Feature Writer: Randi /
Feature Title: Journal of a Lesbian Pedophile /
Story Codes: Ff, Romonce, Petting, Masturbation /
Published: 109.11.2012
Journal of a Lesbian Pedophile
I’m finally getting around to writing this because it has been a somewhat busy week for me. I promised myself I would try to chronicle my next relationship, so that’s why I’m lying here, tapping at the keyboard of my laptop, gently baking my body and my mind in the warm desert sun. It is mid-May in the desert southwest, perfect weather for tanning. I hear the patio door open and I stop typing to watch a young girl walking towards me from the house. She is fourteen, on that exquisite cusp between pubescence and adolescence. She is clad in a black bikini that she was too self-conscious to wear only yesterday. It is demure by my own standards, but for her it is daringly bare, and that is the important thing.
I resume typing as she strides past me and pauses at the edge of the pool. Her bikini bottom clings snugly to hips that still carry baby fat. Her breasts, small, nearly perfect hemispheres, thrust against the triangular cups of her top. She dives in and remains submerged, swimming a complete lap underwater. She surfaces at the edge of the pool nearest me and tosses her hair back. Fractal geometries dance for a moment in the interface between air and water as sunlight is refracted by cascading droplets. Briefly, her head is surrounded by a mandala of rainbows, rigid Newtonian trajectories imposing an aesthetic order on the chaotic system of head, water, and light. The effect is startlingly beautiful. She speaks. “What are you writing?”
“How startlingly beautiful you are.”
“Be serious.” She blushes, and I feel my libido surge.
She climbs out of the pool and lies down next to me on the big double lounger. I glance down the length of her young body, taking in the curve of her breasts, the flatness of her tummy, the thrust of her mons against the material of her bikini bottoms. She is conscious of her bareness, but is only vaguely aware of the effect it is having on me. I will soon let her know, though, in no uncertain terms.
“I am serious. We invented bikinis so that women would never forget how beautiful they are.” She is gazing at me intently, so I return her gaze with a steady one of my own.
“But I am not a woman yet.”
“Yet.” I let the word hang in the air between us.
I return to my journal. The child-woman next to me shuts her eyes and drifts off to sleep. I type. Occasionally, I glance at her, watching the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathes, tracing the projected path of my lips along her body. With an effort, I force myself to concentrate on my journal.
xxxxx
I was the doctor on duty when she arrived at the emergency room with her mother. I watched from across the waiting room as the triage nurse gathered her vitals. She was young, early teens, and quite pretty. I saw the nurse ask her a question and from across the room I could see her blush. She beckoned the nurse to lean down. She whispered something to the nurse who immediately nodded reassuringly and then caught my eye.
I am the only female MD on this shift, and blushing teenage girls are my specialty. I walked over and introduced myself, and then took her by the hand to lead her back to the examining room. In the examination room, I helped her up onto the table. She was wearing a short plaid skirt and a white blouse, and some kind of school blazer. I turned to draw the privacy curtain, and when I turned back to her, she was alternately rocking her hips and tugging at the hem or her short skirt in a charming display of modesty. I caught a glimpse of the very tip of her panty-clad pubis.
“So, tell me, what is your name?”
“Caryn, with a y.”
I took my stethoscope out and warmed up the accumulator in the palm of my right hand. With my left hand, I unbuttoned the top three buttons of her blouse, and then slipped the accumulator under her bra, resting it against the side of her left breast. I listened to her heartbeat for a moment.
“Ok, Caryn with a y, what can I do for you?”
“I…I…that is my…well, I think I hurt myself.”
“Where, dear?”
“My breasts. My nipples, actually.”
“Then we’d better get this blouse off of you.”
I finished unbuttoning her blouse, and then slipped it from her shoulders. Her hands were crossed in her lap, so the blouse hung suspended against her back, caught in the crooks of her elbows. She was wearing a bra with a front closure. I undid the hook, and slipped the cups to the sides. Leaning closer, I examined each nipple. Her aureoles were the size of a nickel, and a creamy shade of brown.
The nipples were very red, the tissue obviously inflamed by some kind of mechanical trauma. I began to form a tentative hypothesis. Her breasts were small, but were fully mature. I cupped each one gently, applied an upward pressure, and then released it. Her nipples moved several centimeters as I did this. Next, I examined the inside of one of the cups. I was looking for, and found, a raised seam at the center of the cup.
“I think I know what the problem is. Are you a jogger?”
“I’m on the track team.”
“What is your event?”
“Cross country.” Aha. A distance runner.
“Well, Caryn-with-a-Y, I think I know what the problem is. As you run, your breasts are moving inside your bra and your nipples are rubbing against the material of the cup. Here, run your finger across the inside of your bra cups. Feel that raised seam? That is what is doing it. Technically, it’s called repeated mechanical tissue trauma, but you can call it runner’s nipple. It is quite common and you can prevent it by wearing a jog bra when you are working out or competing. In the meantime, I will give you something for the pain, plus something to help them heal. ”
I wrote her a prescription for Darvocet for the pain, and then I rubbed a topical analgesic gently into her nipples. Her nipples erected, and I looked up to see her blush.
“Why are you blushing?”
“That…tickles.” Another blush.
In treating her nipples, I had obviously aroused her. Interesting, I thought at the time. She’s aroused but doesn’t want to admit it. I wondered what a pelvic exam would do to her. Our sensitive nipples are textbook examples of a Darwinian pressure exerted on mammalian reproductive physiology in general and human neoteny in particular. The neural density of a woman’s pudenda is roughly an order of magnitude higher than her nipples, as a result of the same Darwinian pressures. I’ve witnessed hundreds of young girls (and boys!) discovering this fact for themselves, and then coping with a society that requires them to suppress this knowledge.
I quickly finished ministering to her nipples, and said briskly, “Well, I’m finished with your nipples. Let’s finish the rest of your examination. I suggest you finish undressing so I can complete your examination. You can leave your panties on for now. OK?”
She got off the exam table, then reached to her waist to unfasten her skirt. It fell to her feet with a soft rustle of fabric. I picked it up and laid it on a chair. I stood behind her and helped her shrug out of her blouse and bra. The blouse and bra joined the skirt on the chair. Beneath her skirt, she was wearing a rather brief pair of white cotton panties. She climbed back onto the exam table. She looked very vulnerable sitting there.
“Just relax, Caryn, and lie back.” I pushed her back gently, until she was lying down on her back. I continued with my exam. She was tense, which was understandable, so I said, “Relax, dear. Believe me, this won’t take long, and I promise it won’t hurt.” Chatting with a patient helps them relax, and verbalizing everything I’m doing keeps me proficient in my practice. Eventually she began to relax, which was good, because during the pelvic I dislike having to use a speculum.
When I was ready to do her pelvic, I slipped my hand along her abdomen, and then under the waistband of her panties. I identified by touch first her pubic hair, then the soft swell of her mons and the gentle curves of her labia, and, to my surprise, a hint of moisture in her vaginal cleft. She was more aroused than I thought. When I could I could feel her anus with the tip of my middle finger, I stopped. Her labia nestled themselves firmly against my palm.
I can still remember that first intimate touch, the soft round curves of her pudenda revealing themselves to my fingers.
At my side, Caryn is still dozing. I lift my fingers from the keyboard in my lap and trail them languidly up and across my stomach, letting them come to rest against my breasts. I slip a finger under the cup and gently rub a nipple. I am growing excited. The game is about to begin, and I know the outcome. I give my nipple a quick pinch and resume typing.
I was sorely tempted to masturbate her right then and there, but I suppressed the desire. In the late twentieth century, post-military-industrial-complex, new world order of the Pax Americana, complex rituals and taboos surround the simple biological function of sex. I laugh to myself, remembering a line from a Heinlein novel I read as a teenager: Geniuses make their own rules up when it comes to sex.
I think I finally know what he meant. Genius, as Carl Sagan once put it, echoing an even earlier definition advanced by Albert Einstein, consists in the ability to see simplicity in the complex, to detect order where only chaos once existed. For me sex is very simple, because I have only one rule: Sex should be a rewarding experience for all parties concerned.
From a biological perspective, sex is mostly friction between mucous membranes in sliding contact with each other. It is a tribute to our creativeness as a sentient species that we have come up with so many delightful ways to generate friction with each other. I have definitely made up my own mind about sex, and I have decided I prefer sex with members of my own gender, preferably ones that are still young enough to be open to new experiences.
In my culture this preference is frowned upon with almost religious fervor by 99.9 % of the population. Yet I am in little danger of discovery…I’ve been seducing girls like Caryn since I let my fifteen-year-old baby-sitter slip her hand into my panties and caress my ten-year-old mons. I’m thirty-six now, and have slipped my hands into the panties of thousands of ten-to-sixteen-year-olds as a pediatrician. It’s easy to spot the ones who have been experimenting sexually.
Fifteen or twenty minutes from now, I’ll be easing my fingers under the waistband of her bikini. She is so young, and so very female. For her, sex is a fascinating mystery, a topic to be speculated about with her friends, and to be scrupulously avoided in conversations with her parents, especially her father. Her social life is pretty much spent in search of a clue to this mystery — junior high dances, forbidden books, wild speculation at slumber parties, and solitary, daring experiments in a locked bathroom.
I’ve had her type so many times that I should be jaded, but that is the magic of sex. When I coax her to an orgasm, I know that I will climax with her and that I will come as hard or harder than I’ve ever come in my life. Sex is the most addictive drug in the world — every time is like the first time.
There is something utterly compelling about that brief, transitory stage of human development, when our DNA is beginning to assert some rather decidedly Darwinian imperatives. She is posed on the brink between pubescence and adolescence, and I intend to reinforce that Darwinian link between sex and survival for her. She is still a child, but before the sun sets she will be a woman. Her body is ready for sex, I can feel it, though I am certain she doesn’t know it yet. Our brains always lag behind our bodies. I doubt she realizes that she is going to have her first real sexual experience, her first real orgasm, before the shadows grow long on this May afternoon.
The anticipation is already arousing me. It is time. I feel a warm fire centered in my vagina. I place the laptop on the deck beneath the lounger. I roll to my side and place my hand on Caryn’s cheek. Her eyes flutter open, and I ask her to spread some suntan oil on me. She readily agrees. I roll onto my back and place my arms behind my head. Caryn is momentarily confused.
I watch as she debates with herself, figuring out what she should do. Eventually, she picks up the bottle of suntan oil and squeezes out a generous amount into the palm of her hand. She leans over me, and tentatively begins to coat my shoulders and upper arms with the oil. When my arms are done, she turns her attention to my torso. She very carefully avoids my breasts, and the area between my navel and the waistband of my bikini.
I enjoy her attentions for several minutes. She is standing beside me now, applying oil to my legs. When she turns away to get more oil, I slip my top off. I can sunbathe nude because my house sits on 4 acres of land high up in the foothills of the Santa Catalina mountains, which border Tucson to the north. My nearest neighbor is half a kilometer away and dozens of meters down slope. I like my privacy, and my salary is sufficient enough to indulge myself.
When she turns back, she is surprised to see me casually tossing my top to the side. She hesitates, staring at my breasts. I lean back, arms again crossed behind my head. I nod at her reassuringly, and thrust my breasts upwards slightly, tacitly inviting her to cover them with the oil. Again she hesitates, longer this time.
Finally, I watch as her modesty surrenders momentarily to her curiosity, and she reaches tentatively towards me. Hesitantly, she lays her hand on my right breast, and then slowly begins to rub the oil in. I smile at her, and then close my eyes. I feel her hand continue to move across my breast. Her touch is light at first, but grows firmer as her confidence builds. My nipples erect almost immediately, which she doesn’t seem to notice at first. She takes her time, but soon my breasts are glistening with oil. I gesture towards the island of dry flesh between my navel and my bikini bottoms.
“I think you missed a spot.”
This time there is no hesitation. As she spreads the oil across my abdomen, I contemplate the immediate future and a smile comes to my face. She sees it.
“What are you smiling at?
“The future.”
“What is in the future?”
“Pleasure. I think you need some oil, too. Lie down, and I will do you.”
Caryn lies down next to me. I take the bottle oil from her hand, and squeeze some into my palm. She is lying on her back, arms crossed behind her head in imitation of me. Calmly, I reach out and slip the cups of her bikini top aside.
She immediately reaches up to replace them, but I catch her arms, and say, “Hey, it’s OK. No one can see us. And besides, I need to see if your nipples are healing, anyway.”
This was a small lie; I was fairly certain that her nipples were doing fine from my last examination of them two days ago. And I was also pretty certain that she liked having her nipples rubbed, judging by the way they erected every time I touched them at the office.
She relaxes slightly, and allows me to slip the top up and over her head. I make a show of examining her nipples, which are indeed completely healed. I rub the oil into her right breast, letting my palm slip back and forth across the nipple. It erects immediately, and Caryn begins to breathe just a little heavier. I deliberately begin to lightly pinch her nipple between my finger and thumb, and her breathing deepens. I switch to her other nipple, and watch her face. She is panting lightly now, and when she sees me gazing intently at her she blushes and looks away. I reach up and grab her chin between with my hand and turn her head back towards me.
“You are blushing. Is it because you like this, when I rub your nipples.? I noticed every time you came to the office and I touched you there, you blushed.”
She nods ever so slightly.
“I like rubbing your nipples. Do you want me to stop?”
No answer.
“Should I continue?”
Another, very slight nod. And with that nod, she is mine.
THE END