It draws me as though it were the center of my being. She plays with it a little to show me the inner and the outer lips and the way they open up, and...the clit and the little pee hole.“It’s just – beautiful, Miss Pennwell,” I say. “I – I’d like to – can I kiss it?”She whispers yes. I kneel on the bed and put my mouth right between her legs, right on that lovely pink twat that’s the center of her femininity. It’s soft, yielding, wet, and it has a musky odor. I press my mouth in gently. I hear. She gasps as I firmly grip her backside.“Who does this belong to?” I ask.“You,” she promptly replies.“Bonne fille. And this?” I pull her closer with one hand to where her body is inches from my face. I put my hand up in between her legs and with the outside of my index finger, gently rub her smooth mound. “Who does this belong to?”“It belongs to you.”“What? Say it, again!” I give one quick smack to her buttocks.“You sir, it belongs to you. You own all of me.”“Good.” I lift my index finger to. I was a biker and the road in front of me was more important than what was behind. I was in control of my life. The bike did as I instructed it to do. My safety was my responsibility. These thoughts became integrated into my life philosophy.As I rode, I could smell the rhythms of life around me, feel slight temperature variations as the hills and valleys rose and fell while the scenery blurred by. It was good to be alive. I found myself thinking that I hoped there were motorcycles in heaven .... " This is just great; four years of college, only to become a glorified babysitter. The center caters to youth from 13 to 18. It turns out not to be not so bad. A few of the girls that regularly come to the Center warm up to you, and you have struck up a friendship them. As the days role on, you start look at these girls differently, you can't help but wonder about the kind of sexual experience they've had, or if your friendship might grow into something more. You try to shake those thoughts.