Fun and Games: March to September

a Short Story by Kellis

March, 2005


The fun begins when I see motion in my shaving mirror.

“Jesus Christ, Shelley!” I whirl around, scattering flecks of shaving cream.  She stands just short of the bedroom door, my neighbor’s teenage daughter: slim in her fluffy blonde hair, faded jeans and long-sleeved but short blouse with the de rigueur bared navel.  I face her in skivvies and gray chest hair, probably with more gray hair curling from the gap in the shorts.

Her rosebud lips stretch in a smile.  “Did I surprise you, Judge?”

“The word is startle.  What are you doing in my bedroom anyway?  You know very well Lacey left last week.”  Lacey is my granddaughter who just completed her usual spring break with us.  My wife took her home and is staying there with our daughter for the week.  Every year the two girls have the freedom of our houses.  Did Shelley perhaps leave something?

She answers obliquely, “I heard you singing.”

I blink at her, not recalling it but knowing that I do it unconsciously.  “And my voice overpowered you, did it — like Frank Sinatra?”

“Who’s that?”

“Somebody who’d be even older than I am, if he was still with us.”

She shrugs, her neck curls bouncing prettily.  “If you say so.  I just want to talk with you.”

“Do you!  Shelley, I certainly wouldn’t mind that, but I’m not dressed to receive young ladies at this hour of the morning.  Why don’t you go down to the den and let me finish shaving.  I’ll throw on some pants and we can talk.  Stop in the kitchen and pour yourself a coke.”

“I’m not thirsty.”  She comes through the door and rounds to my side.  “Can I watch you shave?  My dad used to let me.”

She has a perfect complexion, a Slavic button nose and big blue eyes that are wide with interest.  Apparently she is one of those kids so lucky they never have pimples.

“I’m not your dad.”

She ignores my protest.  “I like your curly chest hair.  Do you ever shave it?”

“Few men shave below their chins.”  I shake my head at her.  “Shelley, you can’t just waltz into a strange man’s bathroom!”

“You’re no stranger.  You’re Lacey’s granddad.”  She giggles, that soprano feminine sound that always seems to resonate in my balls.  “You used to tickle us all the time.”

I hasten to remind her, “You were just little girls!”

She smiles and says complacently.  “I’m bigger now, but you’re still my favorite granddad.”

I look into her guileless eyes.  They seem innocent enough.  If false betrayal is a risk here, it is already incurred.  Turning back to the sink, I rinse the razor before the next stroke.

“What about your own granddads?” I ask conversationally.

“One is dead and the other’s in Colorado.”

“Your father’s father?”

“Yeah.  Dad’s there too.”

Of course I know about her mother’s divorce, though not the details.  “Doesn’t your dad have visiting privileges?”

“No.”  Venom fills the young voice.  She won’t let me see him.”


“Mom.”  The girl distinctly grits her teeth.  “I hate her!”

The ban surprises me, not the drama.  I didn’t think it was possible for the mother to choke off a child’s entire contact with the father unless he’s in jail.  Mildly I wonder why she would.

“I gather you miss your father.”

She sighs but cocks her head.  “A beard must be tough.”

“A what?”  I’m a moment catching up.  “You think so?”

“I can hear you cutting the hairs.  Like on a pussy.”

Did I mishear her?  “On a what?”

“I shave too.  Look!”

Motion to the side attracts my eye.  She has snatched down her jeans.  Before I can even want to avert my eyes I see white panties atop the squashed jeans, the genitals above that: a “camel’s toe” of puffy hairless lips drooping below the clitoral knob, and a narrow line of almost invisible blonde hair rising half way to her navel.  I start to protest but in time realize the pointlessness — given that I don’t want to hustle her exquisite butt suddenly out the door.  And exquisite it is.  Looking down on nubile female hips from that angle, buttocks cheeks just visible behind them, labia swelling out to fill the feminine groin gap, is a compelling sight.  Why is her velvet skin so pale?  Because it’s spring of course.

I manage to inquire, “What is that, a female Mohawk?”

She giggles again.  “Did Lacey tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That’s what we call it: our Mohawk.”

As if Lacey would ever discuss that subject!  I shake my head and resume shaving.  Only a few strokes left.  My face is close enough in the mirror to see hers.

Her eyes find mine.  “I’ve been wanting to do this again.”  Her hand snakes out and caresses the hair on my chest.  First contact.

I shake my head and begin, “Shelley …”

“Bet you don’t remember.  Lacey and I tickled you here a lot when you took us to the beach.”

“That was years ago.”

“This hair is so springy.”  Her hand rubs harder and her nose touches the edge of my shoulder.  “I always loved the way you smell.”

“Shelley, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Tickling you again.”

“I can’t believe you’re down to playing with an old man.”

“You’re not so old.  Look in your shorts.”

Of course by now my cock has found its way out though the gap.  Good god!  Seeing it only makes it jump higher.

She goes on, “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Apparently she’s serious.  I take a deep breath.  “Okay.  Hold on one second and we’ll talk.”

I splash water in my face, dry it with a towel and tuck razor and shaving cream can back into the medicine cabinet.

Having jerked back to avoid the splash, Shelley asks disgustedly, “Why do men always throw water around?”

“It will evaporate.  Do you want to talk here or downstairs?”

She stands there with her jeans at half mast.  “If we go downstairs you’ll insist on getting dressed.”

“You have some objection to that?”

She doesn’t answer — or so I think at first.  What she does is toe off her sneakers, step out of her jeans, pull her blouse off over her head and wriggle out of her bra, the B-cup I recall from my daughter as a teenager.  She stands up naked except for a fine gold necklace and a colorful charm anklet on one leg.  Everywhere the skin matches her face, pale velvet shading to rose, the faintest of veins visible in the conical breasts with lumpy pink areolas wider than dollar coins — except for elaborate rose vine tattoos encircling the base of each breast.

My chin drops at sight of her decorations.  “My god, Shelley, how did you stand that?”

Her hands lift both breasts.  She grins proudly.  “They look real, don’t they?”

“Don’t tell me that’s silicon!”

“I mean the tattoos, silly.  They’re not.”

“Not … real?”

“I’m not such a dumb blonde!”  She arches an eyebrow and thrusts her chest closer.  “I did them just for you, six press-ons around each boob.  Do you like them?”

“Ah, ah, just for me?  Shelley, what in the world are you up to?”

Actions speak louder than words.  She drops on her knees to the jeans crumpled on the floor between us and like a flash slurps my stiff stander within those rose-bud lips.  Involuntarily I try to step back but fetch up cornered against sink and wall.  Her arms encircle my waist.  She sucks away, fast and noisy.

It looks like she’s got me.  Feels like it, too.  Above the waist I have this sinking feeling.  As a retired judge, I know only too well what the world thinks of an old man’s cock in a pubescent mouth, having sentenced plenty to prison for behavior even less outrageous.  Below the waist is the opposite feeling.  No doubt my judicial defendants felt the same.

Her cheeks collapse with suction.  With each stroke I can feel and see her pink upper lip snapping over the raised back edge of my glans.  That action grabs me even more than her tongue rasping on the urethral eye.  It’s almost enough to make me forget to ask why.  Almost.

With an effort of will I catch her shoulders and force her back.  “What the hell, Shelley?”

Her almost invisible eyebrows rise and she licks her lips.  “Don’t you like it?”

“Like it?  My god, who wouldn’t?  But what brought this on?  What were you thinking?”

With no expression she looks up at me and takes a breath.  “That we might be friends.”

“Friends!  You’re my granddaughter’s friend.”

“Couldn’t I be yours too?”

“Shelley, don’t you know that young girls don’t give blowjobs to their friends’ grandfathers?”

“But not all granddads are as sweet and kind as you.”

“Huh!  What has Lacey been telling you?”

“That you’re going to buy her a car when she turns 16.”

“If her mother will let her have it.”  I have to chuckle weakly.  “Don’t tell me you’re angling for a car!”

“Angling?”  She grins and licks her lips again.  “That’s not what you call it.”  She shakes herself.  “I told you: I’m not such a dumb blonde.  I know a car is too much money.”

“Then what are you after?”

Her eyes brighten.  “Dormeyers has this lovely blue gown that exactly matches my eyes.”

“Does it!”

“Oh, yes.  But I don’t have the money.”

“I see.  You’d like me to buy it for you.”

“If you would.”  She smiles winsomely.  “If I can angle you into it.”  She adds a cock-firming giggle.

For years I have maintained a private credit card for such expenditures, applied so far only to mail-order and web purchases of a certain kind.

“If I called Dormeyers and said I was sending a young lady to pick up a gown for my granddaughter, do you think you could manage your end if I gave you taxi fare?”

“Huh?  Oh, sure!”  Now her whole face is alight.

“How would you explain the dress to your mother?”

“Oh, Mom’s no problem.”

“What would you tell her?”

Her eyes twinkled.  “Borrowed it from Janice.”

“Another close friend?”

“Yeah.”  Her lip curled.  “Who thinks she’s pregnant.”

“At least blowjobs won’t do that.”

“I know.  Janice let them gangbang her.”

“Why didn’t she call —”

Shelley licks the tip of my cock: instant thrill.  I take a long shuddery breath and lose interest in Janice.  “I’m an old fool, my dear, but you’re just too sweet to pass up.”

“I’ll be really sweet for you, anytime you want.”

“Thank you, but I have to take some precautions.”

She sneers, “Not for a hook up!”

“A what?”


I ask incredulously, “Is that what you kids call a blowjob?

“It sounds better.  Do you want to use a rubber?”

I chuckle wryly.  “Different precautions.  I’ll be right back.”

In the bedroom I slip on a T-shirt, snatch the top sheet off the bed and return to the bathroom, holding it bunched before me.  “Take this end, get on your tip-toes and stuff it over the shower rod.”

Shortly we jury-rig a drab white backdrop in front of the shower curtain, trailing down to the floor and concealing the blue tub.   She follows me back to the bedroom and watches with interest as I take my camcorder down from the closet.  It’s a new one that records to flash-RAM instead of tape.  I used it during Lacey’s visit — including a sequence with Shelley — and have since cleared the RAM and recharged the battery.

“You’re making a video?” she asks brightly.

“Yes, I am, my dear — for my own protection, I’m afraid.”

“Your what?  You mean …  Oh, god, Judge, I sure won’t tell anybody!”

“I hope not.  But if it gets out, no one can claim you didn’t want to do it.”

That strikes her as reasonable.  “Okay,” she says, nodding and following me back to the bathroom.

Actually a video record is worse than useless for that — much worse.  Probatively speaking, it would only seal my statutory guilt if found in my possession.  But sometimes I admire my deviousness.  In this case the girl, though not “such a dumb blonde,” accepts my protection excuse, perhaps overlooking the potential for her sucking mouth to appear on screens all over the world.  The resulting record will provide me hours of delicious review, which is the real reason for making it of course.

She scoots her jeans over to the tub to make a kneepad on the tile and resumes her kneeling position while I turn on the camcorder and verify adequate light.  I start the recording.  In the display her grin is impish.  Her eyes exhibit a curious anticipation.

I dangle the camera by its side strap and draw nearer.  “You like this idea, don’t you?”

She tosses her head.  “I like what boys have.  Men have even more.”

“Yes, they do.  Poke out those pretty tits.”

“Like this?  Make sure you get my roses.”

My fingers caress a nipple near the autofocus lens.  I’ve taken close-ups of other flowers, less splendidly mounted, so understand the framing without watching the display.  Lumps rise all over both areolas in instant response and the nipple tips extend a quarter inch.

“Do you like me?” she asks, staring down cross-eyed at my hand.

“Shelley, you know you’re luscious.”

She giggles in pleasure.  “Everyone says that.”

I make a mental note to ask her about “everyone” later, suspecting I might not want the answer recorded for posterity.  I step closer but hold the camera further away to include pretty face and ugly cock in the same frame.  She only has to lean a few inches to kiss the tip.

“Squeeze my balls.”

I’m ready to tell her to go easy, but she obviously knows how to do it.  She rolls them gently around her curling fingers and resumes the knob polishing demonstrated earlier.  Her lips advance no further than half the shaft, still enough for me to feel a feathery touch in the back of her throat.  In my private video collection whores routinely take ten inches or more down to the balls, but my six inches have never been so well treated.  So far I’ve never had the opportunity to ask how deep-throating is done.

Often her eyes turn up to me as if verifying my approval.  Now and then she looks into the camera.  I wonder what she’s thinking.  No clue appears on the expressionless face.  Her head continues to bob forward and back with an occasional slurp of suction.  I believe she could keep it up for an hour without strain, tongue lash and all.  For sure she is no innocent, even if she only matches Lacey’s 15 years.  How many cocks must a girl suck to attain such indifferent complaisance?

The sight and feel of my crimson-headed, ropy-veined cock sliding in and out of this delicate face has to approach the most intense sexual experience of my life, at this moment well worth the risk.  It seems that even an old man will hazard everything for the chance to ravage pure beauty.  Ha!  Perhaps especially an old man.

I lean over and squeeze one tit firmly.  In aid of the ball fondler she brings up her other hand to pump.  This is soon unbearable.  I can hear myself groaning as the juice starts to rise from somewhere around my toes — or so it feels.  In a moment the first shot wets the back of her throat.  Her eyes snap up to mine.  She is not disturbed, merely curious about my reaction.  Her mouth loosens for the next squirt, which feels copious to me.  My last release was several days ago watching Peter South fill Belinda Suckmeister’s asshole to overflowing.  That was no comparison to this.  My knees weaken and I nearly drop the camera but keep spewing.

She ceases to pump but continues to bob gently and loosely.  She has closed her throat.  White fluid runs from both corners of her mouth, splashing to the inner curves of her breasts.  My eyesight dims but I keep resolute hold on the camera.

At last the spasms ease.  Her eyes lock on mine and her tongue continues to lave me.  I look around for some place to sit but can only lean against the wall with an extended arm.

She withdraws with a smile of relief.  “Wow!” she exclaims, mouth working.  “That’s a lot!”  Her tongue forces a white gob to the pursed lips and she blows a bluish three inch bubble.  She giggles as it pops, leaving a white spot on the tip of her button nose.

She swallows ostentatiously and asks, “Wouldn’t you like just a little more?”

I shake my head.  “No, dear.  I’m sure you’ve heard the expression, ‘shot his wad.’”

“Just to cool it down.”  She leans forward again and takes the knob carefully into her mouth.  She knows what she’s doing, I realize to the renewed pang of pleasure.  More than that: a spent dick in a pretty mouth, getting coated with its own effluent, has a particular charm.  Her lips and tongue stroke for half a minute more as the starch subsides.  Even then she seems reluctant to release me.

I turn off the camera.  “When do you want to go get your gown?”

She shrugs.  “No rush.  We’re still out of school.”  A thought occurs to her and her eyes widen.  “Did you have somewhere to go?”

Her lips sparkle.  She is quite a fetching sight, even to the owner of a half-soft cock, squatting there with tits thrusting out almost at right angles and chin dripping with my juice.

“Just to breakfast.”

“Good idea.  Take me.”

“Shelley, I’d love to, but we can’t be seen alone together.”

“Oh, yeah.”  She grins.  “I’m not used to us being an item.”

I grunt and say with heavy irony, “Neither am I!”

“I know: let me cook.”

“You can cook?”

“Eggs.  And bacon or sausage.  Got any?”

“I think so.  How much cooking have you done?”

“Sometimes my dad worked nights.  I cooked his breakfast lots of times.”

A cooked breakfast!  I chuckle at the incongruity of this whole morning — and it’s only 8:30.  Taking down a bath towel, I wipe her face and tits, scoop up her clothing off the floor and say, “Come on.”

She follows me into the bedroom, a sneaker dangling in each hand.  I throw her clothes on the bed, plop my butt on the edge, grab her around the waist and pull her into my lap.

“If we’re an item, Shelley, I want a good juicy kiss.”

“You’ll taste your come.”

“Won’t be the first time.”

She doesn’t lack enthusiasm.  Her arms fling around my neck, her mouth covers my lips and her tongue pursues mine avidly.  Not only a superb cocksucker, this midteener is also a great kisser.  Her butt cheeks are womanly cool and soft on my thighs, and I’ll never get tired of those tits!

Apparently I’m not so bad either.  When we break, she pants a little and says, “Oh, Judge, you make my pussy wet.”

“That’s what I call charming frankness, my dear, but be careful whom you so advise.”

“I’m not telling anyone about you.”  She giggled.  “‘So advise!’  What kind of talk is that?”

“Old habit.  Turn around here.”

She lets me deposit her on the bed beside me.  I slip to the floor, knees on the padded carpet, take a calf in each hand and drape her legs over my shoulders as I nuzzle between them.  She tastes like a woman, a very young one who hasn’t bathed yet this morning: delicious!  Though I suspect boys would fail to appreciate it.

“Oh, Judge!” she breathes just before cool thighs clamp my ears.

She is responsive: shuddering, moaning, internal muscles twitching, crying out incoherently but loud enough to reach my blocked ears every time my tongue approaches the lumpy little clit.  I cannot recall the last time I enjoyed eating out such a sweet one.

I guess she might enjoy the internal approach and push two stiff fingers under my chin, fumbling the labia open, meaning to caress the clitoris from behind.  They strike a barrier.  She tenses and twists back, knees opening.  “That hurts!” she cries distinctly.

I raise my head to stare at her flushed face.  “You’re a virgin!”

She grits her teeth.  “So is Lacey.”

“Incredible!” I admit and shaking my head, resume the tongue work.  Soon her legs close again.  As her responses intensify, this time I attack the clit more directly.  She screams and tosses her body around, finally shoving my face away.  I wipe it on the pillow case and get to my feet.

She falls back on the bed, panting and grinning at me.  “Oh, god, Judge, I love that.”

“So do I, Shelley.”

She rose up impulsively and hugged me tightly around the hips.  With my painfully re-erected cock almost in her ear, she declares, “And I love you.”

“That’s mutual,” I agree, stroking the shining head.

She looks up at me through strands of hair in her eyes, softly golden even in the dim light.  “You don’t mind … not fucking?”

“What do you call what we’ve been doing?”

“Hooking up.  The sucking part, at least.  I’m hungry.”

“In a moment.  You enjoyed my tongue?”

“Did I ever!  It’s been a long time.”

“Would you like for me to do it again?”

“Even though I’m a cherry?”

“Why not?”

“I would, if we can hook up again too.”

“I believe that’s guaranteed.  And Shelley, just to give you the idea, if you keep really quiet about this, you may find it to your great advantage.  You might even come to think of me as an important resource.”

“A resource?”

“I’m getting ahead of myself.”  Though how we could meet safely with my observant wife always in and out I’ve yet to figure out.  With a sigh I hand her the jeans, panties still immersed.  “Get dressed in case somebody comes in, and I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

Her grin flashes.  “Otherwise we could go naked.”

“Do you like going naked?”

“Oh, yeah.  It’s so much easier to get started when you’re naked.”  Ducking her head and still grinning, she adds, “Like with you this morning.”


* * *


I suppose it’s a testimonial to my wife’s organizational sense.  By the time I’m dressed and downstairs Shelley has not only found everything, she is warming sausage patties in the microwave, has buttered the frying pan and has filled it with unshelled eggs that she is now scrambling with a wooden spoon.  Flame peeks blue with yellow flecks under pan and water kettle.  While descending I heard eggshells grinding in the disposal.

“I don’t see a percolator,” she comments as I take my seat at the table, already set with two plates, napkins and silverware.

“Because instant is too easy.”

She nods.  “I guessed.”

“How did you guess I like them scrambled?”

She grins.  “You always did.”

I’m suddenly reminded that this expert cocksucker has taken almost as many breakfasts at this table as my granddaughter.

“Are you little-miss-efficiency at everything?” I ask, careful to smile.

“You mean at finding things?  I pay attention.”

“It’s more than that, Shelly.”

She blinks.  “What more?”

“For example, I’m impressed at how easily you found my juice.”

She looks inquiringly at the refrigerator.  “But I didn’t see —”  Her eyes snap back to me.  “Oh, that kind of juice!”  She giggles confidently.  “That’s easy as finding a puddle in the rain.”

I shake my head.  “Not that easy.  Don’t you think it’s more like riding a bike?”

She studies me but keeps stirring the eggs.  “Maybe.”

“Who was your training bike, Shelley?”

For a moment her eyes narrow.  She shrugs, looking away at the toaster just popping up.  “You know: boys.”

“Just boys?”

“Who else?”  She giggles again.  “I don’t have a dog.”

“A dog couldn’t teach what you know.”

I want to add, And neither could boys, but decide to hold off on that investigation, at least until my share of those eggs, now smelling good, is in my gut.

The microwave dings.  I go to it, burn my finger in the center of one patty, fetch them all to the table and divide them between our plates.  I see steam at the kettle spout.

“Do you drink coffee, my dear?”

“I want a coke.”

“With ice?”


“Coming up.”

I take care of the drinks while she transfers hissing aromatic gold from frying pan to plates, adds the toast, sticks pan in sink and turns off the stove.

“Fast, efficient and delicious,” I announce after chewing my first bite, not adding my thought, Exactly like you.

“Thank you,” she says gravely around her own mouthful.  “Daddy liked it too.”

“Who taught you to cook for him, your mother?”

Venom again.  “Not her!  She can’t do anything.”

“But these truly are good.  You even know to let most of the salt come from the sausage.  And a lot of cooks burn at least a little brown into scrambled eggs.”

“You have to stir fast.”

“What else do you do so well?  How are your grades?”

“A’s and B’s.  I’m always on the B honor roll.”

“I’ll bet that’s true.”

“You’d win.”

“How about socially?  Belong to any clubs?”

“A few, like the Boosters.  I don’t go much.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the Boosters are supposed to help the jocks.”  She produces a giggly snort around her eggs.  “Maybe they do.  They sure do hook them up!  But you don’t need a club for that.”

“‘Hook up,’” I repeat, recalling her earlier definition.  “All the girls do that nowadays?”

“Just about.  It’s not so dangerous.”

“Not dangerous?”

“Not so catching.”  She shudders.  “Not like the brown.”

I decide not to verify my “brown” guess.  “Oral sex is not so catching, maybe, if you have healthy gums.”

“Oh, I do!”

“But don’t your clubs have other purposes?  Where do the girls go to compare boys these days?”

She sniffs.  “I don’t get along with girls.  What’s to compare anyway?  Big pects or little pects, big cocks or little cocks, it’s still just pects and cocks.”

“‘Pects.’  Pectoral muscles?”

“What I’d have if I didn’t have boobs.”

“You still have them.  But don’t you care what’s between a boy’s ears?”

She grins cynically.  “Not much there.”  The grin fades and she adds earnestly, “A man’s ears — that’s different.”

“Know a lot of men, do you?”

“Not like you, Judge.  Only one.”

“Only one other?”

“My daddy.”

I study her.  She glances up, down at her plate, back up, faintly blushing.  Can it be that she knows him in the same way she has suddenly learned me?

Before I can decide how to ferret for that fact, she has a surprising question for me.  “Can they tell when you’ve hooked up?”

“Can who tell?”

“Anybody.  The cops.”

I nod gravely.  “Sometimes they recover semen from the mouths of gang-rape victims.”  I allow a smile.  “Are you thinking of the cops checking your mouth if they catch you parking somewhere?”

“Would they do that?”

“Not if you don’t complain.  They need your permission unless you’re dead.”

“Oh.”  Her face brightens and she seems relieved.

“Shelley, what’s the story on your father?”

“The story?”

“Why doesn’t he have visitation privileges?”

She looks away.  She caught us.”

At what?  I gather up the last of my egg to eat with the last bite of sausage.  My curiosity is undeniable.  “How long has it been since you saw him?”

She heaves a large sigh.  Her plate is already clean.  “When I was 13.”

“And you’re 15 now?”

She nods and swallows as if making a decision.  “Judge Blaine, you know lots of important people.  Can you help me get to see him again?”

I study her earnest face.  “Do you know if any kind of visitation was allowed in the divorce?”

“I don’t think it mentioned that.  He’s staying away because … because she said she’d rat on him.”

“What did he do to you, Shelley?”

Her eyes narrow.  “The same as you.”

It’s my turn to take a deep breath.  “He’s the one who …”

“Taught me what boys want and how to give it to them.  He taught me to hook up.”

“I see.”

“Can you help me?”

I touch the implication gingerly.  Maybe I’d better help her!  “It’s possible,” I say slowly, “although it won’t be very nice.”

“Why not?”

“We might have to … find a way to make her want to keep quiet.”

Shelley looks at me steadily.  “She told him she wrote it up where it would be found if anything happened.”

I chuckle disarmingly.  “I don’t mean that kind of way.”

“But if something did …”  She looks down at her empty plate, shakes herself then stands up.  “Are you finished?”

“Soon as I sip my coffee.  Ready to get that gown?”

“Oh, yeah, the gown.”

In a jiffy all soiled utensils and cookware are rinsed and thrust into the dishwasher.  She comes around the table, hugs me and seeks my lips.  We kiss like old lovers.

When we break, she says, “Thanks for breakfast.”

I take a deep breath.  “Thanks for wanting an old man.”

She giggles.  “You’re not that old, Judge.”

“Apparently not.”

Her expression becomes serious.  “I need a shower.”

“You can take that here.”

“And fresh clothes.  And my own makeup.  Your wife’s doesn’t match my colors.”

“I suppose not.  But a zitless 15-year-old hardly needs makeup.  It’s called gilding the lily.”

Her eyes flash.  “You need it in Dormeyers!”

I shrug and spread my hands.  “As you wish.  When should I call in my card number?”

“Why don’t I call you when I’m ready?”

“Okay.”  I extract a couple twenties from my wallet.  “Here’s taxi fare.”

“Thanks, Judge.”  She takes the money and nuzzles my neck.  “I do love you.”

“You’re my sweetheart, Shelley.”

“You know it!”

She scampers out the back door.  Hurrying to the window, I watch her pass through the hedge between the properties.  I feel a sense of repletion, layered on remote anticipation.  And fear.  What puddle of poo have I thrust my foot into now?  More precisely, what in hell have I let happen?

“You old fool,” I mutter aloud, “you’ve put the rest of your life in the hands of a conniving teenager with a mighty sharp ax to grind.”

Why didn’t I think of that a bit earlier?  The answer of course is I did but ignored it.  She’s everything I said: fast, efficient and delicious, but I can’t decide whether she has honor or not.  Sucking a cock expertly does not speak to that, whatever the girl’s age or society’s opinion.  Yet the quality of my future hinges entirely on that question.

“You’ll find out,” I conclude darkly — then recall the video clip awaiting me upstairs.  At least I’ll get to see my gnarly cock stuck into that glowing face one more time, even if she turns me in soon as she’s home.

The telephone begins to ring while I’m halfway up the stairs.  The cops already?  I imagine the exchange as I rush: “Judge Blaine, we’ve received some very disturbing information.” / “Information about whom?” / “About you.”

But it’s not the cops; it’s actually worse.  Shelley’s distraught voice declares, “Oh, god, Judge!  I just found Mom lying all crumpled at the bottom of the stairs.  She’s not breathing.  What should I do?”

That’s when the games begin.