As a gigolo the Count had few peers. He had prowled the beaches of Europe and Asia for well over four decades, honing his skills, allowing his fabulous good looks to carry him along with the graceful European air of aristocracy and manners. If ever the old montage of "treat a whore like a lady and a lady like a whore," ever apllied to a man's dictum, the Count used this to its maximum. At six foot two inches tall and with a face that gave the lean and hungry look of a cornered wolf, his steel gray eyes could melt the heart of a cold woman and turn a reluctant child into a quivering bowl of Jello with an icy stare. That charismatic ability to assume the camelion role of both lover and predator was a skill honed after many years of pursuit but none more so when he discovered the true thrill of his life lay not in the older women he chased but in their young female offspring.

Alex remembered when this obsession with the younger females began on that summer on the small Greek isle of Lysbo with the British woman. Now what was her name? Oh yes, Helen. He'd called her his Helen of Troy although she'd replied it'd be more appropriate to call her Helen of Croyton, the quaint British town she'd left behind along with her banker husband and his twenty-something aide he spent so much time boffing - her term after her third Black Russian - he'd completely lost interest in his beautiful wife and young daughter.

The tall gigolo had held her head over the waste basket in her room while she barfed out the sickly sweet remains of the half dozen Black Russians she'd consumed that evening. This evening had been interesting but he was not going to be able to impress her with his love making skill nor his enormous cock that much was crystal clear. Yet, his progress had been worthwhile, the way she'd kneaded hid big cock under the nightclub table told him she was interested in having him stroke her fires with his immense phallus. He wiped her mouth with a warm washcloth from the bathroom but suddenly sensed the presence of another in the room. Glancing up he spied a young girl standing in the doorway to the bedroom suite, the hall light from behind outlining the thin cotton of the pink sleepshirt that fell to mid thigh. His cold steel gray eyes took in the dimunitive form, the body much too young to have much female attributes of note, simply a small, thin frame of skin and bones. The twin points of her nipples were outlined as dark nips under the thin cotton, a faint rising of the soft material indicating premature bumps. The spray of her legs slightly apart not yielding any definition of sex at the juncture of the thin thighs easily seen through the backlighting.

The child's hair was black as night as were her eyes. Even in the small light of the darkened bedroom he could make out the natural rosy glow of those highly arched cheeks, her nose a finely chiseled frame of graceful beauty, the lips a pair of roses dripping with early morning nectar daring to be sipped. No words took place, Alex simply let her mother's drunken head drop back to the pillow of the large bed as he arose and crossed the dozen feet between him and the child. Taking her small hand in his he immediatley felt the heat of the silken palm against the smooth flesh of his own uncallused palm. They walked silently together to the bedroom ajoining the mother's room, a rumpled bed with silk sheets kept cool by the open slats of the hotel window, the cool Ionian Sea breeze bringing relief from the night's latent summer heat.

She sat on the edge of her bed, her knees tightly compressed in the manner she'd been taught when in the presence of males. "Never let 'em get a look at your knickers with your knees spread like some Picadilly tart," had been her mother's constant reprimand each time she'd caught her young child in a posture unbecoming to a proper lady. Those warm dark eyes cast a glance upward to the handsome youing face of the man above. He was so good looking he reminded her of... what? Oh yea, that was it, a prince.

"Are you a Prince?" she asked in a low but firm voice.

"No, not quite. Actually I am a Count, sort of a Prince in another's clothing I guess and if you want to consider me a Prince I have no objections," came back the cultured arstocratic voice with the resonant Euro accent. His mouth curled into a brief smile, his eyes warming to her gaze.

"Really and truly a Count?" the voice wanting to believe but denying the possibility. ......(cont)