(See buddy, there is a reason for the alias. The way things are now one cannot be too careful. Also, this gets explicit. If that's not your cup of tea better stop reading now. You have been warned.)

Where to start. Let's see, I'm 34 years old, stand 6' 2" and weight about 190lbs. I've got long brown hair which I sometimes keep in a ponytail, and brown eyes. I'm in good physical shape and aim to keep it that way. When you sit in front of a computer all day it's real easy to let yourself go so I set some goals. This year it's a climb up Mt. Rainier. Hey, it works, believe me. When I'm not working (see below) I read: Stephen King, John D. McDonald, that new lawyer guy -- good storytellers all. When I have the time I also play guitar.

I mentioned work and computers. No, I'm not a computer whiz, I'm an architect. Actually, an architect with a masters in civil engineering. Its a rare combination and mostly what I do is industrial buildings with very complicated requirements. Earthquake resistant semiconductor fabs with hundreds of miles of piping and 60 tons of equipment on the floor, stuff like that. I work for myself (yeah, I know, I like the boss) and pretty much name my own price. More often than not, I get it. Understand now; I'm not telling you this to impress you or anything, it just explains why I'm not tied to a 9 to 5 job. My arrangements also allows me the freedom to work at home, when and how I want. You see, I'm pretty much a loner. I have no family to speak of -- just a relatively small circle of close friend. And, while I am not celibate, not many lovers either. I make no apologies, it's just the way I am. Work and accomplishment have always dominated my life; I've made time for little else. As a consequence I have money, and my freedom, and even (occasionally) the time to enjoy both. But I've missed a lot also; things that money can't buy. Perhaps as I tell this tale you will begin to understand.

One last thing. At the time I had just moved to a city on the West Coast, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and a disaster of a marriage. Now you may think that Michele (that was her name, and even now it rolls off my lips and tongue) caught me when I was emotionally vulnerable, and you very well may be right. But the fact remains: no one but her has been able to penetrate my emotional armor. And it still hurts.

Okay, thanks for your patience. I think you have the background.

I ran into Michele on the doorstep of my apartment one spring afternoon, and when I say 'ran into Michele' I mean that quite literally -- I was heading out the front door when I tripped over her feet. She had been standing off to the side of the entrance and as I grabbed the metal post supporting the overhead awning to keep from nose diving into the walkway she back-pedaled wildly, arms flailing like mad before finally catching herself on the porch railing.

"Jesus kid, are you alright!" I said, then broke into a bemused chuckle. It was really quite comical.

"Sorry mister" she hastily apologized "I was just gonna knock." She sounded flustered and defensive, the tone of her voice conveying more than simple embarrassment. My laughter quickly died. "Are you the guy who plays guitar?" she continued "I heard you the other night and..."

And then I heard it, coming from the apartment two doors down. Yelling -- no, to be more accurate: screaming. An angry male voice, full of obscenities, it's owner obviously out of control. The voice was followed by a tearful female one. I couldn't quite make out the words but there was no need to; I knew what I was hearing. I looked down at Michele to get her reaction but she was staring at the flagstones in the porch as if the patterns they created were the most fascinating things in the world.

"Uh, hey kid--"

"--my name is Michele" she said quietly.

"Okay." I paused. "Michele, are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Ummmm.....no" she answered. Her gaze never left the porch.

"Are those your parents?" I knew the answer, but I asked anyway. She said nothing, and I was about to repeat the question when she very slowly nodded yes.

For a long while I stood there, looking down at the top of her bowed head, at a total loss for what to do. I couldn't just leave her there on the doorstep. Should I take her in? Call the cops? Take her to the manager? I quickly dismissed the manager idea, but I was less willing to dismiss calling the police until I understood the seriousness of the situation. I cringed at the thought of what I was about to ask -- but I had to find out.

"Michele, look at me." I kept my voice calm, but I made sure she would not miss the seriousness in my tone. Slowly she raised her head. "If someone is getting....hurt in there, you need to say so. Now."

"No" she said very quietly, hesitating on each word "He -- dad -- just yells a lot." She stared right past me, avoiding my eyes, and I suddenly realized how very, very hard this must be for her. There she was; trying to hold a civil conversation with a total stranger while her parents fought so loud the entire complex could overhear them. "You need a place to duck out to, right?" She closed her eyes and nodded.

What the hell, I thought, errands could wait.

"Alright," I sighed "come on in."

We sat together in the corner of the kitchen, she on one side of the alcove with me on the other, eating PB&J's and talking. Music mostly, (I'm an unrepentant rock 'n roller and Michele shared my tastes) and gradually, as the awkwardness began to pass, I started to really *notice* her. Michele was not a big girl -- her slender body stood all of five feet tall while her breasts were no more that gentle swells rising from flatness of her pullover shirt -- but there was no mistaking her blossoming beauty. Her face was so pretty; delicate nose, big soft eyes and a wide, full mouth. She wore shoulder length, thick, reddish-blond hair and every once in a while Michele would tilt her head back and sweep the bangs from her forehead -- a graceful, feminine gesture I never tired of watching. At first her pale gray/green eyes reflected a definite wariness; but behind the wariness was intelligence, humor, and a maturity I did not expect in one so young. After a while her good looks (and her constant, youthful energy) drew me in; there is no other way to describe it. When she got up to make another sandwich I tracked every movement of her lithe, teen-girl body, unable to take my eyes from her.

After finishing the second sandwich Michele turned the conversation to her parents. I found out that her Dad had been laid off from an auto plant back east. He moved the family to the west coast, chasing construction work, but none had materialized. Her Mom worked, but finances were tight. "And sometimes" she told me, very matter-of-factly "Dad just goes off the deep end."

"Michele" I explained "a man puts a lot of self-esteem into providing for a family so don't be..." She cut me off with a impatient sigh.

"I knooooow. I get the same lecture from Mom."

"I think she's right."

"But it doesn't give him the right to make everyone so miserable!" For the first time in our conversation she seemed truly upset and I must have reacted automatically -- reaching for her hand -- because she immediately sat bolt upright and apologized. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you. It's just -- well, I don't have very many friends I can talk about this with, you know?" She slumped down in her chair and for the longest time was silent, composing her thoughts. When she continued her voice was much softer. "It feels good to get this off my chest. Your a good listener. Thanks."

"I, uhhh...your welcome" I replied, trying to hide my embarrassment. (My former wife held just the opposite opinion of my listening skills -- and, I suppose, with good reason). I wasn't sure what to say next and didn't want to upset her further so I changed the subject. "I've got a stash of cookies around here somewhere, would you like some?"

"Oreos?" she asked hopefully. Surprised, I nodded yes.

"Alright!" she said with genuine enthusiasm, breaking into a wide smile as she jumped out of her chair. Right then and there I knew she had my heart. I mean, how could I *not* like this pretty, intelligent, well spoken sixteen year old who could discuss with authority the latest from Pearl Jam or Stone Temple Pilots while unashamedly devouring a package of Oreos?

I am not sure when I first became aware -- consciously aware, that is -- that I was physically attracted to her. Yeah, I know what your thinking, but DAMMIT! it wasn't like that. I had a deep and genuine affection for Michele -- far beyond simple sexual longing -- and I would not, *could not*, do anything to hurt her or mess up our friendship. But, as much as I wanted to deny it, I was fantasizing about her. Sexually. A lot. Imagining her small, lithe, body spread eagle beneath mine; day dreaming of wrapping my hands around her slender waist as I emptied my balls into her little quim. It was stupid, it was nuts, it was impossible -- and it left me feeling like shit. I mean, Michele looked to me for stability and security; my apartment had become her refuge. She trusted me to act like a mature, rational adult and yet when she stood next to me it was all I could do not to start fantasizing about fucking her brains out!

I guess you could say Michele had become a very important part of my life.

I knew that things were not getting any better between her mom and dad but we did not often talk about it, at least openly. Michele might make a casual comment about something that had happened the night before, but mostly she (and I) ignored her home life as much as possible. It wasn't always easy though. She did tell me she was not getting a lot of sleep and I remember one afternoon quite clearly; she simply zonked off while doing her homework. I found her leaning over the dining room table, textbook and papers shoved to one side, her head nestled in her folded arms. She looked so small and innocent; I had to consciously restrain myself from scooping her into my arms and holding her as I would a young child. I must have stood there for a good five minutes, just watching her before finally waking her up.

It was an evening in early June, just after school let out for the summer, when things finally came to a head. Out of the blue Michele dropped by with a couple of brand new CDs. "Wanna listen?" she asked, and before I knew it we were sitting on the floor on my apartment, CDs and tapes scattered all over the place, listening to Nirvana and Candelbox and Stevie Ray Vaughn. She was grinning and laughing at my dumb jokes and I was feeling mighty giddy myself -- and when Stevie started into "Pride and Joy" Michele got up to dance. Oh man, I couldn't believe it! She twisted her tight teenage body into these incredibly sexy S-curves then started swaying to and fro -- hair swishing around her shoulders as she swung her small ass back and forth -- and I got hard. Really hard, really fast. It was a good thing her back was to me there was no way I could hide the bulge. I got up and stumbled over to the couch; the intense sexual rush had left me weak and fluttery. I was trying desperately to think of a way to get five minutes alone in the bathroom with my cock when the song finished. Slowly, as if the music alone animated her, Michele stopped and relaxed, arms limp at her sides.

"Mom and I are gonna split" she said quietly.

"Huh?" It was such a non-sequitur that it didn't register. Slowly Michele turned to face me.

"I said, Mom and I are thinking about leavin' Dad."

Oh Jesus, what was I doing! Was I really sitting there, thinking dirty sex thoughts about this beautiful, sixteen year old kid while said kid was trying to cope with the fact her folks were on the outs -- permanently???! I felt worthless and ashamed; I couldn't even bear to look at Michele as she crossed the room and flopped down beside me on the couch. Tilting her head back (I caught the faint perfume of her shampoo mixed with the sharper, clean, feminine odor of her body -- even then she was turning me on) Michele closed her eyes and started rambling.

"Mom has this girlfriend, you see. They're sorority sisters or something like that and if Marsha -- that's her name -- can talk her boyfriend into letting us, we're gonna move in with her." A very faint smile crossed her lips. "Dad won't have any idea where to find us."

"Michele," I finally stammered "I had no idea...."

"'S alright" she replied, ignoring me. "You know, when I was little I really did love him. We had a lot of fun together; going to the zoo or park and stuff like that. In the evenings when he'd tuck me in and kiss me and tell me that I was the prettiest girl in the whole world. But now...now all he can do is fight and yell at Mom. I don't know -- he started changing even before he got laid off, and now it's like I don't even want to be around him anymore." She sighed then fell silent, eyes still closed.

I had no idea what to say. I wanted to touch her, not sexually, just hold her hand or caress her face. I turned to her and raised my arm when she abruptly sat upright.

"John, I gotta go." She stood up, leaving me with my hand hanging ridiculously in the air. "I, uh...I'll see you tomorrow." she said hastily "Be here, okay?" Her last sentence sounded more like a plea than a request. Without even stopping for her CDs she left. Needless to say, I didn't get a lot of sleep that night.

1:00.

1:30.

Around 2:00 it started pouring; a hard, drenching, summer rain that pounded the roof and overflowed the gutters.

2:30, still raining hard.

At 2:32 came the knock on the door. I jumped up, ran to the door, flung it open.

Oh shit.

Michele was soaked. Totally, utterly, to-the-bone, floating in her clothes waterlogged. Her jeans were a mess; dark water stains extended down the front of her legs to her knees while everything below mid-calf was sodden and dripping. Her shirt was plastered to her body and the beautiful reddish-blond hair I loved so was tangled and matted, laying in straggles across her forehead and cheeks. A drop of water trickled from a loose strand, running down her cheek to her trembling lips. She was on the verge of tears.

"Oh sweet Jesus" I whispered.

She stumbled forward and I caught her, pulled her up into my arms and over the threshold into the apartment. Turning around to set her down in the foyer I caught the door with my foot and slammed it shut, rattling the walls. Confusion overwhelmed me -- what was happening to my lovely Michele?!! I fell to my knees, looking into her eyes, then realized she was too far gone to answer. Two great sobs racked her young body then the tears came. She clung to me, tighter than anyone has before or since, and cried and cried and cried.

Anger, frustration, fright; not knowing what to think I imagined the worst. Had she been thrown out of her house? Had her father (God forbid) come unglued enough to hurt her? I had no idea how to comfort Michele (other than holding her) and it didn't help matters any when, through her tears, she started wailing "He called me a whore -- he said I was a whore!" over and over again. I suppose it said something about my state of mind that, for a second, I thought her father had discovered my secret longing for Michele and was accusing her.

Finally -- and it must have been a good five minutes -- Michele cried herself out. She released her death-grip and stepped back a bit, then sat down hard in front of me. I was still sitting on my haunches, and together we inspected the damage.

"Oh John" she said, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the back of her hands "I've got you all wet."

"No -- no" I replied, shaking my head "It's OK, really." Reaching for her I ran a hand through her hair, succeeding only in getting my fingers jammed in the tangles, but the physical contact was helping calm her. "Come on," I said finally, "let's get you cleaned up." By this time her teeth were chattering from the cold. I lead her to the bathroom, then fetched a couple of towels and a big wool sweater. I told her I was fresh out of her size (that, finally, got a very small smile out of her) but she could at least wrap herself in the sweater and a bathrobe while her cloths dried.

It was only later, in the kitchen -- listening to the blow dryer, the clack of a styling comb as it hit the counter top and Michele's occasional, muffled "damn" -- that I finally began to relax. "OK" I thought to myself, "She's alright, at least physically." But I still had no idea what was going on. I didn't know if or how much Michele was willing to reveal, but the way she had kept repeating "he called me a whore" over and over was scary.

I met her at the bathroom door with a cup of hot chocolate which she gratefully accepted. She was wrapped in my sweater and as she took a long, noisy draught from the cup I took the wet clothes and draped them over the shower door.

"Feel better now?" I asked. She nodded, staring straight into her cup.

"Do you want to tell me what this is all about?" I asked.

"Give me a moment." she replied quietly, swirling the chocolate around. I waited patiently as she took another sip. She seemed hesitant, pensive; nibbling on her lower lip, occasionally glancing at me out of the corner of one eye. I was starting to have second thoughts about trying to get her to tell me when she suddenly she raised the cup to her lips and drained the last of the cocoa.

"Okay." She took a deep breath as she put it down "Follow me."

I followed her into the hallway where she stopped and leaned her back against the wall, then like a slowly deflating balloon sank to the floor.

"Daddy found out about Bobby and me."

"Uhh.....Bobby?" I questioned.

"He's my cousin" She replied matter-of-factly, motioning me to sit opposite her. I did, spreading my legs out in a V with my feet touching the baseboard on her side. She sat between them, legs drawn to her chest as she rested her chin on her knees. This, as best I can recall, was her story:

"Last summer, after Dad had been laid off for a while, we went to spend a couple of weeks at my Aunt Sarah's place. They have this big farm outside Canton and I guess Dad talked her into letting us help out in exchange for room and board. I didn't mind really, I always liked the farm and working with the animals. I'm real good with horses -- Sarah says I'm a natural. Anyway, there was the three of us and Aunt Sarah and Uncle Don and my cousin Bobby. His real name is Robert, but we all called him 'Bobby'. He's kinda shy around other people but around me he's....oh, I dunno...so natural and talkative. He's also, uh, pretty foxy -- if you know what I mean. I was really looking forward to seeing him and Aunt Sarah again and I guess he was looking forward to seeing me. I remember when they met us at the bus station Bobby gives me this great big bear hug -- it was kinda embarrassing. Then, all the way back home, he paid me LOTS of attention." She smiled shyly; a smile of pleasant memory.

"Had a crush on you, eh?" I smiled back, biting my tongue. Bobby sounded like one damned lucky kid.

"Yeah" she continued "he did, but.....it was more than that. In the evening, after chores, we used to sit around on the porch and drink sodas and talk and tease each other, you know? But after a few nights we, uh...well...stopped doing so much talking and started, like, kissing. I liked it too. Pretty soon we were sneaking off together to the pond or the barn or wherever we could be alone."

At that point she stopped and lay her head on her knees, looking down the hall. I realized that this was no longer was a story about Bobby; Michele was leading me somewhere. Trouble was, if she kept it up I was going to have another serious hard-on problem.

"Michele, this sounds really personal. If you don't want --"

"No John, I want you to hear this." She paused, nibbling her lip again, then with a deep breath continued. "We started getting into some pretty heavy make-out sessions. Sometimes he....he would get me up in the hayloft and undress me and touch me all over. God, I loved it when he did that! He could be so sweet and gentle and yet turn me on something crazy!" She turned her head back to me and now her voice was soft and low, almost reverent. "Pretty soon I -- well, we -- started giving each other oral sex."

My jaw must have hit the floor. "Michele?!?"

"Well that's what we did!" she replied with indignant surprise "Don't be such a prude about it! It wasn't like he forced me or anything -- I *wanted* to. We both did. And it was *good* John, it was fun and sexy and cuddly all at the same time." "Michele, I just never --"

"Oh!, don't you understand?" she continued, cutting me off "Lovin' Bobby made me feel good, made me forget about Mom and Dad fighting so much. He took away the hurt when Dad yelled at me. He made me feel safe, and loved, and just plain special; more than anyone else every did. I'd never felt that way about a guy before and I didn't think I would again for a long time except.....now I've got you. You make me feel like Bobby did."

Her voice softened. "John, I know how hard you've tried not brush up against me or touch me or anything, even when I wanted you to. And I did, John, really bad sometimes. Yesterday, on the couch, I wanted you to put your arms around me and lay me down and....do things to me. Sex things. I...I know this could get you in a lot of trouble but -- John, will you make love to me?"

Dead silence. Her eyes riveted me to the wall and my mouth was so dry I could not speak even if I wanted to. Slowly Michele uncurled her body and rose to her knees, kneeling between my trembling legs.

"When Daddy found my diary today he called me a whore, made what Bobby and I did into something bad and dirty. But it's not; not at the heart of it. It's about two people makin' each other feel good and loved and when it's good for me all the hurt goes away. I know you can make it good for me. Can you do that, huh John? Can you make it real good for me -- please?"

We hit the bed running; I fell sideways onto the mattress with Michele still in my arms. Breaking the kiss I struggled to get up to start undressing but Michele was having none of that; pulling me back down she trapped my leg between her thighs and started grinding her mons into my hip. (Not that I was particularly calm myself -- I remember grabbing her ass to steady myself as I fucked my erect cock against her soft stomach.) Finally, after several long minutes of dry humping each other, Michele pushed me away. She rolled over onto her back, eyes wide and round.

"John" she pleaded "Undress me. I wanna be naked for you...."

Michele's sweater was hiked up around her waist and as she raised her arms I grabbed the hem and started pushing it up her body, uncovering her breasts. They were perfect; well proportioned, firm, orange sized mounds. The nipples were dark red and erect, jutting forth from the pink circles of her areolas. I cupped her firm, young girl tits in my hands, flicking the nipples back and forth with my thumbs as she moaned and tossed her head from side to side. She was so beautiful in her passion! I bent over her, laving each lovely nipple with my tongue, tasting the sweetness of young flesh, when suddenly her hands were at my shirt, grabbing at the buttons. "C'mon...you too!" she urged, voice full of frustration. I took her hands -- I think if I had let her Michele would have ripped the buttons clean off -- and together we hastily unfastened my shirt. As she finished pulling the sweater over her head I stood and removed my shirt, then unsnapping my jeans pushed both them and my Jockeys down my legs.

I stood before Michele: naked, breathing hard and deep, my erection sticking up and away from my stomach. For her part Michele was a lovely, erotic, disheveled mess; sprawled out on the bed with her slim legs dangling over the edge, hair in her face, the crotch of her panties dark with her feminine secretions. Her eyes traveled the length of my body several times, each time lingering on my erect penis, then slowly she raised her hand and beckoned. "Easy now..." she murmured as I climbed back on. I pulled her around so that we were laying along the length of the bed, resting on our sides. Again we embraced and kissed; this time with more patience and tenderness. Michele ran a hand up and down my body, caressing my back, then my chest. As her hand made it's way down my stomach I pulled away, allowing her access to my cock. She didn't hesitate, and as she closed her warm fist around the shaft I slid my hand down her body, reaching for her panties. Slowly, carefully I slid my fingers beneath the waistband, over her lightly furred mons then down her cleft to part the warm, wet lips of her cunny. As she worked her fingers over the underside of my cockhead (Bobby had taught her well) I stroked her slippery, swollen clit; every once in a while she would moan and push her crotch hard against my hand. As she got more excited she spread her legs wider, allowing me to slide my finger deeper, probing at her vaginal opening. Her steady cock stroking faltered.

"Wait." She whispered, looking up at me "Hold still for a moment 'K?"

Reaching down to place her hand over her panties Michele pressed my finger tips into her moist slit. "Get...in there" she mumbled, lifting her knee high in the air, then: "Oh Jeez..." she gasped as the tip of my middle finger slid smoothly into her hot, wet -- and incredibly tight -- enterance. Only then did I truly comprehend how small and slim hipped Michele really was. She grimaced and muttered something about taking it easy. I froze.

"It's.....been awhile" she whispered "let me get use to it." She closed her eyes and snuggled closer, her chin resting on my chest. Gradually her body relaxed and breathing steadied. With a barely perceptible nod of her head she gave me permission to continue. Very, very slowly I worked my digit the rest of the way in, expecting at any moment to find her maidenhead. When I didn't I looked at her upturned face, questioningly. Michele shook her head.

"Bobby got it" was all she said.

"Oh" I replied. The disappointment I felt was sudden, deep and completely unexpected.

She smiled, gently. "John -- don't ask, just make me cum." Well, I know when to take an order (especially one delivered by a young lady whose vagina is clamped about my finger) so to make a long story short, I did. My thumb found her clit again and while carefully sliding my finger in and out of her small, delicate pussy I massaged the fevered bud. As my fingering increased in intensity she started panting; soon she was on the edge of climax. "Uhhh....Uhhhh...." she moaned, then after a few long, deep strokes she clamped her thighs around my hand. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" she cried, burying her face into my chest, shuddering as the orgasm crashed through her young body. She clenched and moaned, pushing her stomach against mine, then opened her legs and with a final thrust of her hips buried my finger completely inside her young cunny. She yelled and shuddered again, wildly bucking her crotch against my hand. I snaked my free arm under Michele's quaking body to steady her; gradually her cries quieted and her body grew limp. We lay still, her fist slowly opening and closing against my arm, then after a while I gently removed my finger from her vagina and cupped her pussy in the palm of my hand.

Is there anything more beautiful than a teenage girl in the heat of passion? There is: a teenage girl resting in the quiet afterglow of wanted, consensual sex. I have not the words to describe how achingly lovely Michele looked; eyes closed, lips pressed against the hollow space below my collar bone, face relaxed and serene. Her fair skin seemed to glow in the pale light and I was struck by the insane desire to jump up and change the rumpled bedclothes -- they weren't good enough for this angel to *lay* upon, let alone make love on. It was crazy, I know, but that's what I thought. That's the way Michele made me feel sometimes. Crazy.

After a few moments she stirred; opening her eyes she smiled and planted a quick kiss on my chest. "Oh man" she said quietly, rolling over onto her back "I'm still tingly all over." I slipped my hand out of her panties then trailed my wet fingers up her body, circling each breast. She sighed softly, a sound of contentment. I carressed her smooth, flawless skin; playing my fingers up and down her body, then across her neck, then traced the outline of her mouth. Her lips parted and without thinking I ran a fingertip between her lips and gums. Her small, pink tongue darted from her mouth, playfully chasing my finger, finally catching and licking it. Her eyes grew wide and round in surprise.

"Oh wow" she breathed "I can taste myself."

"Yeah?" I smiled. "You like it?"

"Ummm....I guess" she said softly.

"It's an acquired taste" I offered. She nodded, very slowly, her eyes staring into mine.

"John, would ya....?"