tasha's case decides not 
to use them. Contact with her parents has dropped away 
since she went into the hostel (unfortunately this is 
only too often the case). 

I take Tasha to the hairdresser, and then we go clothes 
shopping. This never fails to ignite the clients - 
buying nice clothes means they can at last feel their 
release is imminent. At mid-day we eat at a smart 
restaurant, and I teach Tasha the protocols of eating 
out. We celebrate with a couple of drinks - matching 
wines with the food etc. Nothing to excess, you 
understand.

As we drive home Tasha is on cloud nine. She feels 
grown up, ready to go back into the world. She feels a 
million miles away from the desperate, antisocial 
little thug who came to us at fourteen. And she is 
different - she has grown up.

Now we are in the flat, and it's late at night. Tasha 
can ask me to leave, and if she wants me to, then I 
shall. Or she can ask me to stay and spend the night 
with her. If she does, then my brief is to teach her 
how to make love, tenderly and gently. Don't be 
surprised by this. 

Loving and tender relationships haven't exactly 
featured large in Tasha life, certainly not in the past 
few years. She needs to be shown how to relate to 
people with love and trust. Because the regime at the 
hostel is absolutely consistent, she has learnt to 
trust it, and (by extension) to trust us as the people 
who make it work. I won't do anything to her unless she 
is willing to try it. 

On that particular night Tasha asked me to leave. She 
was genuinely tired, and a bit overwhelmed by being out 
in the world, which must have seemed much busier and 
more bustling then she remembered. But now it's a 
couple of nights later, and she has invited me round to 
the flat for a meal, and perhaps more.

She has dressed in her new clothes, and looks radiant. 
Proud, grown up, confident. I can't believe it's the 
same foul-mouthed guttersnipe we took in and nearly 
despaired of.

She is wearing her hair up in a chignon; her make up is 
a bit on the enthusiastic side but the colours are 
right. Her dress - the little black number all women 
should have - is strapless, and shows off her broad 
shoulders and wide chest to perfection. The swell of 
her breasts is enticing, and she shows just enough 
cleavage to indicate what treasure lies below the 
simple black fabric. The dress comes down to just above 
her knees, and her calves are shapely. Her little black 
shoes are discreet, with just enough heel to give a 
sense of occasion without being tarty. But it's her 
smile which is the biggest change. This girl knows she 
looks good; she knows the power she has with her body, 
and she is enjoying showing it off to me. So I respond 
with a kiss on her cheek and complement her.

But a peck on the cheek isn't enough for Tasha tonight; 
she pulls me towards her and I get a full-on kiss on 
the lips. A generous, open hearted kiss which is 
hinting of more to come later in the evening.

We aren't alone in the flat. She has invited one of the 
other older girls and one of my co-workers as well. The 
two girls have cooked most of the day, and are starving 
hungry with the sight and smell of so much food!

We sit and eat and make conversation and I marvel at 
how effective the hostel seems to be at transforming 
these wayward children. The meal is indifferent, as it 
would be with most sixteen year olds cooking it. The 
wine isn't chilled enough; some food is overdone and 
some could have done with a bit longer. Some has gone 
cold; some looks a bit tired, but it's the thought that 
matters and there's no doubt these two girls have 
pulled out all the stops to make us feel welcome and 
entertain us. So we praise them and compliment them and 
acknowledge all their effort.

Eventually the other girl and my co-worker leave; the 
girl isn't quite ready for the flat yet and her turn 
will come when Tasha has left the hostel and has 
settled into the real world. Tasha and I are left with 
our glasses of port, on the sofa together, with our 
shoes kicked off and my jacket on a chairback. We're 
warm, fed, cosy, at ease with each other.

There's nothing much on telly - we use it as background 
noise. I put my arm round Tasha's shoulder and she 
snuggles up to me, the front of her dress tenting out 
and showing a truly daring cleavage. She sees that I 
have noticed this, and blushes. I kiss her and tell her 
not to worry, that she looks wonderful. Somehow the 
kiss lingers, on and on, with pauses for breath. And 
soon we are tonguing each other in earnest and I am 
aroused and she is willing and we're deep into lust.

"Shall we... Would you like to..." I'm unnerved by her 
intense stare into my eyes.

"S'pose so," she replies.

That's too non-committal for me to be sure.

"Tasha, we don't have to; I'll leave if..."

The look of disappointment that flashes across her face 
answers my question for me.

"Come on, then"

I scoop her up in my arms and carry her into the 
bedroom. She shrieks and struggles, but in play, not in 
anger. I put her gently down on her bed but as I move 
back to straighten up she flicks her arms round my neck 
and pulls me back down to her mouth. The kiss lasts for 
ever, and after that we both know there's no going 
back.

Tasha has no finesse. Her idea of foreplay is to drop 
her top, pull her tits out and wave them under my face 
and say "come and get them".

So I have to teach her to tease as she undresses. The 
gradual exposure of more and more enticing flesh as 
each strap or zip or hook is undone. The huge sexiness 
of her treasures almost revealed but not quite. The 
time when you know in your mind's eye what she will 
look like naked, but you can't wait for her to finish 
the tease and confirm your expectations.

I help Tasha slide her dress off (mustn't damage it; 
it's the only party frock she'll have for a long time). 
The tiny underwired bra follows (it didn't cover up 
much when it was fully on; now it's like a little strap 
over her nipples). Tasha stands in front of me naked 
from the waist up. Her breasts are very white. Not as 
high or as firm as I like, but they'll do. The veins 
are prominent, and there are several small birthmarks 
which give each breast a geography all of its own. 
Perfectly normal, warm, living breasts, just waiting to 
be held, loved, explored. There are also a couple of 
scars and a fading bruise, legacies from the past 
months at the hostel.

But Tasha is nervous, like any girl when she first 
bares herself to a lover. She's terrified of rejection. 
It's a dangerous moment, and I know it. Fear of 
rejection could easily rekindle her temper. Everything 
could go wrong in a split second. So I pull her to me 
and kiss each breast, above, at the sides, below. I 
home in on the nipple, kissing, pulling with my lips, 
sucking. I tell Tasha she's gorgeous, and she relaxes 
into me. I suddenly feel overdressed and shed clothes 
onto the floor. Then we're skin to skin and she 
reciprocates on me.

We flick off the light, throw off our remaining clothes 
and tumble onto and into the bed. Tasha is all over me 
and I can't get enough of her. She is desperate for 
close contact and needs cuddling. She's desperate for 
sex and to prove to herself that she can still do it. 
She isn't a virgin, but she hasn't had sex for nearly 
two years and it shows.

In the darkness under the duvet I climb on board her 
and go down to explore her vagina. But she's too wound 
up; she won't take anything slowly and she grinds and 
mashes her pubes into my face, writhing and crying out 
until she comes hard and wetly. The scent of musk is 
overpowering.

I lock her legs open with mine, and pleasure her 
soaking sex with my fingers. Probing, rolling, stroking 
her clit with my thumb, I bring her back to the boil 
again, and she cries out as she thrashes in the bed. 
The duvet is on the floor but we don't need it to cover 
us up now. We're both totally open to each other. She 
wraps her legs around me and pulls me tightly into her 
so that our pubes meet hair to hair. 

We kiss frantically and I knead her breasts and twirl 
the stiff nipples between my fingers until she comes a 
third time. She lifts her hips off the bed and thrusts 
herself into me as deeply as she can. She wants me to 
squeeze her breasts until they hurt, but I won't, and 
she wants to bite me but I won't let her, because I 
need her to experience love without violence.

After she has come a third time, calling out nameless 
words as her body stiffens and finally relaxes, she 
calms, and we lie side by side, facing each other, 
panting, smiling.

We pull the duvet back around us and she snuggles into 
my arms like a small child. She is spent for now, and 
we must sleep. In the morning we'll shower so that 
we're spotlessly clean. Then I'll teach her to go down 
on me and teach her how to use lips and teeth and 
tongue to pleasure me again and again.

Over the next few days we'll sleep together every 
night, and I'll make love to her from all the positions 
I can think of, and use every orifice. 

Then, and only then, I'll consider Tasha ready for 
release. The flat she'll move into is one of ours, a 
sort of half-way house she'll occupy for a few months 
until we need it for the next client. 

There are hidden cameras in some rooms, and if she uses 
the place as a drugs den or knocking shop we'll know, 
and she'll be taken into the adult prison system. (And, 
believe you me, that is somewhere which nobody should 
ever set foot in). She wants to be a hairdresser and we 
have a trusted salon where she can start her 
apprenticeship.

But I think Tasha's a survivor. If she follows the 
usual pattern she'll pay us a visit one day, probably 
with partner on her arm and his bulge in her belly, but 
a steady job and at least a chance in life ahead of 
her. You see, People Power has rescued Tasha from a 
spiralling circle of violence, incarceration, 
hopelessness. Back in 2003 she'd have sunk; now she's 
afloat and in full sail.

CHERYL

Cheryl is the girl who helped Tasha cook the dinner. 
She's fifteen; will be sixteen in a couple of months. 
She came to us as a mousy, quiet, withdrawn little 
thing who spent her days trying to make herself 
invisible to others, especially to the male staff.

We're trained to spot the signs. To us, she might as 
well have worn a big placard saying "abused child" 
round her neck. 'Cos Cheryl has had a wretched three 
years before she came to us. Her parents divorced and 
she went to live with Mum and Mum's new boyfriend. But 
when she was about twelve and started developing, step 
dad took too keen an interest in tucking her in at 
night. 

Cheryl didn't know what to do and didn't want to mess 
things up between her Mum and step dad so she let 
things continue. But, of course, things progressed 
until Cheryl realised that her step dad getting into 
bed with her to "read her a story", and hiking her 
nightie up to her armpits while he read it, was about 
to move on to things she didn't feel ready for. So she 
told Mum.

Mum didn't know how to cope; didn't want to lose her 
partner, and blamed Cheryl for leading her step dad on. 
Cheryl was confused, frightened, rejected. Knew she was 
innocent of any provocation but felt to blame for the 
frostiness in her parent's relationship. Cheryl got 
packed off to her natural father and his new partner, 
but neither of them wanted her, and their new baby was 
getting all the attention. Whatever Cheryl did was 
wrong. Nobody wanted her. 

She sliced her wrists one evening, got taken to 
hospital, seen by psychologists, social workers, 
police. Didn't get the love and attention and 
reassurance she so desperately needed. Got packed off 
to an uncle, who felt her up on the car ride to his 
house and had taught her how to do blow jobs within a 
week. So she ran away. To Chesil, which she remembered 
as one of the last places where the old family had been 
really happy while on holiday. 

But it was Chesil in December. The tourists had gone; 
the town was grey, cold, wet, depressing. Cheryl knew 
no-one, had nowhere to stay, and only the few pounds 
she'd stolen from home before leaving.

Town Watch found her sleeping in a doorway; she'd sold 
her virginity to a man coming out of a pub, and for the 
price of a fish and chip supper and hot drink. The 
following morning she was committed to the hostel until 
she reached sixteen, reached minimum educational 
standards, and had a permanent job to go to. It's a sad 
story and one too often told.

Cheryl is a tiny girl with an elfin face under short, 
blonde hair. She is slightly built, with her curves 
only now beginning to fill out. She is wiry and tough, 
though, and can take on girls much bigger than she is. 
I've never discovered what led Cheryl and Tasha to 
become friends, but they did. Anyone giving grief to 
Cheryl soon discovered they had Tasha to answer to, and 
Cheryl's world inside the hostel became safe and calm.

Relations with our staff were another matter 
altogether. I can remember watching her cringe whenever 
a female colleague came within arm's length of her, and 
I wondered how many times her mother and step mother 
had hit her. With men she just blanked out; I wondered 
if she was waiting to feel the groping hand on breast 
or down below, the suggestive comment or the put down 
on her boyish, undeveloped body.

It took months to get to a stage where she trusted 
people. We restricted the staff dealing with her to the 
minimum. We reacted kindly to whatever she did - Cheryl 
had her own set of rules within the hostel (which I 
must say cause ructions with several of the other girls 
who thought she was getting more favourable treatment 
than themselves). But slowly it began to work. 

She started to smile. Her school work came on in leaps 
and bounds - I now think she's one of the brightest 
youngsters we've ever had in the hostel. She'd been 
held back by the constant tension and nightmare of 
wondering what was going to happen to her when she got 
home that evening. And no child can do their best in 
school under those conditions.

She's a brilliant artist; she designs our Christmas 
cards. She did the arty stuff for our website. In the 
last few weeks she's been working on a commission from 
Chesil Town Council to design the programme for our 
Royal Oak Day celebrations (for you Americans, Royal 
Oak day is when we celebrate cutting all ties with the 
European Community back a while in 2008). When she 
leaves the hostel I'm pretty sure I'll be able to get 
her an apprenticeship in a graphic design and computer 
art workshop in the town.

She's got a wicked sense of humour, too. She can mimic 
people's mannerisms and accents. It's helped her out of 
tricky situations in the past - humour deflects rage - 
but has also got her into scrapes with those she's 
lampooned.

Cheryl's going to have no problems with work when she 
leaves the hostel. She can look after herself and can 
relate well to people her own age, and (most of the 
time) to adult women. She can't quite handle 
confrontation yet with adult women, but she's getting 
there.

No, it's relationships with men which will always be 
difficult for her. On a day-to-day basis she copes 
well. It's when she wants to get intimate that her 
demons will come back to haunt her. It's not her fault; 
it's the fault of the men who have abused her in the 
past, and it's ironic that Cheryl is under a legal 
restraint and they go Scot free. She's not even sure 
whether she's lesbian and isn't attracted by men, or 
whether she's hetero but can't trust men.

So how do we get her to build up intimate relations? 
Slowly, with many setbacks.

Cheryl knows I have slept with Tasha, and that the sex 
has been good for both of us. I've encouraged Tasha to 
talk about good sex to Cheryl, and I know she has 
because Cheryl has started talking to me. We've talked 
about essential but non threatening things - 
contraception, sexually transmitted diseases. She 
started by sitting opposite me, like teacher and pupil. 
Now she'll sit next to me on a sofa; we talk while the 
telly blathers on and on.

Cheryl asks me what "proper" sex is like. We've been 
watching a programme about sexual health on the box, 
and it's raised all sorts of questions she wants 
answered. She's leant up against me on the sofa, and 
without thinking, I put my arm round her as I start to 
answer. I've done it before I realise what I'm doing. 
She tenses, but doesn't move away. My arm is around her 
shoulder. I ask her if she's happy with my arm round 
her. She nods.

I talk about love, and sex as wanting to give yourself 
to your partner rather than take something from your 
partner. I talk about foreplay, and we get deep into 
conversation about erogenous zones and the importance 
of touching and cuddling and skin to skin contact. 
She's listening intently. She wants to ask me exactly 
what I do to Tasha and what it feels like for me, but 
she can't find the words to ask and I'm not sure I want 
to tell her - there are some things she'll eventually 
want to find out for herself.

The conversation falters. I break the spell by saying 
"come on, Cheryl, it's time for bed". She gets to her 
feet and as I go to leave the room she gives me a peck 
on the cheek - the tiniest little kiss but oh what a 
breakthrough is in that kiss. I pull her to me and give 
her the briefest kiss back, on her cheek, and give her 
a hug. I break the hold immediately, and go. But a bond 
has been made in that kiss and we never, ever, revert 
back to the days of hate and suspicion and distrust 
after that night.

Every few days, after the little ones have gone 
(complaining, cursing, foul-mouthing) off to bed, 
Cheryl comes and sits with me. It's always the same 
routine. Telly on, packet of biscuits, mugs of drinking 
chocolate, her little body curled up against mine, 
while we talk. About holidays, favourite food, people 
in the news, things she's learnt or done. She confides 
her secret fears in me. She masturbates - will it harm 
her? She doesn't have any contact with boys - will they 
think she's a freak or monster when she leaves the 
hostel? Will someone like her and fall in love with 
her? And how does one know when it's real love?

Like all teenagers she's paranoid about her body. Is 
she too small to be attractive? Too thin? Too fat? Are 
her breasts too small to attract a boy? One's quite a 
lot bigger than the other - will boys reject her for 
that? 

It's all very normal and innocent. My arm is round her 
shoulders, or waist. If I move my arm away, to put a 
cup down or adjust the TV remote, she moves herself to 
let me put it back again. She's not just tolerating my 
arm, she's enjoying it. And every evening ends with a 
little kiss, a joke. We even have a cushion fight on 
the sofa if I make fun of some character in a soap who 
she fancies.

And then Tasha goes and Cheryl feels unsettled. She's 
lost her best mate in the hostel. She's begging us to 
let her go into the flat; we're not all sure she's that 
ready for release yet. It's not just me she's at ease 
with; she's relating normally to pretty well all my 
colleagues now, but we have our doubts about whether 
she'll be able to cope with strangers once she's 
outside.

So Cheryl takes the initiative. Not, I think, in a 
coldly calculating way, but she certainly makes the 
pace. She's changed her dress style, from being very 
covered up to wearing little halter tops with woolly 
jumpers which she discards in the evenings. Suddenly 
there's a lot of bare skin around, and we all comment 
on how her shape is coming on nicely. She's petite, 
cute, and intelligent.

One night I notice she's dispensed with bra somewhen 
during the day, and snuggled into me on the sofa she's 
suddenly visible right down to her nipples. I know that 
she is aware that I have seen them. I make some silly 
comment like "better be careful, Cheryl, or you'll 
inflame my bestial passions". 

She laughs and says something like "well it's about 
time I got somebody inflamed or nothing's ever going to 
happen for me". I make a reply about her still being a 
few weeks short of sixteen and she'll get me into 
trouble. She snorts. "Who's going to complain about 
you?" she says. And she takes my hand, from the arm 
around her waist, and puts it up underneath her halter 
so my hand is resting on her breast.

I'm so surprised, I'm not sure what to do. The rules 
say I'm not allowed sexual contact with any girl under 
sixteen. But to pull away would be to reject a girl 
who's trying to show that she's re-learned how to 
trust. She'd be devastated. So I leave my hand where it 
is and begin to caress the soft flesh. So small, it 
fits comfortably into the palm of my hand, yet firm, 
and the nipple is rock hard. 

I can hear her breathing change as she becomes excited, 
and I realise I'm getting more aroused than I've been 
for a long time. Cheryl wants me to demonstrate the 
foreplay and arousal games I've told her about. I set 
to work, and I see her hand go to her legs under her 
skirt and pleasure herself while I work on her breasts. 
She comes quickly, closing her eyes and leaning all her 
weight against me.

After, she kisses me mouth to mouth, and I can sense 
there's a real, adult sexual need in this young girl.

Let's move on a month or so. We move Cheryl into the 
flat. In a couple of days it's tidier than it's ever 
been, and her bedroom has been repainted in shades of 
lavender and pink. I go over to see her on the third 
evening. She's fretful that I haven't been earlier and 
doesn't want to hear my excuses. It dawns on me that 
she thinks I've rejected her. I reassure her. Soon it's 
back to old times and we're on the sofa again. The only 
light is from a very dim table lamp in a corner. 

There's a creepy, crummy show on telly about vampires 
and she thinks it's more atmospheric to have the lights 
low. Again, I note that she's bra-less and has a 
buttoned top over her jeans. She's leaning back into 
me; my hand is on her stomach, on her bare midriff. 
Every minute or so I note another button on her blouse 
has come undone. Aha! I think, I know your game, 
Cheryl. 

I wait and see what'll happen. Eventually all the 
buttons are open, and light from the TV gleams against 
the white skin of her chest and breasts. She looks at 
me, enquiringly, longingly. I know I've lost control. I 
move my hand up to explore the exposed treasures as she 
lifts her head to kiss me again and again.

She puts her hand on my thigh and turns into me, and as 
I change position to hold her she moves her hand up my 
thigh, between my thighs, and explores my groin. She 
pulls at the zip of my jeans and undoes it enough to 
get her hand in. And while I'm still enjoying her 
delicious breasts she is inside my knickers, probing, 
making love to me.

I ease my clothes down and off, and gently do the same 
with hers. Cheryl is now wearing only the blouse, 
unbuttoned and hanging at her side. She wrenches my top 
clothes off so forcefully I hear something rip, and 
then she's on top of me on the sofa. She's between my 
legs, bending over forwards and playing with me and her 
breasts are firm cones descending from her chest in 
front of me. 

We roam all over each other's bodies and at last get to 
know their geography by touch. She's as unlike Tasha as 
possible. Cheryl is petite, compact, fine boned. She's 
in perfect physical shape and amazingly flexible - 
something I left behind years and years ago, round 
about the second Gulf War in '03.

The film ends on T V and we go to bed. Again, Cheryl's 
very different from Tasha in bed. Not the fiery 
passion, the mate or die of her friend. Cheryl wants to 
"do it right" and it almost becomes a practical sex 
lesson. But it's clear she's remembered all the things 
we've discussed during the evenings. She's generous 
with her body and wants to pleasure me as much as I 
want her. We make love again and again during the 
night. She comes easily and quietly. My lips and tongue 
on her clit will bring her off in seconds; penetration 
takes longer but the orgasm lasts longer.

By morning I'm wrecked, soaked in perspiration, and my 
tongue feels swollen. I stagger to the shower, dress in 
last night's clothes and hurry off to get changed 
before I log on for the day. Later, I monitor Cheryl's 
phone tape. The first call she makes is to tell Tasha 
that she's had me and that it was great. She's giving 
Tash a blow-by-blow account until Tash cuts her short. 

I can tell Tasha's jealous and a chill shivers through 
me as I wonder if the older girl's going to lose her 
temper. But it passes, and Tash recognises the 
excitement in Cheryl's voice as she goes on to describe 
the changes she's made to the flat and how she's 
enjoying the perks of semi-independence. Good old 
Tasha, she says all the right things. Cheryl's on cloud 
nine.

In the afternoon I have a tricky interview with my 
Inspector. I tell her what's happened between Cheryl 
and myself and can expect to be suspended and 
disciplined. But she accepts my reasons, because Cheryl 
is only a few weeks off sixteen, and gives me a green 
light to carry on if the situation recurs.

And it does. Over the next couple of months I sleep 
with Cheryl, in the flat, two or three times a week. 
She's loving and affectionate; she wants to explore all 
about lovemaking. We do it two or three times a night. 
But it's always her call, and I let her take the lead 
in what we do. She's still reluctant to go down on me, 
and I'm not sure whether that's a legacy from past 
experience or simply that she doesn't particularly 
enjoy it. But with a bit of persuading she'll go down, 
and she does it well. 

It never fails to bring me off big time, and she revels 
in having the power to keep me hanging on the edge of 
orgasm until she decides to make me come. That's never 
been allowed her in the past. I love her body. I've 
never been with someone so petite, and it's sort of 
shocking to have a lover who feels almost child sized, 
but has an adult woman's body. It feels wicked, 
somehow, and that makes it all the sexier.

Time moves on again. We start Cheryl on a couple of 
days a week working at a graphic designer workshop in 
Chesil. She's on three month's trial. She goes down a 
storm and is taken on full time, indefinitely. Then she 
goes out with one of their younger girls and they 
become close friends. She still wants me to come round 
some evenings. We chat; she asks my opinion of things 
they've done and things Jan's said to her. She thinks 
she's more attracted to women than men, and asks me if 
I think she's lesbian, and is it OK if she is? 

I tell her I think she's probably bi-, but after her 
previous experiences with men it might not be a bad 
thing for her to have a sexual relationship with 
another woman while she adjusts to life outside the 
hostel. She doesn't sleep with me so often and I can 
tell she's trying to make up her mind whether to move 
in with this girl (we know her parents; her father's in 
the Town Watch and the girl's sound). 

I'm invited overnight for what turns out to be the 
final time before she leaves us (we've sorted out 
accommodation; Tasha is still in the usual flat but we 
don't think Cheryl is at risk of drugs and we know the 
girl so we agree to take a chance on her moving in with 
Jan). Cheryl makes love to me but I know that in her 
mind she's making love to her. 

She's very definite about how she wants to be loved. I 
have to start with her little breasts and work on them 
for ages until she's soaking with arousal. Then she has 
me go down on her; my tongue brings her off in seconds, 
after which we start a long, slow fucking. When she 
comes again she always wants to be held tight and 
reassured. I hope Jan, her new friend, is sensitive and 
gentle to her. She's become a wonderful young woman and 
could make her very happy.

On the day she leaves us, receiving her release papers 
and some money to set her up, she's just like Tasha was 
- crackling with excitement and the anticipation of 
going away on a big adventure.

---------

You see, you've sometimes got to be tough to be kind, 
but it does work most of the time. The whining liberals 
of 2003 would foam at the mouth if they could see some 
of the things I do with these girls, but our success 
rate legitimises us. Funnily enough, you'd think that 
half of Chesil would be queuing up to do my job, but 
they're not. They'd enjoy the perks, but they don't 
want the responsibility. Well, as the saying goes, it's 
a tough job but someone's got to do it. I wouldn't give 
it up for anything. 

END

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It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
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Kristen's collection - Directory 26