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Archive name: oddone.txt (MMg, ped)
Authors name: Alasder (alasder@planet-save.com)
Story title : Odd One Out

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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2003.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Odd One Out (MMg, ped)
by Alasder (alasder@planet-save.com)

***

A young girl growing up in a large All-American family 
makes the best use of her situation.

***

This all happened a long time ago - long before the 
famous White House blowjob.

I was the odd-one-out in our large family. It had 
always been the same for as far back as I could 
remember, whether it was sleeping arrangements, or 
scrounging second servings at the frequent barbecue 
garden parties, holiday accommodation in Europe or 
taking part in the allegedly 'organized' games my 
parents 'organized' for the kids in the immediate 
neighborhood. 

With the best will in the world there is a limit to the 
number who can sit around an average family dinner 
table at any one time, and as the youngest of the brood 
and as a baby, I sat, at first in a high chair then on 
a stool, away from the general assembly of eaters. 

This continued until I was a teenager: the rest (or 
most) of the family sat around the table while I often 
ate from a tray on my knees. We had a porch annex stuck 
on to our dining room where there was once a huge bow 
window. When we had guests, which was at least three or 
four times each month, generally at weekends.

 I was relegated to this annex with the next youngest 
brothers and sisters. The alternative was to eat in 
relays, and that in or neck of the woods was considered 
socially unacceptable. 

There were thirteen in the family, including my 
parents, two grandmothers and a grandfather who 
actually owned the property, and great grandma. I was 
last to arrive on the scene, born on June thirteenth, 
when there were already twelve in the house - including 
my two brothers and four sisters; 'Unlucky Thirteenth' 
they dubbed me. Even after great grandma died! When I 
was thirteen! 

Until I left the house altogether and set up on my own, 
there was a constant stream of visitors, and in all the 
arrangements to feed, sleep and entertain them, I was 
the odd-one-out. Always! No one gave me more than a 
passing thought, and a second thought about my comfort 
or convenience would have been unthinkable. It was as 
nearly true as it is possible to get: I was as nearly 
totally inconsequential as it is possible to get in a 
human being and a member of a family!

I was eight when it finally penetrated my slow-motion 
brain that there could be decided advantages in my 
peculiar situation, for I passed unnoticed most of the 
time, and could get away with petty crimes in the order 
of plundering the biscuit barrel or driving the latest 
acquisition in automobiles around the ranch, which the 
others, at best, could only have dreamed of achieving, 
and at worst would have received a hiding. 

There were days on end when I was too busy doing what 
eight year old girls considered important to turn up 
for meals or for bath and bedtime, and no-one seemed to 
notice. I actually slept over at old Zek's place, in 
old Zek's bed, with old Zek cuddling my nakedness close 
to his, for two nights without anyone missing me.

It was also when I was eight that I first found myself, 
as the odd one out in the family, sharing a bed with a 
distinguished guest, a politician who was most 
definitely presidential material. I was already in bed 
when he joined me in my room. 

I was sitting up looking at, if not exactly reading 
True Romance trash. The great man stripped, had a 
shower, and got into bed naked beside me. All males are 
pretty much of a muchness to an eight-year-old girl, 
and I had no standard for comparison or scale of 
quality. He was younger than Zek and ever so slightly 
better hung, and older than either of my big brothers 
but not so hunky. He was, I have to admit, fairly 
handsome in a slick sort of way.

"What's this you're reading?" He snatched the paper 
from my grasp, hardly glanced at it before throwing it 
aside, and declared, "You don't want to look at that 
rubbish at your age." He patted down the bed sheets as 
he sat up beside me. "What you want is a good old 
fashioned bedtime story. Like Little Red Riding Hood." 

When I made a face indicating disgust and contempt, he 
said, "Don't knock it, kid, until you've heard it!" He 
looked around at an imaginary audience. "Don't knock 
it, kid," he repeated with emphasis, "until you've 
heard it from the mouth of a master!"

The man was a natural storyteller, born or tailor-made 
for politics. I must have had the Little Red Riding 
Hood story rubbed into me like embrocating nearly a 
hundred times, hammered into me at school, screamed at 
me from comic books and frisbeed at me from the 
television screen, and I thought I knew every possible 
variation. But this was a wow! It made me breathless 
with suspense; it was the first time that I had 
actually lived inside a story as the plot unfolded. It 
was a bewildering sensation.

"That was the most wonderful thing I have ever heard." 
I had to say it, and coming from an eight year old, 
that is a real compliment.

"You reckon it is worth a kiss?"

I nodded. "YES! But tell me another story!"

"Not tonight, kiddo!" He nestled down into the sheets. 
"You have school tomorrow. Maybe, if you are really 
good, and kiss really well tonight, tomorrow night I'll 
tell you the true story of the Sleeping Beauty." He 
pulled me over to him. "Now, for that kiss, and it had 
better be good, or tomorrow I'll be sleeping with one 
of your sisters!"

"Not if I can help it," I thought. Old Zek had shown me 
how to French kiss. I was a fast learner and put my 
knowledge to good use. I fell asleep in the arms of the 
great man. The last thing I was conscious of was of my 
nightgown being hanked up to my waist and a huge cock 
being wedged between my thighs close to my pussy. 

I thought nothing about it: grandpa and especially my 
big brothers did the same thing whenever I found that I 
had to share a bed with them. And old Zek did something 
like it every time I went over to his place. 
Crystallised semen on my skirts, my night attire or 
beneath me on the sheet was not worth mentioning even 
in the passing; it was simply something that happened 
when I had a male bed companion. Only old Zek ever 
bothered to clean me up after he had shot off.

When the great man returned late the following night, 
again I was already bedded. I was reading a Wonder 
Woman comic which was instantly removed as soon as he 
climbed into bed. I did not mind in the least. There 
was little preamble other than a brief kiss on the 
cheek. He rubbed my chest inside my pj's.

"Once upon a time in the land we call Germany today, 
there lived a rich merchant..."

I reckoned that the kiss on the previous night had been 
up to standard. 

"When I say rich, I don't mean that he had a few 
million dollars in the bank. I mean R-I-C-H, with 
serious money and the kind of real estate you need to 
amputate an arm and a leg just to view."

I was carried away on a flashing, piebald mare, to 
amazing adventures in dazzling places with beautiful 
maidens and grotesque monsters and the most handsome 
princes who put our film and television stars in the 
shade. Blood poured in bucketsful as heads and limbs 
were chopped off, princesses were bewitched by hideous 
hags and seduced by wolves in scarlet tights, monarchs 
were usurped, and stable boys were revealed as the true 
heirs to the greatest kingdoms.

It was well past midnight when we finally returned to 
earth. There was a long, lingering, wet tonguing kiss. 
No words were spoken after that final 'Goodnight!" 
Fingers played with my backside and my pussy. I was 
aware of the moisture generated in my secret places. 
And again as I passed into sleep, I felt my nightdress 
hauled up, and a huge, hard piece of male meat getting 
lodged between my thighs, and of his throbbing beat 
against my middle. 

Before the great man left on Friday morning as I set 
off for the local junior grade school, he fastened a 
heart-shaped pendant around my neck. It had my initial 
engraved on the front and his photograph inside. Right 
there, in front of the family, he kissed me and said we 
would have another story next time he came to visit. He 
even ordered his female chauffeur to drive me to the 
school gates. As I said, there were definite advantages 
in being odd-one-out.

It was three months before I saw the great man again, a 
few days before my ninth birthday. It was a flying 
visit; he could not even stay the night and he could 
not be there for my birthday party, but he left a 
bundle of presents including the sexiest panties the 
weirdest mind could have dreamed up, an absolutely 
transparent shortie nightgown with intertwined hearts 
embroidered on it and a book of 'Illustrated Realistic 
Fairy Tales' that still had the $70 sticker on the dust 
cover.

The party itself was a bore - all kids, stupid games, a 
conjurer-ventriloquist-clown who was zapped out of his 
mind with whiskey and who insisted on kissing all the 
little girls and groping under their skirts when there 
were no adults around, and presents I wouldn't even 
piss on to give my worst enemy. 

The big treat of the evening was supposed to be that we 
all sat at the enormous dinner table and devoured 
genuine 100% all-American beef burgers, hot dogs and 
giant ice cream sundaes served up in buckets. Big deal! 
I couldn't wait to get away to show old Zek my new 
knickers! I knew I wouldn't be wearing them for long 
after he got his eyeful!

I had been jacking off old Zek since I was six or 
seven. My big brothers showed me how to do it properly 
and gave me a dollar each time I did it to them. I had 
a couple of hundred dollars in the school banking 
scheme by the time I was eight. I jacked off Old Zek 
for free because he was the one person in the entire 
world who did not regard me as an odd-one-out, but as 
an equal human being and because I was sure I was in 
love with him. 

When I pulled up my party dress, Old Zek was rocking 
himself to slumber in the early evening sunshine on the 
back porch of his log cabin. He scratched an ear for 
several minutes as he examined the gossamer garment 
through narrowed eyes with me standing with the skirt 
of my dress up around my neck. He puffed up his cheeks 
before letting his breath out with a long, lingering 
hissing sound. He looked right and left, rose from the 
rocker, slung me over his shoulder and carried me 
inside. I screamed laughter.

Once inside, old Zek held me above him at arms' length, 
close against the ceiling of his cabin, then lowered me 
down slowly until my crotch was close to his face. He 
planted a wet, slobbering kiss on the center band of 
the knickers until it was sopping wet from both outside 
and in. 

"Your place or mine?" Zek brought me farther down till 
I was face to face, nose to nose, with him. We both 
howled our amusement. 

"Mine first, then I'll suck yours!" I snickered and 
wrapped my legs around his waist and kissed his lips. 
He swung me around, holding me by my hips. It may be a 
log cabin, but Zek's place is as big as any stone or 
brick-built house for miles around, especially the vast 
living room. When he pulled the knickers away from my 
legs he made to lay me on the wide studio couch, I 
protested. "Upstairs," I demanded. "On the bed!" I 
pouted silly amusement. "I want it done properly!"

Another year and a bit passed before I got to see the 
future president again. I woke one morning, and there 
he was in bed beside me. He threw back the bedclothes, 
studied my naked torso and murmured, "Some day!" 

He let his hand trace zigzag patterns down my body from 
around the nipples on my chest over my belly button to 
the groove of my cunt. "Yeah! Some day, kiddo!" His 
finger explored back and forth along the slit from the 
tiny bud that would be a clitoris to my anus. "Some 
day, kiddo, I am going to slip seven inches of solid 
meat in there." 

The tip of a finger slipped inside and moved from side 
to side. "And I don't want it to be a painful 
experience for either of us." A million little electric 
shocks were speeding through my entire body. "So get 
rid that little cherry before I do the full works on 
you." He prodded deeper until he could feel the 
membrane of my maidenhead. "Will you do that for me?" 

I nodded and he kissed me full on the open mouth. He 
got out of bed, dressed, left a couple of twenty dollar 
bills on my dressing table, and had departed the house 
before I appeared for breakfast.

My mother, not renowned for her sense of humor, joked: 
"Who is that guy who keeps passing through here?"

"That guy," I assured her gravely, "is the future 
president of the United States of America!"

"The thing that beats me," declared my sister, looking 
me up and down with contempt, "is why he insists on 
sleeping with you." She snickered. "When he has me to 
sleep with!"

"Maybe he prefers safe sex!" I said it, but I don't 
know where it came from. "With someone who is not a 
blabbermouth!" My mother and sister gazed at me 
curiously.

It was, in fact, another couple of years and a bit 
before I got presidential company in bed again. And 
this time it was for real - the presidential bit; well, 
very nearly! He won the presidential nomination and had 
started his campaign. Everyone said he was odds-on 
favorite to win the election. 

The stress was telling, however; I could see it in his 
face where there were lines and furrows that had not 
been there before. The bedtime stories were every bit 
as brilliant as they had been; not only that, but they 
were also upgraded to take account of the fact that 
that I was no longer a simple-minded eight year old, 
but a highly sophisticated twelve rapidly approaching 
thirteen.

He felt me up as soon as he climbed into bed. "You 
haven't lost it, then!" He wiped his fingers on the 
bedclothes.

I snickered. "No! I was saving it for you!"

"Don't want it," he replied, just a little too stiffly. 
He regretted the abruptness almost as soon as it was 
uttered. "What's your mom going to think with blood on 
the sheets? I prefer a smooth ride!"

The story was his own version of a tale from the 
Arabian Nights. He filled me in on the background: 
where the stories came from originally, why they were 
told, by and to whom, and how they came to be 
translated from the Arabic by Richard Burton and 
others. I knew all about Ali Baba already from my 
schoolwork, and Aladdin, and Sinbad and magic carpets 
and flying horses.

It transpired that the 'all' I knew was 'damn all!' (to 
quote old Zek). A new world was opening up for me with 
dramatic urgency; there was no need to take notes for 
school - I could never forget the graphic details and 
descriptions. I swear, if this guy had been my teacher 
I would have straight A's all through school.

I was still floating on cushions of clouds when the 
final veil was drawn across the narrative. The great 
man kissed me passionately on the lips while stripping 
me of my pj's. 

"Reckon it was worth a blow?" he demanded when he 
finally disengaged our lips. "Since a full fuck is out 
of the question."

I nodded. My head was forced down on to his seven 
inches of hard meat. I took it in my mouth. I had 
sucked old Zek almost weekly for the past year and, 
while I had not exactly acquired a taste for hot semen, 
I never had any trouble disposing of it. And the great 
man's moans and groans of appreciation indicated 
improvement with frequent usage. I also provided a 
couple of hand jobs during the night as my contribution 
to the presidential campaign.

In the morning, as he was dressing, he thanked me 
profusely, then pointed in the general direction of my 
crotch and grunted, "I'll be back at the end of the 
week. Lose it, kiddo! I'll be needing it!"

I told Zek. "The great man wants to fuck me at the 
weekend. But he thinks it too messy a business to pop 
my cherry - too much blood. I have to lose it between 
now and Friday night. What are we going to do about 
it?"

Old Zek was rocking backwards and forwards on his 
veranda. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. Classical 
music filtered from the open window of his cabin, music 
I had heard several times, but couldn't quite place.

"Dvorak," he said distantly, as if reading my mind, but 
had his thoughts centered on other business. "Scherzo 
Capriccioso." He let wicked eyed drift up and down my 
body. "It means 'a lively free-for-all' no holds 
barred." He sniggered like a little boy caught with his 
pants down. "I'm willing to give it a go, if you are. 
How much time have we?"

I snickered. "All day," I replied. "And all night if 
you want to. Nobody will miss me!"

He lurched from the rocking chair, laid pirate hands on 
me and carried me inside. I screeched the usual 
laughter. Upstairs! 

"Rare or well done?" he demanded.

"Take your time," I said. "But make it good!" 

Old Zek didn't strip me - well not right away! He laid 
me across the bed and brushed my skirt back. I was 
wearing the shortest briefs available at that time, 
white cotton with lace trimmings that only just covered 
the triangle of my pubis. He rubbed the crotch and I 
felt myself getting really wet. He slipped a finger 
under the fabric and ran it up and down the tender and 
well-lubricated groove. It felt great, a million times 
better than the no-fucking-about groping and plunging 
of the president-elect. Old Zek was an expert. 

By the time he was unbuttoning my shirt I was flying 
with the fairies and quivering with sheer desperate 
lust. His touches were super-dynamic and his kisses 
were electrifying. By the time he finally introduced 
his rock hard cock to my welcoming and extremely wet 
cunt, I was somewhere floating around in another 
dimension on another planet and hardly noticed the 
breaking of my hymen; it was little more than a mere 
brushing aside of a piece of gossamer. 

He fucked solidly for about twenty minutes or so; I 
orgasmed twice before I felt his liquid fire spurt into 
me and hammer against the walls of my uterus. His 
coming was every bit as satisfying to me as my own. I 
could not think that anything could be more sublime. I 
had my arms and my legs wrapped around him. I wanted it 
never to end! It didn't - for most of that day anyhow! 
It was near midnight when I crawled back home.

I was shocked at how little blood there had been; I 
expected at least the jug full of the old wives' tales. 
There was only a tiny splotch on Zek's bed and a slight 
stain on the tissue he used to wipe me. The stories 
about the tremendous ripping and wrenching pain 
experienced by kids losing their most treasured 
possession were exposed as silly fictions. I hardly 
felt any discomfort. But having said that, it has to be 
remembered that I was in the hands of an expert who was 
the perfect gentleman in everything he did. It was 
purely coincidental now that I was ready for the great 
man.

When he arrived, late Friday night, he looked drained 
and exhausted, and I doubted if he had a fuck in him. 
He also had aged a good five years in the past week. He 
sat, fully clothed, on the edge of my bed in silence 
for a long time.

"I've had a fucking terrible week," he said to break 
the silence. "It's been the worst fucking week of my 
life." He held his head in his hand for another 
eternity and a half. When he looked round at me, I was 
shocked, rocked to my foundation concrete, for there 
were tears in his eyes. "I don't think I want to be 
president of the United States of America!" And the 
tears darted, like tiny rodents, down his cheeks. 

I sat up. "Of course you do," I said. It was the 
maternal instinct in me. I was wearing pajamas. I 
unbuttoned my top and pulled his down to me breast. 
"And apart from anything else, we need a president like 
you." I have no earthly idea where the assertion came 
from. I knew nothing about politics and could not have 
cared less about who was president. He sucked at my tit 
for a good five minutes. "America need you!" I said, 
and felt good saying it, but I also felt like a little 
hypocrite. "And I need you!"

The outcome of my little flick of patriotism is that I 
was fucked, well and truly fucked. He fucked as if it 
were to be made illegal on the morrow. He never in his 
life got rid of clothing faster, never got into bed any 
quicker, and never was a cunt penetrated with fewer 
preliminaries. He shot off into me almost instantly. 
Slid away for a breather then thrust back into me, 
fucked a little longer, fired a full salvo again, and 
withdrew. 

It is no exaggeration to say that it went on like that 
nearly all night. The first light of dawn filtered 
through my Chinese-patterned curtains as the last of 
his hot semen spurted into my womb. He kissed me 
passionately and slept for two hours. And all the time 
I could feel the wet slimy substance seeping back out 
of me; it was as if my body was prepared to take it 
briefly for the sake of the Union, but did not want any 
of it.

It was a rejuvenated presidential candidate who went 
down to breakfast without me. He drank a pint of coffee 
and ate a couple of mother's syrup croissants. He 
laughed and whistled. "If ever I become president of 
this goddamn United States of America," he declared as 
if in a public address, "blame it on that kid 
upstairs!" 

Mom told me what he said after he had left in his long 
black limousine. I didn't tell her that he had left an 
envelope addressed to me on my bedside table. In it was 
five hundred dollars and a scribbled 'thank you' note 
that would have made a cool million dollars at any 
auction for blackmailers.

Six weeks later I was told by the family doctor that I 
was pregnant. Everyone assumed that the President-elect 
was the father - he was even prepared to admit 
paternity to the family and to pay for the upkeep of 
the child. He had always been a close friend of my 
parents, and there was no way they were going to cast a 
wrench in the proverbial power works or milk the cow 
dry, so to speak. 

Our family were not exactly beggars and would never 
have to wonder where their next meal was coming from or 
how they were going to pay for the latest winter 
fashions from Paris or their holiday in Hawaii. They 
would make all the arrangements, they had promised him, 
and keep the media at arms' length.

 In return, dad gained a plum of a job in the new 
administration, as did my two brothers and a sister. I 
had a comfortable six-figure bank balance, and after 
the birth, I had a regular weekly income of several 
hundred dollars, as well as a guaranteed place in an 
even more expensive private school. As I said, there 
were definite advantages in being the odd-one-out.

But I knew that the baby growing inside me had been 
planted there by old Zek. I knew also that the poor 
little bastard would be an odd one out just like his 
mother! And I knew he would make the best of it too!

So? What about that famous Oval Room blow job now?

END

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
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 26