It was autumn, but only because the calendar decreed it thus. Summer still lurked in the bushes and slipped in unseen behind the wind and hovered, flat and thick, near the ground, refusing to surrender territory it had spent three months subduing and colonizing. The sun rose later and fell earlier, in the normal rhythm, but even that seemed to be either a cause or an effect of the confusion of the seasons, not the conventional working of the solar system. It was a confusion of that scope and power, the overlay of two essential primacies, that simultaneously lifted my thoughts that day and suppressed them. We are in control of very little in this world, and this particular day I felt myself to be in control of virtually nothing: I was, in fact, controlled. And in stark opposition to my own nature, I wanted it absolutely no other way.

Believing our wholly-unexpected assignation to be at an end, I took a shaky step away from the oak tree against which I’d been leaning, and glanced away from the too-young girl I’d just fallen in love with, and who was “seeing” our future together by some means unknown and unknowable to me. We were standing there, together, away from the Friday-night concert-in-the-park crowd — well, not all of it, since we were visible to a few dozen of the several hundred patrons, at a slight distance — and away from her parents, her teenaged girlfriends, and my wife. Within the space of only minutes, she had lured me to this tree, given me a series of through-the-pants handjobs, driven me to three groups of massive orgasms (I say “groups”, because the third set was actually several orgasms that individually had no discernable beginning or end, and which I couldn’t count), told me she was fourteen years old, and then announced that we were going to have more than one illegitimate child before she would be old enough to marry me without her parents’s permission. As I sit here writing this, I’m fully aware of how incredulous you are in reading it: none of this, not one bit, contains any measurable logic. I admit it, that this whole thing makes no sense. A previously happy, content, stable, married man and father, connecting with a schoolgirl. All I can tell you is that in AmberWorld, an entirely different system of logic attains, and that when you speak with Amber, when you’re in Amber’s presence or talking with Amber on the phone or via Skype, you readily and eagerly adopt that logic system and are completely happy to do so.

Amber, by the way, is her name, in case you’ve not read of her before, or met her yourself. I learned that name only after she’d brought me to the end of that third group. That was the point at which she told me her name, but not the point at which the orgasms ended for me that evening. See? That, too, defies belief and logic, and yet, as it transpired in its own order and at its own pace that night, it all seemed perfectly reasonable and perfectly right. And just perfect. She told me her name was Amber, and then told me that “pretty soon, it’s going to be ‘Amber McElliott’.” She was telling me that we would be married: my name is Hank McElliott, and though she took on my name and used it in a happy, dreamy way, she was stating it as pure fact, not fantasy. She’d already proven some kind of psychic ability by repeatedly reading my thoughts without trying to prove that ability, and I believed she could either see or affect future events, so I took her at her word: we would be a couple and we would have children. Again, I know you doubt this, and her, and me, but it happened and it all seemed right.

I was in my mid-forties, and had a wife there with me at the concert, though I’d lost track of her when I drifted away from her claiming to need to take a leak, and instead followed Amber away from her group of girlfriends to a point at the edge of the park, out of sight of everyone except those moving toward and away from the restrooms or to or from the parking area. We’d been standing behind or to the side of a tree when she’d done her magic on me. Believe me when I tell you: what this child did to me, what she knew how to do to a man, was real magic. You may or may not believe that true magic exists in the world, but it does and Amber wields that power. The mind-reading, had it happened only once, could be written off to coincidence or happenstance, but she’d done it several times, all within a short span, and that precluded any alternative explanation. It also made me aware of how guarded I needed to be in my thinking, should any thought enter my mind other than one that Amber allowed there, although the longer I was next to her, the fewer of my own thoughts I seemed to have, all of mine being squeezed out by either her thoughts or my thoughts of her.

She had, after she’d taken me to repeated orgasms, drawn several comparisons between herself and my wife, designed to make it clear to me — as if I didn’t know — how superior she was to Cindy. What she’d said was offensive and insulting to Cindy, but it just excited me beyond description, to have such a female so knowing and so sure and so overwhelmingly possessive and so sexual. Amber was absolutely superior to Cindy in terms of sexuality, sensuality and skill, and adventurousness, and I loved the fact that this was true and was looking forward to some of the experimentation that Amber and I might engage in as our relationship grew. There were two things, in particular, that I’d always dreamed of, and fantasized about; one of which Cindy tried once and hated, and one of which she refused to even try. Those things passed through my mind at the tree, fleetingly, and then flew away with the distraction of having a hot, hungry, demanding young blonde working me over: the reality was better than the fantasy, and so the fantasy departed.

I realized that I’d been gone a long time from the spot where Cindy — my wife of nearly twenty-five years (our anniversary would be in November) — and I had been sitting, because there was still a small amount of daylight covering the park when I’d gotten up to make my trip, and now it was completely dark. Also, I knew that I’d missed an intermission by the orchestra because they were playing again now, and the break had been about to begin when I left, so I figured to be in deep trouble for being gone so long and was anxious to find her and try to apologize or make amends or take my medicine. I took that weak step away from the tree where Amber had first touched me, intending to return to my chair and blanket and picnic basket and wife, but was interrupted when I felt her hand wrap itself around my elbow, stopping me in my tracks. I had tried to kiss her a moment before, but she rejected that, explaining that she didn’t want anyone to see us “kissing or sexing”, because we both had people there at the concert and we shouldn’t look so obvious. That kind of circumspection in a teenager is rare, as you certainly know, but Amber is a rare child. Very rare.

So, I didn’t know what to expect when she stopped me, though I knew it wasn’t going to be for a public display of affection. Even though darkness had laid itself over the park, there were lights trained on the band shell, the occasional gas lamp spaced throughout the park, lights at the bathroom facility and at the parking lot beyond, so we did have a some light reaching us. I still wanted to hold her, kiss her, feel her body on mine, and so I reached once again, and was deflected once again. “Not right now”, she directed. “One of those two special things, I’m going to give you right now”, she continued, “and the other I’m going to give you later tonight, when we’re at home.” Without my having had the opportunity to digest and understand what she was saying, or that she was referring to the two things I’d just thought but not said, or that she was talking about being “at home” as a “we” unit, “later tonight”, none of which got processed right away, she carefully pressed me back against the tree again, in the same position I’d been occupying, and told me to lean against it, which I did. The worries about being absent from my wife for too long, from seconds before, vanished, and all I could think about was Amber and whatever it was she was about to do. She stepped in closer to me, as if about to hug me, though I knew that wasn’t happening. She stepped to her left, a half-step, placed her right foot between my feet, and her left foot outside mine, straddling my right leg. My back was to the bathroom crowd, against the tree, and I was not thinking of my wife, or our three grown children, or my life, or my work, or my standing in the community, or anything except the fourteen-year-old standing before me.

I was looking at her, waiting, and she was looking at me. “Do you really love me?”, she asked, knowing the answer in advance. I’d told her precisely that, so there was no mind-reading on this score; I’d said it, and I’d meant it, and she knew it. “Yes, Amber, I do: I do love you, I do, I really do”, I said, nervously and excitedly repeating thoughts of which I was certain, while so many others raced without lingering. She laughed at how easily she could knock me off-balance, get me to capitulate, sex me into submission, and replied, “I like it that you said ‘I do’ to me, Hank, because it’s not the last time you’ll say it to me: it’s good for you to practice”. She glanced downward, adjusted her stance a little, and then resumed looking into my eyes. “But for now, I want you to say something else to me. Will you do that?”, she said. “Of course” was the only answer to give such a girl, no matter what she wants, no matter what she asks, no matter when: you just say you’ll do whatever she wants and then you’ll pray that she doesn’t leave you. Ever. And so, “Of course” was the answer I gave. She said, “I want you to say, ‘Don’t stop’.” As I told you before, the logic you have, or the system of logic you may have studied, just doesn’t apply in AmberWorld. You want to know at this point, “‘Don’t stop’ what?”, am I not right? But you’ve read far enough now to know that my reply was “Don’t stop”.

Once I’d said it, she reached her hands down to the bottom side-hems of her short denim skirt and pulled them upward, careful to open some space between her legs and the material, but careful not to expose her mound or genitals to me or to anyone who might have looked over our way. With a quick glance in the direction of those people who could have seen us if they’d cared to, and noticing no attention being paid to us, she looked back up at me again, and smiled. And then . . . she began emptying her bladder.

I didn’t realize at first what she was doing. I just felt a warmth on the front of my right leg, and then felt the warmth begin to expand, downward, past my knee and onto my shin, and behind to my calf. The wetness didn’t register for another five seconds or so, when it finally dawned on me that my new love was pissing on me. “Say it”, she said, and I knew what my reply was supposed to be, and so I gave it to her: “Don’t stop.” She didn’t. You can say, using your own familiar frames of reference, that what she was doing to me was a property marking, a domination, a degradation, a humiliation, an act of sex, a perversion, a claim-staking, and you’d be right: it was surely all of those things. But the thing it was, far, far, far more than all those things combined, was an act of love. “Say it again”, she told me, and so I said it again, “Don’t stop.” And so she kept pissing. And pissing. On me. “Don’t stop”, I said again, without being bidden to do so, and again, “Don’t stop”, and yet again, “Oh, my dear sweet Mother of Christ, please don’t stop.”

It sounded like begging, because it was. I was begging this child I’d just met to keep soaking me in her urine. The thought flashed like heat-lightning across the black, back horizon of my mind that there was a parallel between having the girl pee on me and having her exhale the smoke of her cigarettes on me: she was bathing me in substances coming from within her body. It all had to do with her body, and the way she used her body, and the things she used her body for, and the things she knew — unlike nearly all adult women, much less children her age — how to do with her body. Yes, all the many wonderful, wonderful things she knew how to do with her body. I wanted her to keep on pissing on me, to never stop. And I wanted her to never EVER use a toilet for this again: I wanted her to go on me, all over me, every time she needed to go. In the cool, calm of hindsight, I know that she only urinated on me for, perhaps, twenty seconds, at most; perhaps less. It seemed at the time, however, to have been going on for my entire life to that point, in my warped and warping sense of the new reality. All else faded into some dim memory, and all I could remember having happened in my forty-plus years was Amber. Pissing. On me. In public.

When the stream ended and the last drips had dripped on me, she stepped back, then straddled my other leg, still holding her skirt up, looked again to see if anyone noticed us, rubbed herself dry on the dry left pants leg — one swipe up, one down, and then up again, pausing on the last to allow me to sense the shape and dimensions of her labia, albeit through my pants — and then backed away a full stride, admiring her work. She looked up and down my pants, easily noticing the shining wet soaked area on my right pants leg, and the smear of dampness on the left. She nodded, appreciatively, as though she’d gotten the painting just right, and left her canvas with the impression that she wanted. “God, honey, you’re a fucking mess.” It wasn’t surprise she was expressing. It was pride. She looked at me again, in the eyes, and re-fixed me with the serious penetrating look.

“I love you”, was all I could say. “Yeah”, she replied, “yeah, I know that.” I had already told her that, so it came as no news, but what I hadn’t said out loud, what she could only have known by reading my mind, AGAIN, was that this “thing” she’d just done was one of the two things I’d thought and not expressed. Without taking her eyes away from mine, she retrieved a single cigarette and her lighter, lit the one with the other, took an incredibly deep drag, held it in her lungs, leaned toward me and exhaled, first into my chest and then raised the stream up into my face. And then she inhaled and exhaled in exactly the same way again. She looked down to put her lighter back in her shoulder bag, and as she did, took out a small bottle of spray perfume, held it out and lightly sprayed my shirt, belt-high, once, twice, and then put the bottle away. “Do you understand?”, she asked, and I nodded, immediately. I got it. She was making me into an unsubtle advertisement and announcement. “When you get back to that bitch”, she was referring to Cindy, my wife, and she pointed with her chin in Cindy’s direction, “you’re going to smell like me: my smoke, my piss, my pussy and my perfume.” She took two more drags of her cigarette, delivered the smoke into my chest and face again, and tossed the butt to the ground, stamping it out. “It’ll be like that every time we’re together, Hank”, she said, “while you’re still living with her, but even after she leaves you. I mean, for now, some of it will be that I want that bitch to smell the important parts of me on you, but then, when it’s just you and me and our babies, I’ll do it just so you’ll remember me during the day. Don’t worry, I won’t make it enough that other people will notice, but you will definitely know, and you’ll love it, and you’ll love me even more for doing it to you. No other woman will get with you because she’ll know you’re owned.”

It’s your logic that makes you want to judge me at this point, because my logic — mined, shaped and polished by an incredibly-oversexed fourteen-year-old girl — is so foreign, but even at the stage I’m sharing with you here, everything she said made perfect sense. I’d known her for less than an hour, and yet I was in perfect harmony with what she was saying, primarily because I was in perfect harmony with what she was doing. To me. For me. With me. I was in harmony, and I was in love. How could I not be? You’ve read about her, and you already know that you would feel the same way I did, you would react the same way I did, and you would want her the same way I did. You may not be willing to admit it, even to yourself, but you would. You absolutely would.

“Go back to the bitch, Hank”, she was referring to my wife again, “but don’t leave here without finding me.” It wasn’t a threat. You may have read it that way, but it wasn’t. She was just making sure that we wouldn’t depart without some further contact, even though she’d said we’d be together later, at home. I realized it might be nothing more than a simple “good-bye”, but any further contact with her would be welcome. “I promise”, I told her. “You go first”, she said, lighting another cigarette, “so that nobody sees us walking together.” Without moving yet, I looked first toward the bathrooms, assessing the possibility of finding paper-towels or hand-dryers or something there that might diminish the aromatic evidence of what I’d been doing while I was gone from the concert and my wife. “Don’t you fucking DARE try to wipe that off you!”, Amber said, “I want it left on: ALL of it!” You’re reading is right this time: this WAS a threat, and it was communicated as such. She didn’t have to utter the phrase “or else” in order for me to know that she meant “or else”. It wouldn’t be until later that I would realize I had said nothing and that she had picked up the radar message and redirected my behavior as if she were at the control board. And, as you also are reading correctly, she totally was.

On very unsteady legs, I did as she instructed, and managed to find my way back to Cindy. While in route, I attempted to craft a plausible lie to excuse my lengthy absence from our lawn chairs, white wine and finger foods, dismissing in the process long restroom lines (which she could see from where she sat), running into a friend or work colleague (which I might have to produce), and a trip to the beer-truck (we had wine), finally settling on a cell phone call from the office. After having lived with me throughout my full work career, she would accept this as nearly a given, because it happened with such regularity. Who had I been talking to? Customer. Customer in another state, one she had never met and would never meet. What about? Design on a new piece of equipment just installed at the plant. I knew that once I started talking about equipment and specs and connections and contractors, Cindy’s eyes would glaze over and she would tune me out. It always happened that way. As I reached our blanket, with dark covering the park and the orchestra deep into the “pops” portion of the program, I quietly resumed my chair, with Cindy’s on my left side. Thankfully, my left pant leg was drier than my right. I even managed to look up at the treetops to see which way the breeze was blowing, and discovered that the breeze was not transporting the scents of a girl from my right, to my left, to my wife. I thought that Amber probably couldn’t control the wind, but you’ll note, again correctly, the qualification.

As I moved to cross my legs, I realized that Cindy was, to put it diplomatically, “out”. She had been a little north of tipsy when I’d left — left to go chase a fourteen-year-old girl — and had obviously imbibed more in my absence. “Thank you, God”, I thought to myself, even though I hadn’t darkened the door of a church in years, other than when Cindy and the kids forced me to go at Christmas and Easter, or for weddings or funerals. And even then, I would frequently either have or concoct work-related excuses to avoid it. I was sure that there was divine intervention at work here, or maybe just Amber intervention: she certainly seemed capable of this minor miracle, given the major ones she’d been performing, on me, behind a tree at a public park.

Lest you think that Cindy was a drunk or a lush, or worse, she wasn’t. It was Friday night, it had been a long week, she’d had a few glasses of wine, and with the Indian Summer weather, the combination of heat and alcohol had just taken her away to dreamland. I was hopeful that she was sedated enough to get her to the car without her catching a whiff of my many, many maritally-objectionable aromas, all of which either came from Amber or were caused by her. I needed to get her to the car. What happened after that, what Amber meant by us being “at home” that night “later”, what I’d say if Cindy came fully awake and breathed me in, I didn’t know. First things, first, I thought. Get to the car. Get to the car. Get to the car.

That thought, however, was interrupted by another. It was a thought of Amber, straddling my right leg, looking up at me from her thin, freckled, flat-footed five-foot-one-inch frame, and pissing. Then a thought of her adding my last name to her first name and producing what she’d soon be called. Then, one of her telling me she was marking me in multiple ways before sending me back “to that fucking bitch”, referring to Cindy. I smiled, realized I missed Amber already, and then refocused on the problem of getting to the car. I had to somehow get my wife up, wake her, but only by a about half, and walk her or carry her to the car with two chairs, a blanket, a picnic basket and girl-piss-soaked pants. Even with the narrower focus, though, I had a more immediate problem: my thoughts of Amber were getting me hard again, despite my belief that I was done for the evening, orgasmically speaking. I had a rapidly rising erection. In fact, I quickly reached half-mast and then full-mast, until my cock was straining against my still-cum-dampened chinos. If Cindy awoke, or if I saw someone I knew, it would be difficult enough to explain away my unfamiliar scents, but an erection would complicate the arc of my lies greatly.

As I sat, trying to think myself limp, Amber swung in unexpectedly from my right side and, in what seemed like one fluid motion, sat down in my lap, pressed her tailbone against my shaft, shifted her hips into alignment with mine, drive her feet between my ankles, spread my knees apart, leaned back against my chest, and slid upward about an inch, coming to rest at a point where I could feel the intensely-radiating warmth of her sweet, teenaged anus right at the tip of my dick. “Don’t put your arms around me”, she said, obviously knowing that I wanted to do just that, “and don’t hump me, either”: I hadn’t actually had that thought yet, but she could feel my crotch reaching, pressing, on its own, before the though could even take on a form. “I know where you’re pointed, and you know where you’re pointed, and I just want you to imagine that I am, right this minute, giving you the other thing you wanted before.” That “other thing” — the second of the two, the thought she’d interpreted without my uttering it, just before she peed on me — was something Cindy had deigned to attempt, once, before declaring it unacceptable and denying it to me forever thereafter. “Imagine that your shaft is balls-deep . . . in my shit.”

That was all it took. It was the biggest explosion of the evening. One long, continuous stream of semen, resoaking the fronts of my underwear and pants. “I said it before and I’ll say it again”, Amber said, “You cum like a motherfucking MAN!” It was something she’d said by the tree. “And I just can’t wait to get that fucking cock IN ME! For fucking REAL!!” I heard her, as my dick twitched, pulsed and spent, and as I was attempting to maintain something like consciousness, though I seemed to drift in and out of it, so much energy having been drained away by orgasms. But even when I was at a greater remove from an Amber-inspired ejaculation itself, I felt similar, as if discovering I was adrift in an unknown universe, with different scientific laws and different gravity. “When we decide to start trying to get pregnant”, she was talking again about starting a family — albeit an initially illegitimate one — beginning the next summer, when she would turn fifteen, “it’s going to be an orgasm just like that one that knocks my fucking ass up . . . so to speak.” She laughed. I know that you’re thinking it’s nonsensical and dangerous to seriously discuss beginning a family with a fourteen-year-old, regardless of her level of maturity, but that’s where I was this night. I even fell into and was pulled along by the momentum, conveniently ignoring the fact that I had children already, and that the mother of those children was sitting next to me, and Amber, asleep. Still, I fell into it easily, saying, “Baby, I don’t know if I want to wait until next year to start our family.”

The movement was so sudden I couldn’t have anticipated it, and didn’t. She flipped herself around — in hindsight, it seems she did it in midair — threw her arms around my neck, and her legs over my chair’s right armrest, and she kissed me. The earlier cautions against public displays were now clearly void, since she was doing it, and she was doing it in full view of the people walking by. Few noticed, at least until the back of the chair gave way, and Amber and I were sprawled on the ground, me on my back and her on my front. Then, everybody noticed. And several stopped and reached out to try to help us up. Neither of us was hurt, and Cindy never roused. Amber declined the help, instead repositioning herself on top of me, sitting upright and straddling my hips. I could feel her pussy pressing down on my cock. “Tell me”, she said. “You have to say it, Hank. I won’t just assume it. If it’s what you want, you have to tell me.” Some of the passersby were confused, tried again to help us up, asking about us, were we hurt, to which Amber responded, “GO THE FUCK AWAY!” And they did.

It was hard to concentrate on anything other than the fourteen-year-old pussy, unencumbered by the denim skirt (it having been worked to the tops of her thighs by the fall and her movement), which was spread open atop the length of my penis, with only a layer of cotton boxer and cotton pant in between. She could have been asking me to “tell her” any of several things I’d said or that she’d made me say during the course of the evening: that I loved her, that I wanted to cheat on Cindy with her, that I wanted eventually to marry her, that I’d never been with anyone like her or half as sexy. But I knew she was talking about something else. “Say it”, she said, seriously, “say it.” Using very, very slow movements, imperceptible to anyone passing by, she began to massage my cock, through my pants, with her pussy. She continued that for several seconds. “You’ve never felt anything like that, I know”, she said, anticipating not only the words but the formed thought itself. “You’re going to cum again, for the second time with your wife right next to us, but we can’t stay here like this for long, so you have to tell me. Tell me.” It was a revision of the schedule she’d spoken earlier.

“I don’t want to wait until you turn fifteen to take you off the pill. The pill you already took today will be the last one you’ll take. I don’t want us to use any kind of protection at all. None. Starting now.” She smiled, said, “That’s what I want, too”, and increased the massaging motion, now more obviously humping against me, forward, back, forward, back, and then doing so with closed eyes. I could feel the slit. I could feel the animal lust. I could smell her passion. After a very few seconds, she raised her hips up, high enough to expose her twat to me but only me, opened her eyes, looked down between her legs, stopped her motion altogether, whispered to me, “Watch this”, and then did something — or just allowed the thing to happen, I still don’t know which — that I’d never seen before in my life. I had thought the massage was unreal: this was more so. As we both gazed between her thighs, and as a few of the departing patrons continued departing the park, she came. I didn’t know that’s what it was at first, though I could tell it wasn’t urination, but she came, with ooze leaving her hole. It wasn’t an ejaculation like some women have, where they squirt a stream or streams of juice from their vaginas. This was a slow, steady, brook of opaque fluid flowing from her pussy. It was thick and heavy and incredibly voluminous and pungent — the fragrance was heavenly — and it seemed to go on and on and on. And it was beautiful. As she finished, she stood and looked down at me. I appeared to have had honey poured on my fly. And in one very real, very critical sense, that’s precisely what had happened. Amber had poured her honey on me.

She seemed unable to take her eyes off the front of my pants and the syrupy work of art she had deposited there, and just stood there as the stagehands began the process of removing music stands, chairs, lights and microphones, down in front at the band shell. “Come on, Hank, get up”, she told me, without removing her gaze from the girl-cum on my pants and without moving even so much as an inch. “We have to get Cindy to the car, and then you and I need to get home: we have a lot of work to do.” She was still standing over me, looking only at the honey mounded up on my pants, first shaking her head, and then smiling and nodding, and looking me in the eye: “Yeah, we have a LOT of fucking work to do.” My night, already exceptional, already memorable, already life-altering, was about to get even better.