With Thanksgiving behind us, I had begun to feel the pressure of preparing for the Christmas holiday. Thanksgiving had fallen on the 24th this year, today was the 27th, leaving me twenty eight days till Christmas Eve, inclusive. Barely enough time, if I was to reach my goal. But with diligence, it would be time enough.

Considering this time pressure, you might wonder why I volunteered to take two hours on a holiday-season Sunday to get Ashleigh to the airport, in place of her own mother. You might also wonder why I lingered outside security, as the cute little seventh-grader wended her way slowly but surely through the rope-maze leading up to the security checkpoint, along with about a hundred other holiday travelers.

Well, the answers to both these questions lie in the fact that neither decision was likely to hinder my project; my time pressure was self-imposed, and both choices would in fact support my endeavors immensely.

First, I had volunteered to drive Ashleigh to the regional airport so that I would have time alone with her suitcase when I put it in the trunk. While she dawdled inside, saying goodbye to her mother, her aunt, and other relatives, I had rummaged through the bag and secured a treasure indeed: a pair of just-worn panties, which the abbreviated vacation had not allowed my wife to launder, and which sported a yellowing, drying crust where yesterday the gusset had been pressed into her adolescent crease.

Alone in the garage with my prize, I re-zipped her suitcase, pocketed the panties, and slammed the trunk shut. Then, unable to resist, I extracted the cute little cotton skivvies from their hiding place to press them into my face, and to then inhale. Exquisite: musky, tangy, erotic. And if the tip of my nose, which was buried in the pubic panel, didn't deceive me, they were still moist with the mucous of yesterday's juvenile discharge.

I was tempted, of course, to lick that ambrosia right off the fabric, as I had on so many occasions during her three-month stay last summer, but today I mastered myself. Those leavings were too precious, and too important to the cause, to squander in such a short-sighted (but delightful) self-indulgence.

So now you understand why I volunteered to take Ashleigh to the airport – it was the only way, given the hectic household, to secure her poon-infused underpants before she left for the next several weeks. But why, you might still ask, was I also wasting time at the airport, after Ashleigh was already on her way?

The answer to this second question lay in the sweet little outfit Ashleigh had on. She had changed right before handing over the suitcase and commencing her good-byes, so although my digital camera was already loaded with imagery, both in still shots and video, of the 80-pound darling's weekend (some taken with her knowledge, others not so much), this additional chapter was just too sexy to leave out. Therefore, as she slowly moved through the line, I surreptitiously operated the camera strung around my neck on its long strap, taking several dozen photos and several minute's worth of video, all without Ashleigh or anyone else being any the wiser. Thank goodness for those rotate-able view-screens!

First, I captured the young teen smiling sweetly at me, and waving goodbye. Her curly, honey-brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, but left visible her budding breasts, which poked coyly out against the ribbed material of her light top – a top, incidentally, that she had chosen to wear on this brisk November day, despite the fact that it left her midriff exposed. Her tanned, tiny waist flared gently into pre-woman hips, themselves left bare by her low-riding pants; the waistband of baby-blue panties peeked out above these, decorating her protruding hipbones and accentuating the flatness of her nearly-concave thirteen-year old tummy. ......(cont)