Sometimes, Vic reflected, all that he wanted was a play and a fuck, none of the rest. Just some filthy playing, and then a nice slow, and equally filthy, fuck.
You couldn't do that in the UK, of course. In the UK, and most other countries, he'd need to set himself up first, either as a kind and benevolent neighbour, or as a nice person in a chat room, someone who understood kids and agreed with his prey; the kindly uncle, the concerned teacher, the teasing adult who disagreed with parents. Months of hard work, of cautious chat, of delicate persuasion, of deliberate intrigue, insinuation and trickery. Slowly, cautiously, worming his way into an impressionable girl's panties.
There was fun in doing all that, of course. It was almost a pity when the child actually succumbed, actually took a hold of his cock and followed his instructions. As he divested them of their child like innocence at a pace only slightly slower than the removal of their clothing, so also would his interest in them wane.
Nude, their innocence gone, so was their appeal. He could get kids like that for pennies in India. And in the suburbs of any large city, whatever country you were in, there were a stack of teenagers all more than willing to drop their panties for you for the price of a hit, assuming they wore any in the first place.
But sometimes, it wasn't the game he wanted; it was the fuck, the fucking with a pretty little innocent, the slow undressing, the timid look on her face as he touched them privately, the revelation as he taught them to enjoy it.
The answer, of course, is to travel to a country where such things are common.
International travel is so much easier now. There are a choice of planes, a choice of entry points, a choice of routes to your final destination. So let the UK think you're going to Athens on holiday. A car ride, a train, a coach and a ferry, and another couple of days travel and you're off the tourist route and into an area where laws are few and far between, and where money is the key influence to obtaining anything.
Wherever you go, there is always a man who can get you what you want, at the right price.
Vic haggled, because that was what was expected of him. He haggled while seated at the outside café where thick white paint pealed off of the outside walls and the old poster proclaiming Coke to be the world's best would have fetched a fortune on Ebay, sipping thick black coffee and watching the children play around the small well situated in the middle of the cobbled and empty street. Children between eight and ten in dirty skin and colourful clothing, worn shoes, grazed knees and squealing voices. They played without a care in the world, the adults ignored, flashes of over-worn panties ignored. It could have been Italy in the 30s.
His contact agreed on one hundred dollars, a year's income to the locals, and he was sure to pocket half of it. The mother can be present, Vic agreed, can in fact help if she chooses. His cock twitched with the mental image of a handsome woman, her eyes alight from within, holding her pale young daughter down, watching avidly as his adult cock drew her little pussy apart. An extra ten dollars for the grandfather, because it would be he that would have normally undertaken the child's education, have sat her on his lap and slowly inserted himself into her little pussy, deflowering her while rocking her slowly to his and her satisfaction, then to pass the child over to his wife, who would have educated her in what to do afterwards, minimising on the advent of an unwanted pregnancy.
Vic watched the children play, imagining them naked, little sexes lying between their legs, legs that were thin but strong; that could clench around his probing hand as he slid it down their tapering abdomens. Flat bellies, smooth and firm young skin and stick like limbs, long necks and excited young faces, dark eyes brimming with playful excitement. They continued playing, unaware of the lewd thoughts their playing was bringing to the stranger at the cafe. As they played their skirts were flipped up, more than enough to give him images of slender pelvises and pert little bottoms, such sights burning on his retina for later consumption.
They rose and Vic followed his guide, walking with an ambling gate past the children who peered up at him in curiosity. He smiled down at them and walked past, wondering what they might do with his erection, what their expression might be when his cock spurted his seed over those cute little faces.
The guide led him to one house; the cousin of a friend of his. He spoke rapidly to the man who answered, and Vic smiled in reply to the glances he was given before following his guide into the property. 'House' was too grand a title for the rude bricked frontage into which the unfinished front door stood.
Noise assailed him as he moved into the property. Music, the clatter of pans, the cry of a baby, the screaming of one woman, undoubtedly telling the squealing kids to be quiet, and the sounds of a TV droning on in the background; they washed over and though him. There were smells of earth, of washing, incense and spices. Vic smiled at the faces around him; the grandparents, the in-laws, the wide eyed children, and the mother at the kitchen door, a hand rising to mask her face.
The guide spoke rapidly and parents exchanged looks while the mother dropped her hand, and the veil. The mother spoke, clearly distrustful. Her husband answered, his tone demanding obedience. She left. Had he upset her?
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Mr Double's Palisade A MrDouble Production:
Changes last made on: Monday, July 25, 2011