FYI, Mariska is over the age of consent.

Later…to this day I do not know if it was a dream or if it really happened, but it is still vivid in my mind. I roused to some state of consciousness not yet awake, feeling a tiny hand gently caressing the length of my already excited manhood and kisses on my stomach, moving slowly down, caressing the tip with breaths of hot air and tiny, gentle touches of a warm tongue. I was exhausted and could not bring myself to wake, so I just enjoyed the dream…it was the second I had experienced in my lifetime, and I was beginning to appreciate them.

“Mariska?” I asked, or at least I think I did. There was no reply. The sensation of being kissed stopped, and I had the feeling of being straddled, cool, firm thighs on the outsides of mine. I felt a hand grasping me, slowly and gently, and then slowly…so very, very slowly…my manhood embraced by the heat, wetness, and incredible tightness that was the dream that was making love to me. Somewhere in my mind it registered that it was too good…that there was no way that we could fit that perfectly…it was that suspension of reality that let me stay in the gentle arms of slumber and let me enjoy the dream that was unfolding before me.

I heard her gasp as she lowered herself completely on to me, feeling the heat of her against me. She leaned forward, kissing my chest, and I cupped her bottom in my hands, holding her close to me and beginning to rock back and forth, thrusting gently. She angled her hips to accommodate me and began to rock slowly in an opposite rhythm, meeting my slow, steady thrusts. I could feel her breath quicken and her womanhood grip me more tightly as her tempo increased, and as she took one of my nipples in her mouth and nibbled gently, I went over the edge. I cupped her bottom tightly, and thrusting in one stroke as hard as I could, let go deep inside her, a low growl issuing from deep in my throat. She rocked her hips against me to heighten the sensation as I did. It wasn’t a violent orgasm, rather a tranquil one, reminiscent of ocean waves crashing against the rocks of a lonely shore. I felt a kiss on my cheek, and heard the whispered words-

“This girl loves Mr. Marlowe.”

In my dream, I whispered them back.

LATER

Her eyes came to rest on the box on the table. “This girl hopes it pleases Mr. Marlowe.”

I walked over and picked it up. It was a plain cardboard box tied with a simple piece of string, very unlike the bright and plentiful packaging that accompanied everything else, and it jingled as I shook it.

“You shouldn’t have.” I said, untying the string and opening the box.

“The gift is for this girl as well, Mr. Marlowe.”

I opened the box. Sitting on a cushion of plain cotton batting was a set of silver ankle bells, quite different from any I had ever seen. The were not the dainty, stylish kind one would find a young woman wearing on a beach somewhere; they were heavy and sturdily built, the part that would circle the ankle being heavy silver links, almost an inch wide, made of small, interwoven links. Suspended from that were small silver bells, too numerous to count. I picked one up, feeling their weight and hearing the soft jingle of the innumerable bells.

“This girl hopes Mr. Marlowe is pleased…she knows that he likes bells.” She said in a low voice.

“I am pleased, little one.” I said, smiling at her. “Thank you.” And I really was, although a bit too heavy in my mind, they were beautifully made, and the thought of her wearing them stirred something in me that was indescribably erotic.

“Will Mr. Marlowe put them on?” She asked in that same voice, her eyes lifting to meet mine, at the same time lithely stretching, lying on her back, raising a leg and offering a tiny ankle. I walked over to her, and with shaking hands, managed to fasten the intricate clasps around one offered ankle, then the other. Her eyes never left mine; after I finished, she got to her knees. She put her hands around my neck, gently pulling me down to her, kissing me; it was the softest, sweetest, most tender kiss I have ever known, even to this day.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Marlowe.” She said, running her fingers through my hair. “This girl loves you, very, very much.” I could feel the heat of her tiny body and smell her subtle scent, enhanced by a delicate perfume.

At this point I could write volumes about morality and decency and choices and fate…but it would be irrelevant; the long and short of the matter is that every wall I had carefully built over the years to keep myself separate from others, from being hurt, from letting myself be vulnerable enough to love, were obliterated in that instant, gone as if they never existed. I put my arms around her, pulling her close, returning her kiss.

“I love you too, little one.” I told her. “I’ll never let you go.”

Very little else was said that night. Our kisses started slowly and tentatively; I ran my fingers over her body, touching her face, feeling and caressing every part of her. She reached up, unbuttoning my shirt, and ran her fingers through the curls of my chest hair and gently caressed my nipples. It was as if every nerve in my body was on fire, and it was then that I learned the true meaning of desire. Lust is a physical thing; what I felt is completely different-a wanting, a longing, an almost desperate need to take her, and at least for a short time, become one with her. She finished with my shirt and belt and was gently running short fingernails down the underside of my painfully swollen manhood, just as I found the tiny, swelling bud of her clitoris. The effect was instantaneous, her hips arching forward against me, and her breath exhaling in a staccato of short, hitching gasps.

“Please, Mr. Marlowe.” She shuddered in my arms, seeming already in the throes of an orgasm. “L…let this girl pleasure you.” Her words came in between the slow, rhythmic convulsions that seemed to consume her.

“No, little one.” I said, lying her down and removing what was left of our clothes. “The pleasure is mine.”

Some hours later as we rested in the afterglow her head on my shoulder as she held me, fast asleep, I reflected on what had happened. We had made love, and it was different from anything I had experienced in my thirty-five years on this Earth. Although she was small, in every way small, she was surprisingly strong and, for lack of a better word, durable. After the few slow minutes that we were still after I entered her, letting her small form adjust to my size (It was exactly as my dream had been.), she started moving under me, urging me on, a radiant smile on her face.

I was afraid of hurting her and I told her so; she responded by wrapping her arms and legs around me, pulling me deeper into her. Our first time was frenzied and passionate, as if trying to catch up on all the opportunities we had missed. The second time that night was the opposite; we took our time, nibbling and caressing, tasting and exploring. She was the most intuitive lover I have ever known, seeming to know by instinct the things that excited me. She had no concept of the word “Taboo.”; she saw her body as a means to give and receive pleasure, in whatever form that might take. To me it was frightening in a way; I had never known a woman of any age that acted with the unbridled passion and complete liberation that Mariska did.

There was one more thing that set our lovemaking apart, something I never would have known except or her showing me…

How lovely bells can sound.

LATER

I reached over, resting my hand on her knee. She took it in hers, bringing it up and kissing my fingers. I looked over at her; she was looking back with smoldering eyes, a predatory smile on her face.

“This girl loves Mr. Marlowe.” She said in a husky voice.

“I love you too.” I said, smiling at her.

She took my hand and rested it back on her knee, slowly moving it over the fishnet stockings, up to the inside of her dress. I mad two discoveries in rapid succession; the first being that she had not worn underclothes, the second being that she had shaven herself completely.

“You’re going to make me wreck Portia’s car, little one.” I managed to say.

“Mr. Marlowe is always careful.” She said huskily. She had taken my middle finger and was gently caressing the flower petal-like lips of her womanhood, stopping occasionally to softly press the firm little nub of her clitoris. She was incredibly wet; I told her so, in something resembling a whisper, quite beyond coherent speech.

“This girl is always this way for Mr. Marlowe.” She purred. “It is her purpose.” I did not argue with her. She had moved herself down in the seat, her legs spread slightly, holding my two middle fingers firmly, moving her womanhood against them in an ever-increasing rhythm. It was all I could do not to pull the car over there on the freeway and risk an arrest for public indecency.

Her breathing turned into an unending series of short gasps and I could feel the beginning tremors of her impending climax.

“Love…Mr….Marlowe.” She said as she climaxed, her womanhood clenching my fingers with amazing strength, every other muscle in her body contracting in waves. I looked over at her-her hair had come out of its braid, and beads of perspiration jeweled her forehead, a wan smile on her face.

“Please hurry home, Mr. Marlowe.” She purred.

“Going as fast as I can, little one.” I replied. Believe me, I really was.

She had moved my hand back up and was kissing my fingers, when, what seemed like an eternity later, we arrive at Hollingsworth Manor. I stepped around and opened the door for her, helping her out of the car. She got up on what seemed unsteady feet, so I swept her up in my arms, opened the door, and carried her up to our room.

It was a combined effort to see who could get my clothes off faster. Not removing hers, I picked her up. She wrapped her fishnet-clad legs around me, and in one fluid motion, lowered herself onto me, impaling herself on my manhood. A low moan issued from her and she was still for a moment. I was suddenly worried.

“Did I hurt you?” I asked her, concerned.

“No, Mr. Marlowe.” She said, starting to rock her hips against me, “Fuck this girl, please.”

I wrapped an arm around her to hold her, and with the other slapped her on the bottom with my open palm.

“I asked you not to use that word, little one.” I told her.

“This girl meant what she said.” She said in an almost feral tone. “Fuck…this….girl. Use this girl for pleasure.”

It was not anger that I felt exactly, but the urge to continue spanking her was too much. With an open palm, I set out to thoroughly redden her bottom. The effect on her was evident; her arms wrapped around my neck, her womanhood contracting in waves around me. Her gasps became sobs, awash in an orgasm that seemed to have no end. My palm was stinging when I stopped. She was limp, save for her arms around my neck and the gentle thrust of her hips against me. When I went to lay her on the bed, she pulled me down with her, not unwrapping her legs. She dug her not-so-short fingernails into my back and nipped me hard at the nape of my neck.

“Mr. Marlowe,” She growled. “Take this girl now, please.”

In every man there is an animal that lives in a dark place in his soul, call it his essence, his id, whatever. It is a creature of all base emotions, incapable of coherent thought. It knows love, hate, jealousy, passion, and lust, very little more. She brought that out-the urge to possess, the urge to take, the urge to copulate in the most primitive of ways. It was as if a cloud descended over my mind and I became that creature. Part of me was scared, but another part was exhilarated beyond anything I can describe. I reached behind me, taking her ankles, bringing them around and resting them on my chest, then taking her hands and pinning them above her, immobilizing her.

My thrusts started slowly, but soon accelerated into a quick, savage, pounding rhythm. Part of me was coherent enough to look down into her eyes, surprised to find them almost serene, a smile on her face, punctuated by occasional intakes of breath and gasps as I, without any pretense of tenderness or finesse, savagely had my way with her. As I came close to my climax, I let go of her hands, pulling her close to me and holding her by the remains of her ponytail, pinning her again. She wrapped her arms and legs around me, fingernails scratching and stiletto heels digging into the small of my back.

Then it happened…the words orgasm or climax or any other term in existence cannot begin to describe the sensation that crashed over me. It was heaven, both pain and exquisite pleasure at the same time. Part of me heard an animal growl, while another part realized that it was coming from me. It seemed to last for an eternity, but somewhere along the line sane thought returned. The haze cleared, and I looked down at Mariska.

“It’s about time.” A voice in my head said sagely, and then disappeared.

She looked up at me and smiled, caressing my face with tiny fingers as a blind person would to memorize someone’s face. Disheveled wouldn’t come close to describing her state, or mine, for that matter. Both of us were drenched with perspiration, hair matted and wet to the touch.

“My God.” I said. “Are you ok?”

“This girl is wonderful.” She said, a small smile on her face.