Little Pussy Sex Stories

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Another in a Series of Sex Stories that Lose Their Way

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A few years ago I spent a month in a cabin in Montana, my dog Curly as my only companion. The cabin was owned by former first daughter Amy Carter, who had grown up awkwardly before our nation’s eyes. It was a very cold winter.
In the mornings I would get up with the sound of woodpeckers at work. There were pines everywhere around the cabin, and beyond the pines, there was a lake to the east. I could sit on my deck in the mornings and see the lake through the trees’ straight trunks.
Amy had told me that once a week, there would be a man who would come to deliver wood. She told me that he was a very striking looking man.
That first Sunday, I retrieved the newspaper and began reading an article about whaling. It seems that Japan has wanted for some time to resume its practice of hunting whales. They want to take 150 Bryde’s whales a year between 2004 and 2008, and 150 minke whales this year. Japan was clearly concerned about the whales. What did they know that we didn’t, I wondered.
It was a very interesting article, and I looked forward to reading it all.
Just then I heard the rhythmic ripping sound of someone walking through the snow. I looked out my clouded window and saw a man. I guessed him to be the man who would bring the wood, and about his appearance Amy seemed to be correct. He was about 6’3", with a long mane of dirty blond hair. His hair was very, very dirty. His jaw was sculpted and he wore a thick mustache. Behind him, he pulled a sled full of wood. Curly woofed quietly, but I shushed him.
The man did not know I was watching him. He began to unload the wood, stacking it neatly against the cabin, and he soon became warm enough to take off his jacket. Now wearing only a tight black tank-top, I noticed his chiseled muscles and his very smooth skin.
To use the word ‘adonis’ in a sentence here would not be inappropriate.
I went back to reading my article about the Japanese pleas for whaling. They had convened an international conference of some sort to determine whether Japan and other pro-whaling nations, such as Norway, should be allowed to kill whales. These pro-whaling nations claimed they could do so in sustainable numbers, while most of the rest in the international community insisted that there was not enough science to know whether or not sustainable whaling was possible.
I looked up and saw the wood-man bare-chested. Apparently, he had been working so hard that his shirt was now a nuisance. His naked chest was strong and smooth, covered in a glistening sheen of perspiration. He was hairless and his skin was colored a light shade of cherry. Cherry is a kind of wood.
I moved my gaze from his torso to his face and realized he was looking at me. First he looked into my eyes, then scanned my body. It was at that moment that I remembered I was nude. I sleep in the nude now that my husband Mark has disappeared with that woman from the laundry room.
Before I could protest, the wood-man was inside the house. He was a huge man and closed the door. It seemed that he wanted something from me, but who could guess what that thing was? He wore only his work boots and very snug denim trousers. They appeared to be getting more snug as the seconds passed. I stood before him, unclothed and unmoving. Because the window was behind me, he could have seen only a silhouette. He stepped toward me and I saw him more clearly.
He was a powerful man, virile, a man who would take what he wanted, without being cruel. I looked up and down his beautiful torso, drinking in his smooth hard chest, his arms like bent pipes, his flat, perfectly defined stomach, the few strands of hair below his navel, disappearing into his jeans, which hid a growth of a very distinct shape. My eyes caressed this part of him lovingly, afraid, but intrigued by its size and apparent power, and then my gaze swung to the right, where, just behind him, I had left my newspaper. I had almost forgotten all about it.
I brushed past the wood-man and took it into my hands and touched it. I refound my place. The problem with whales in general, apparently, is that it’s hard to know precisely how many whales of any species actually exist. Worse, many killings of whales — accidental or not, by fishing vessels or other watercraft — are not reported.
Now the wood-man was behind me, breathing on my back. I heard myself sigh. I guess I really sympathized with the Japanese and the Norwegians, in that there are indeed animals and plants that need to be harvested, lest they take over the world and rule over humans, making us do their bidding.
If minke or Bryde’s whales attempted to lord over me, I would start an underground movement aimed at stopping them. We would wear organic-looking clothing and would live in a bunker built from scrap metal. Amy Carter would be there, as would the daughters of Jesse Jackson. We would breed with the sons of Gil Gerard. Our children would run around, filthy, because we would know that the battle against the whales would take many generations.
Those fucking whales! I would say to the assembled rebels. I would be the leader of the rebels. Yeah, fucking minke fascists! they would yell. We would all raise our harpoons and do some kind of chant I would invent. All the chants would have to go through me to make sure they were good chants. I hate stupid chants.
You ask me how the whales would rule over people if they live in the ocean and do not have thumbs. I shake my head and say, This is how it starts, humans. This is how it starts.
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This article is more than 7 years old
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It’s long past time to shine a light on what too many children endure. Photograph: Jens Meyer/AP
Thu 29 Jan 2015 13.20 GMT Last modified on Tue 8 Aug 2017 20.04 BST
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I never felt like a victim, but long after I grew up, every sexual experience brought me back to that winter night I didn’t understand
T here’s a reason why, when a woman whispers her story of sexual abuse, when she writes about it , when she Tweets about it or carries a mattress around on her back, calls the police or a rape crisis line, I believe her.
The reason is because it happened to me. And you didn’t know, because I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone.
Uncle “Doug” was an old friend of my parents; he visited our family often and occasionally joined us for holidays. One evening, when I was six, he offered to babysit me and my older sister at his house.
Before bedtime, Uncle Doug told us both a bedtime story about a werewolf who howled at the moon in the bitter cold of winter on top of a snowy hill, just like the hill outside the window over the sink in Uncle Doug’s kitchen. He could do these pitch-perfect character voices, and in that way, he was charismatic and appealing to children. The werewolf would howl, he said, his thirst for the blood of children relentless, until one night he came charging through a window of a house trying to catch the little girl inside. The broken glass pierced his throat, and then he was dead, his head hanging over the sill, blood dripping down the wall to the floor.
And then my sister went to bed, and I sat in his small, dimly lit kitchen, on his lap, as he nuzzled my hair and then my ear and neck, and squeezed me hard and soft at the same time. I remember staring fixedly at the window in his kitchen, into the dark snowy night, through a pane of cold glass, the moon casting shadows, a dark tree, listening for the howl of the werewolf, trying not to pay attention to what was actually happening.
What was actually happening is that he was kissing me, whispering in my ear things I didn’t understand, and rubbing the tops of my 6-year-old thighs, right where my underwear started, while I sat on his lap.
Afterwards, he took to calling me his “wifey” and signed notes to me: “Love, your hubby”. There was never another physical encounter like the one at his house, but when he visited ours, he would request “private” viewings of me practicing my ballet and leer at me longingly in my leotard and tights; he looked for any opportunity to touch me – my hand, my shoulder, the small of my back. After a couple of years, when I started to understand how inappropriate his behavior was, I refused to have anything to do with him.
I never told my parents anything. My only act of acknowledgement that he did something bad was when I crossed out with a ballpoint pen the “Love, your hubby” at the bottom of a poem he had written in my autograph book when I was eight or nine. The poem: “Tulips in the garden, tulips in the park/But the best place for tulips, is tulips in the dark”.
Uncle Doug did not hurt me physically, but he laid the groundwork for who and what I would become with men throughout my adolescence and into my early adulthood – a wreckage of fondled girlhood looking out a dark window whenever a man was on top of me. His adult hand edging up my six-year-old thigh made it seem natural to me when much older men showed interest or pursued me as a teenager. Or perfectly normal for me to try to seduce a 35-year-old when I was 15.
I never felt like a victim – and I might even still argue that I wasn’t victimized enough to claim that label, and instead call myself a product of a premature sexual experience. But for years, every time a man touched me – especially if he was older, even if I pursued him and told myself and him that it was ok – I’d catch myself looking through a non-existent dark window waiting for it to be over. Relationships came and went but never lasted, and I thought both that didn’t have anything to tell, and no one to tell it to.
Eventually, I told someone: after about eight months of dating my now-husband, who was curious and emotionally invested in “us” in a way I’d never experienced, I proudly called myself promiscuous. He looked at me with compassion and confusion and said, “Really?”. I confessed: “Not promiscuous in the way you would think.” And then I told him the truth.
And then I told someone else. And someone else after that. I chose to narrate my own story, rather than let the one Doug told persist any longer in my own mind.
Doug, like most abusers, relied on me not telling. They all rely on us not telling – to save their reputations, avoid consequences, and keep on abusing. Those of us who do tell, who let go of the shame we know we’re supposed to feel, are in such a minority that it enables the rest of you to disbelieve both those that tell and the existence of those who can’t yet. It’s hard for you to imagine being in a group of five women and knowing that one was sexually assaulted. It’s hard for me to believe that we can just go unheard – our experiences unknown – without consequence.
But all of that is why it’s so important for women, for abuse survivors, to tell our stories: because the more of us who do, the more we chip away at the ability to ignore or to choose not to believe. I believe – and I believe that you can choose to as well.

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Police arrested Amber Hales for sexual activity with a child after her alleged victim Joshua Jeffrey complained to them last year
A mum who had a baby by her partner’s schoolboy cousin has escaped trial – because prosecutors ruled a court case was not in the public interest.
Police arrested Amber Hales for sexual activity with a child after her alleged victim Joshua Jeffrey complained to them last year.
He told officers she groomed him for sex behind her boyfriend Andrew Jeffrey’s back after he moved in with them aged 13 seven years ago.
Joshua claims Hales took him into her bed after forcing his unsuspecting older cousin out of the house – but 18 months later she showed Joshua the door too when she found she was expecting his child.
In an astonishing twist, Hales, now 29, then successfully begged Andrew – the father of her two young daughters – to take her back.
He claims she told him her ­pregnancy was the result of a one-night stand with a stranger and he accepted it.
For years Joshua – who had no idea he was the dad of her third daughter – kept what happened with Hales to himself.
Then he heard she and Andrew had split again after having a fourth baby girl – and feared Hales would be alone with the children.
Joshua, now 21, says: “I heard Amber was trying to get the kids to live with her and something just clicked inside me.
“At that point I had to speak out. I had kept it bottled up for a long time but I had to do it. I felt disgusted about the fact I let her do that to me.
“But I am grown up now and I owed it to those kids to let someone know what she did to me .”
But Joshua’s biggest shock came after plucking up the courage to tell the police.
He says: “I didn’t even know I was a dad until they did a DNA test on the baby Amber was pregnant with when we split.
“It’s a nightmare unfolding for me, Andrew and the whole family.
“I went off the rails after the abuse and have been in trouble for petty crime. So going to police and telling them what happened to me was the hardest thing.
"But I felt certain they would take me seriously. She had my baby when I was still a child.”
Joshua also told his secret to stunned security worker Andrew, 32, who then went to police to back his cousin.
Hales was arrested, but the final bombshell came after officers handed the case file, including the DNA evidence, to the Crown Prosecution Service in February.
Joshua says: “We’ve now been told by police that somehow the CPS have decided it wasn’t something they wanted to pursue. I can’t believe it.
“I’m angry and scared to live in a world where someone can get away with that. I want her locked up. I want her to rot in jail where she can never go near a child again.”
When the Sunday Mirror contacted CPS North West last week to question the ruling, a spokesman admitted their decision.
But he added that the case including all the evidence given to police was now under review. Today Joshua and Andrew are telling us their stories in the hope of finally getting the case to court.
Josh told Greater Manchester Police last August how he moved in with Hales and his cousin after problems with his parents.
He had known her since he was seven when she started dating Andrew and she was accepted into the Jeffreys’ close-knit family.
Andrew also recalls: “I told Amber about Josh’s troubles with my auntie and uncle one night and she jumped at the chance to have him come and stay with us.
"She knew how close we were so I thought she was doing it for me. I thought it was lovely and she treated him just like our own kids.”
Josh adds: “At first I thought it was just normal that she paid me lots of attention. I loved it because I felt wanted. I had a little crush on her when I first met her so I liked being around her all the time.”
But while the mum-of-two enjoyed the 13-year-old’s company, partner Andrew claims she started steadily neglecting the rest of her family.
“Around that time she changed from being really maternal and ­attentive to detached and uninterested,” says Andrew.
Then, six months into Joshua’s stay, Andrew went to visit his mum with the girls for a Christmas break. But, unusually, Amber insisted on staying home with Josh.
Her next move was to tear the family apart.
Andrew says: “She called me while we were away and told me she wanted the girls back but not me. She said she needed space. I was gutted – we’d been together eight years.”
But Joshua claims Hales gave him a very different version of the break-up.
He says: “I’d already had one dad walk out on me and she knew how much that had affected me. So she told me Andrew – who I loved and trusted - was the one to walk out and he wasn’t coming back.
“She turned me against him and then made me feel like she was the only one who cared. She made out like he’d let us both down.”
Joshua claims it was the beginning of 18 months of grooming. “She showered me with gifts, like £90 jeans and Nike Air trainers and treated me like an adult,” he says. “
It made me feel grown up and important. And when she moved me out of the kids’ room to stay in her bed with her, I was confused. My childhood crush was coming back.
“It was so childish but one night I typed into my
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