The Indecent Assault

I tired to imagine this. I tried to see her as Zitsky might have, sexually aroused and out of breath, and just a little innocent to boot.

Bloody hell!

She slipped deeper into the seat, her eyes never leaving the ceiling. Her hand furthest from me was draped over the arm of the Chesterfield. The other was in her lap, a lap now filled with the straining folds of a skirt stretched tight across womanly thighs: hem high, legs bared, panties (snowy white) briefly glimpsed. Her blouse was having trouble with her breasts. It was strained and stretched as tightly across them as her skirt was across her thighs. She shook her head. 'So difficult to describe,' she whispered.

'There, there, Sharon,' I said, suddenly stroking her neck through her hair, 'You needn't explain any more,' I whispered, feeling sorry for the girl. She looked so young like this. Distressed. (Laid out half naked on my sofa ...!) 'He wanted me to ...' she stopped, bit her lip, eyes closed, then turned her head, and opened her eyes and looked at me. 'Can I show you?' she whispered.

'Show me?' I stammered in stupid response.

'It's so difficult to describe, but you have to know, otherwise how can you advise me?' I guess I must have looked dumb, for she frowned and said, as if it were obvious: 'If you don't know what he did to me, how can you tell me whether or not it was legal assault?' Her big eyes seemed to fill her face. What a pretty face! But she had a point.

'If you think it would be easier,' I said, acquiescing with little thought; going along with the emotion of the moment.

'He was lying on the bed, eyes closed ...' she said, giving me my cue.

I tried my best. 'Like this?' I said, slipping further down the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me, closing my eyes.

'Yes,' she said.

'Okay' ... I waited.

'I started off by kissing him,' she whispered, as if she was suddenly ashamed, although this she had already told me, and before I could react in any way I felt her lips on mine. Softly at first. Then parted. Then kissing me hard. I didn't react. (Zitsky hadn't, after all.) I felt her tongue at my lips, easing them apart. I let them ... drift apart. I felt her tongue come into my mouth like a young animal. Warm and sleek and slippery and moist. Fresh-tasting and alive. Sharon is young, and sweet, and pretty, while I am as old as her father, but the effect of her tongue in my mouth took much of my judgement away, and within a very short space of time I was kissing her back. She kissed me even harder when I did this. Her tongue probing deep, her lips spreading wide, her teeth touching mine. Her arms round my neck pulling each of us closer, and closer.

Before I could better consider it, my arms had snaked around her and I was pulling her close – at first – then rolling her over on top of me. She came as easily as down in the wind. Next I know I had her breasts flattened against my chest, her legs astride my own. Our breath was becoming hotter and faster, her fingers twisting my hair, my hand going over a pert buttock, straining tight and hard, bunched like a melon, squirming like a ... She was starting to moan, and groan. I gripped her arms, and gently eased her off me. Our mouths were last to part.

She was like a dog at a lamppost. You pull it away and the last thing to go is the nose. With her, teenage Sharon, the last thing to go were her lips. From mine. She was panting too, just like a dog. Her legs were astride mine. Her pubis pressing into me. Her eyes were closed, her hair dishevelled. I eased her back to her corner of the couch. Her legs across me were last to go. I rearranged her legs, but couldn't do much with the hem of her skirt (now around her waist). There were two tiny flowers embroidered in the front of her panties. Over her pubis. Ruffled intriguingly by the hair underneath. The hem was higher than that, but what could I do? (She was sitting on her skirt.)

'Sharon,' I whispered, quietly.

Her eyes slowly opened. She shook her head. 'It's like that whenever I'm touched,' she whispered, eyes drifting up to the ceiling

'Don't be silly!' I said, unthinkingly.

What a stupid thing to say!

She started to sob. I leant over, put my arms around her shoulders, held her close.

I felt like a prat.

'I'm sorry, Sharon,' I said. 'I really am. That's not very helpful of me.' She kept on sobbing, quietly. I let her cry. Stroked her hair. And when she had settled down I asked her kindly, 'But what do you mean, whenever you're touched?' I tried not to notice her breasts, one crushed into my bicep.

'Whenever I'm touched ... like that.' She stopped, and sobbed some more.

'Like what?' I asked, as softly and kindly as I could.

'That,' was all she said.

'You mean sexually?' I tried to help.

She nodded. No longer seeming to trust herself to speak.

'When a man touches you in a sexual manner, you lose control, is that what you mean?' I asked, wondering if there was a name for this. Again, she nodded her head, not bearing to look at me now. (Nymphomania, was that the word?)

But she couldn't be one. Not Sharon.

Could she?

I studied the girl in my arms, her long long legs, her creamy thighs, the plump assertiveness of breasts ... 'What exactly happened, with Zitsky?' I asked – for I had to ask. That's what this was all about, after all.

She buried her head in my shoulder. And cried even more.

'We fucked,' she whispered.

'He made you?' I asked, unbelievingly.

'I suppose so ... sort of.'

'Because he kissed you. And your breasts were ... pressed against him?' I asked, incredulous.

'It's all it takes,' she moaned, face half-filling her hands, hair hiding most of the rest. 'Is it assault?' she whispered, wanting me to help her.

But I really didn't see how I could.

Her sobbing slowed, then stopped, then she seemed to pull herself together. She wiped her tears from her lovely face, wiped hair back from the sides and the brow, turned to me, and asked, her face a serious mask: 'Do I have a case against him?'

I didn't think she had. 'Only if he forced himself on you against your will,' I said, picking my words with care, trying not to look at her nipples – now clearly seen in her blouse, forcing their way against the silk like hardened peas. 'But from what you say, he didn't seem to.'

She closed her eyes.

'Maybe,' I started, then stopped.

Her eyes opened. 'Maybe what?' Her expression was one of sudden hope.

I shook my head. 'Bad idea,' I responded, staring down at my hands.

'Please, Mr Hunter.' She reached for one of my hands and pulled it to her lap. 'Please,' she whispered, 'I need to know.'

I frowned at my hand, in hers, in her lap. The hem of her skirt indecently high. The back of my hand against the skin of her legs at the top of her stockings.

Had she not noticed her hem?

Had she not noticed my hand?

She pressed it to the skin at the top of her thighs. 'There may have been subterfuge involved,' I said, not sure what I meant.

'I don't understand,' said Sharon, looking up at me with large doe-like eyes, clearly not sure either.

I manufacturing a sort of reply, 'If he ... how can I put this ... led you astray with inducement, say. Made promises. Encouragements. Which might be seen in a court as having been encouragements to sexual favours on account of the job you sought ...' my voice trailed off. Much of what I'd said was utter nonsense but her look was a look of such trust I couldn't let her down. 'Did he make promises?' I asked.

'Promises?' she asked me back. Then, 'Yes.' She thought some more, her cute little frown flickering back on her cute little face.

'Well then,' I said, trying to sound light. 'That could help. When did he give you these promises?'

She nodded. 'Alright,' she said.

'Alright what?' I wondered aloud.

'Alright. This time I shall try to remember what he said, and when he said it, and let you know.'

And let me know ...?

Fine, I thought, about to rise: Sharon could go off home, and try to remember. Where were her parents, I wondered. Were they out? And then I remembered, Thursday night was bridge night. I put a hand on the side of the Chesterfield about to rise: She would let me know.

'Shall we try again?' asked Sharon.

'Sorry?' I responded.

'From the start?' the leggy girl explained.

The start! I turned and look at the gorgeous teenage girl who lay in the crook of my arm. 'The start?' I found myself repeating.

Then I understood.

'He had his eyes closed, and his lips pursed,' said Sharon, fingers reaching up and closing my eyes.

The next thing I knew parted girlish lips and an open mouth were closed over mine, even before my own were pursed. In less than ten seconds her tongue was in my mouth again, and mine was in hers, and both my arms were around her. God how this girl liked to kiss, I thought, feeling her arms snake round my neck, the fingers of a hand in my hair. Digging deep. Pulling my head to hers. Then we were squirming again. My hands on her buttocks. Pulling her atop me. Easily astride. Pubis angling down.

A hard-on was rapidly developing again. Her pubis atop it, pressing hard. Our heads went into angled attack. Our mouths spread wide as they would go, our tongues hard at work, her breasts flattened hard against my chest.

Where had she learned to do this like this!

And then she broke away, but we stayed pressed urgently together. 'He said we might move to the bed,' said Sharon, breathlessly, her mouth an inch from mine, her fingers buried in my hair. Then she leaned forward and kissed me again, and with her open mouth on mine formed the additional information, 'And he ...' kiss, 'wanted me to ...' kiss, 'kiss me again ...' kiss, 'so I did ...' And we kissed. This time in earnest. For a long long time. And when we next broke I had a hand inside her briefs, covering her naked, tight, firm, and wonderfully clenched young buttock. It would have seemed unseemly to remove it. So I left it where it was. Her long legs stayed astride me. Her fingers remained in my hair, as she gasped ...

'He said,' gasp, gasp, 'That he wanted me,' gasp, 'to help him,' gasp, 'relax.'

I tried to contribute some input here. After all, with my hand covering her buttock, invasively slipped inside the waistband of her knickers, I could hardly pretend I wasn't involved. 'And what did you,' I did a little gasping of my own, 'interpret this as meaning?' I asked. As firmly as I could.

I felt her hand slip between us. Slither south. The next thing I knew her young fingers had curled round the bulge in my trousers. My eyes went wide.

'That's what you did?' I asked, incredulous.

'That's what I did,' she whispered back, her fingers starting to stroke me.

'Really,' I said. Lost for words.

'Yes,' she said, stroking the erection in my trousers, her eyes an inch from my own.

'I see,' I said, in a voice little more than a whisper, alarmingly aware of the wonderful feeling of the hot piece of ass that I held in my hand, and even allowing it a gentle caress.

'And then...' she said, eyes drifting closed as her fingers seemed to warm to their task, 'he wanted me to,' she moaned, like an animal, 'kiss him ... as well.' And by the time she finished this latest piece of intelligence her eyes were closed and her lips were back on mine, and I was closing my fingers round the gorgeous young buttock in my hand, and welcoming her tongue back in my mouth. 'I started to slither down him ...' she gasped into my mouth – with her tongue, and saliva, and fresh girlish taste, 'but ...' Her tongue drove deep in my mouth, her breasts rolled hard against my chest, then the tongue retreated, and she finished, into my wide-open mouth, 'he wanted me to straddle his face.'

'How did you know that?' I wanted to ask, but by the time I had the words in my mind, and headed in the direction of my tongue, I found she had suddenly, and very athletically, rotated on my chest. Her girlish head was now over my lap and the upper regions of two long legs were spread round my head. I was assailed by the fragrance of arousal, the crotch of her panties an inch from my nose. Her pudenda an inch from my mouth. The inside of thigh pressed against each ear. How soft the skin. Her pelvis pulsed. And so did mine. Her nimble fingers had found the zip of my trousers and run it down; one hand was already inside! 'This is what you did?' I found myself asking her crotch, my lips on her knickers as I spoke.

'Yes,' she whispered back, as her fingers entered my Y-fronts and found my state of being. 'I see,' I said. (Her other hand was already on the buckle of my belt.)

'What did he do,' I asked, trying to stay analytical.

'He started kissing me.'

'Where?' She had my belt undone, and my trousers open, and was pushing them down my hips.

'Between the legs,' she whispered, sounding urgent. I brought my eyes to close focus, the lovely bulge of her buttocks, the creamy skin at the back of her legs, the filmy panties.

'Here?' I asked, moving my lips to her panties, smelling her arousal as my nose dipped into the cleft of her buttocks, through panties.

'Yes,' she sighed, suddenly driving her pudenda and panties into my tentatively searching mouth.

So I started to kiss her there. Then I opened my mouth. I tasted her panties with my tongue, then gasped, 'Like this?' – but she didn't reply. She merely spread her legs apart, and pressed herself into my mouth. She started to groan. Her fingers scrabbled at my waist, pushed my trousers and Y-fronts hard off my hips. I didn't say a word. When I felt her take my penis in her mouth, I didn't say a word either. (I almost bit off what I had been about to say! Probably a swear word followed by a groan of anguish. But I cut it off.)

I felt the tip of my penis welcomed by the warm soft back of her throat.

Mmmmmrgh ...

It is a wonderful feeling to have young hands cup your balls as a young throat tries to close around the head of your cock.

This was nice ....

My tongue had found the elastic of the leg-band of her panties and was pushing it aside. I wanted to taste the honey within; the honey her squirming portended. Her pelvis started to buck. Next thing I knew I had my hands all over her buttocks and was pulling her into my mouth and trying to push aside her knickers all at once. Then my tongue is inside her labia lips, slick and moist and hot, and her thighs do a clamp-act round my ears.

I have a throbbing female drive playing against my mouth. I am hauling her panties off. Her back arches and her legs bend back – she is helping me get them off. It takes our joint efforts two seconds more, then her legs are back against my ears, and my tongue is in her vagina. The thrusting throbbing rhythm of her hips has changed to a long deep thrust. She wants my tongue pushed deeper inside her. My cock is back in the back of her throat.

God she takes it deep!

Then she flips again.

How the heck does she do that!

Like a Catherine Wheel spinning on her tummy ... my tummy ... and then her sweet face is back in front of mine. 'He told me to go where I wanted,' she gasped, eyes suddenly closed as her slim fingers groped between our legs. For one so young, and apparently inexperienced, I had to admire the assured way that she found what she wanted – difficult to miss! – and steered it in a general upward direction as her thighs spread wide and her damp warm pudenda gently opened, and the tip of my prick was guided into honey-slicked warmth.

Mmmh ... sheee-ite! ... that ... is ... tight.

I opened my mouth. Her eyes flickered open on mine, an inch away. 'He said, let it flow ...'' she whispered, then dropped her mouth onto mine as her pelvis curled and thrust, and the head of my prick eased into the heat of the girl – her tongue slowly touring the top of my mouth, my own softly tasting it's soft underside – and her pelvis spread and thrust again, easing my prick even deeper. 'And this is what happened?' I wanted to ask, but her lips had closed round my tongue and she was sucking it into her mouth; sucking it as if it were a penis, just as she seemed to be sucking my penis ever deeper into her lower mouth.

Which of the two was the hotter?

The lower one, I decided, as she let her weight and the careful angling of her hip drive herself further around me. The feel of her, slowly and carefully enveloping my rampant prick – had it ever stood prouder than this? ... had it ever been deeper in anyone younger? ... had it ever been harder in anyone else?

She grunted. Her pelvis seemed to snap and arch and drive, and I was deeper inside her than I think I had ever been inside anyone. And then she was thrusting and bucking again. I gasped. Her tongue was out of my mouth. She was licking my eyelids, the lobe of my ears, the side of my temples. My neck. Her hands were open, stroking the side of my face, playing with my ears. Then she grunted and gasped, hands grappling with the front of her blouse. She arched her back and pulled my mouth to her breasts. She pressed them hard against my face, guiding my lips to her nipples, encouraging, urging.

'Bite them! Bite them!' she groaned.

As I gently did as she asked, and her pelvis quivered on my hips and my penis as deep in her girlish charms as it was ever going to get. (Our pubis bones were tight together, like Eskimo noses: affectionate, hard, undulating urgently.) The inside of her vagina was throbbing on my erection, as if it had workings all its own. I tried to suck her breasts deep inside my mouth, and possibly managed half. (My neighbour's daughter was extremely well endowed.) Then both of us took up the rhythm. Then, as if it was a signal, she started talking again. 'This is what we did,' she gasped, dictating the rhythm, driving me in deep then lifting almost off, then driving in deep once again. I let her nipples alone.

'Did he make any promises,' I gasped, my own hips driving up to meet hers.

'No,' she gasped, eyes closed.

'Did he say anything?" I asked.

'He gasped,' she said, then gasped, her back arched tight as a bow, her face angled up at the ceiling, her hands round my head, her breast mashed hard against my mouth and nose – making speaking difficult. We were bouncing about on the Chesterfield, making a quite alarming noise against the leather, but somehow in sync with each other: her gasping, grasping vagina snapping downwards as my rampant penis leapt up at her ... and into her ... to the hilt.

'That's all?' I groaned, not sure which question it was following.

'No,' she started to keen, then changed her mind. 'Yes,' she cried, shouting at the ceiling.

'Archie,' was called from downstairs. 'Are you all right?'

I cleared my throat, and moved my lips from Sharon's breast. 'We're fine,' I called out, hoping I sounded fine.

'What about Sharon?' called my wife.

I looked at Sharon, who had opened her eyes and brought her face down from the ceiling. I looked at her enquiringly – our hips hadn't slowed one iota. My penis was thrusting into her, and then withdrawing, and then driving its way back in as her pelvis drove down. Hard!

'I'm fine, Mrs Hunter,' she gasped, trying to call out – not doing very well.

'That was Sharon,' I called, suddenly closing my eyes as her whole body shuddered and she let out a groan like a liner leaving port.

She stayed like that, pressed down hard ... a count of three, then four, then eight or nine with me buried inside her as deep as I could go. Once my own groan had past, and my load started pumping deep inside her, I finished, 'Just finishing now,' to my wife.

'Just finishing now, Auntie Kate,' gasped Sharon, her open mouth on its way back to my own, blouse off her shoulders, chest glistening bare, breast triumphant, golden hair in strings attached to the sweat that peppered her face