Paul Holmes stood at the bottom of the ladder, his eyesdarting up the slim legs of the sexy blonde teenager. A hot joltcaromed through his gut as he ...aw the crotch of her panties andthe swell of her tight ass. Judy spread her legs and reached for the small fan. She wasquivering. She could feel his eyes burning into her crotch and itmade her pussy seep. She waited, giving him a good long look ather panty-clad ass and crotch before descending the ladder. "Here you are, Mr. Holmes,". I dont know if there is any point in my life that I can look back on and say this is where it all started, this is how I got here but I do know where best to start this story. At thirteen I was pretty much what all thirteen year old boys were, on the cusp of a sexual awakening, for lack of a better term of course. With all of the growing and the changes its a wonder how I was able to keep my head on straight, if indeed that was the way it was on. I wasnt completely unaware of sexual feelings, I. "Fine dear. And yours? What happened withthe kids today?" Esme couldn't look at him, instead staring at herfingers. "What are you so nervous about?" She picked at the end of anail that was coming off, she wished she'd had the foresight to get themsorted earlier. "Relax," he said. "You look great." Thank you," she said. He was wearing a button down shirt and jeans,like he did every day. "So do you." Then she laughed. "I didn't meanthat. I mean I did but it's like when you take a cab. Waiting for the scars across my torn fingerprints to close and fade into one of the many lines that say so much without speaking. He worked his way into my fingerprints. Fingerprints do change. They are lives. You can read a fortune upon them and, if you follow the curves, distinguish individual pain. Fingerprints burn and cry and bleed longer, harder than eyes ever could. I wash them daily, my scars and fingerprints. Caress them. Sometimes I see him. Just long enough that he can thrust.