Dreamed 1980/9/7 by Chris Wayan
I'm sitting on the beach at Penticton, British Columbia, on Lake Okanagan. A girl of twelve or thirteen walks up and starts talking to me, flirting with me. She's quite cute, in her little sunglasses and flipflops and a long shirt over her swimsuit. A real Lolita, and, as she leans closer, her thighs in my face, I try to hide that I'm getting turned on, not wanting to upset her.
But she spreads her towel out next to mine, and as we chat, snuggles up against me. I feel reassured, and relax, lie down, and put my arms around her. We kiss, get giggly and stupid...
So naturally, we dig a crater in the sand together, and crawl down into our sandy burrow and pull a blanket on top. She nestles up tight against me. I know she can feel my erection bursting out of my suit, between her thighs. I worry it'll freak her out. She slides the shirt up over her bottom. She's naked underneath! She only wore the swim top.
Wait, she PLANNED this?
Suddenly, the earth moves. No, literally. The sand under us heaves and boils and a man flounders up out of the sand-crater under us, like a giant ant-lion! He leers and winks at us.
Ugh--it's Bill. He's this alcoholic I know. Sober at the moment, but angry as always. More toxic than the booze. Bill spits the sand from his mouth and sneers "You don't know about her, do you? She plays innocent, but she sleeps with different guys every night! She ENJOYS the game of seducing adults."
She slides down tighter against me and sticks her tongue out at Bill.
Funny, but his accusation backfires. Oh, I believe him, that she was just pretending to be innocent, and really enjoyed all my blushes and moral qualms. But that just makes me stop feeling guilty. I like her too much to be mad about it. So...
Hidden by sand from everyone but sour old Bill, I put my hand under her shirt and tickle her bare pussy. She laughs and grabs the head of my penis, between her thighs. We both giggle wickedly, excited by the risk of being caught and the certainty we're infuriating Bill, caught under us, being made out on, like a bad-tempered mattress...
But not for long. Ignoring him, we get up, and hand in hand, walk two blocks inland to her motel--really a small hotel or boarding house. Into the lobby, up the stairs...
But the reason we came is not why you think. We could have fucked right on the beach, in the open. Except for Bill, who was getting squashed, no one cared at all! No... we didn't come here for sex. For something much more personal. And taboo.
We pause at the upstairs landing. From it descend three separate stairwells. She kisses me and says "It's time. Choose one and toss me!" Not a big enough drop to hurt her much... except her pride, if the word gets out. For these are the Stairs of Judgment! Do I judge her worthy of Well A (wonderful), Well B (okay) or Well C (disastrous)?
She's never been judged a disaster, but she's quiet, a bit scared: I suddenly have all the power. Absolute freedom to judge her as I truly see her, unswayed by others, or even by desire. Bare judgment--my truth, and nothing more.
It'd humiliate her terribly to be judged inadequate--not the hot, crazy, precocious, irresistable slut she longs to be. But I must be absolutely honest, not award her the Slut Crown unless she truly deserves it.
I think it over hard, lift her in my arms, walk to the brink, kiss her solemnly, and choose...
NOTES IN THE MORNING
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