“How long have I known you, Megan?” asked Gregor Arbuthnot, working late in the office.

The girl in the straight-backed chair by the desk had her face almost hidden in her hair. Her head was bowed. The sounds of her sobs was the only sound in the room. There were books in shelves around the office; a wood panelled door; heavy drapes over a view of the city, (high up). It was dark outside. It had been raining when Megan arrived.

“You were at my christening,” Megan said, still sobbing, droplets of water glistening in her fluffy blond hair. The lighting in the office was soft: a standard lamp by the curtains, another on the desk. A warm glow came from an electric fire, in front of which was a sofa in oxblood leather.

“Of course I was,” said the lawyer, pushing back his chair and coming to his feet. He and her father had been friends. They had golfed together, and skat, a card game, too, when time allowed. He had been a frequent visitor to Megan’s home throughout her life. He had been their family lawyer since before Megan was born.

The lawyer’s name was Arbuthnot. Gregor Arbuthnot. He made his way round the desk. Megan was dressed in a yellow silk suit, charcoal stockings, pale grey shoes. Her rain-coat, dripping wet, was hanging from a coat rack just inside the door. A pale grey clutch bag sat on her lap. The colour of her nails matched the colour of her lips. Pale coral.

“So we can be honest with each other, Megan dear,” said the lawyer, now round the desk and standing by her chair. He was looking down at her. His eyes took in the hands clasped around the clutch bag, the knees demurely together, the shoulders quaking with her sobs. The skirt of her yellow silk suit was short. The ‘v’ in the neck of her jacket, was deep.

His eyes moved up her legs, rose to the inner mounds of her breasts in the ‘v’ of her jacket. She wore no blouse. Around her neck was a fine gold chain. Megan had legs of the sort that were featured in fashion magazines, to sell stockings of the sort she was wearing … and she had a figure to die for.

“Stand up, Megan,” said the family lawyer, gently, holding out his hands. “Let me hold you,” he added as she obediently rose, her eyes still fixed on the carpet.

She let him take her bag and put it on the desk; let him take her hands and put them round his neck; let him put his arms around her waist and pull her in against him. She was as tall as he. Eighteen years old but shaped as well as she’d ever be shaped. Much better than most. He seemed to shrink as her breasts came against him, then expand and drew her closer as she didn’t seem to mind.

“I know it was a shock,” he whispered, mouth at her ear.

She cried. Her father and he had been friends, such good friends. It had been an accident. A traffic accident. “A terrible shock,” he said, his hands not able to keep still behind the girl. They had to move, to feel her shape, the shape of her. And what a shape she had.

“But he wouldn’t have felt any pain,” he said, his hand slipping round her waist, then drifting lower, towards the teenager’s buttocks. “His neck, broke cleanly,” he added, feeling her stiffen in his arms as he said it, as if a bolt of lightening had ripped through her: the shock of thinking of her father, her dear father, with a broken neck. His hand cupped her buttock. The girl’s plump breasts were tightly pressed against his chest. He pulled her closer, feeling her arms around his neck, her face buried hard in his shoulder, quaking as she sobbed.

“You mustn’t think of it,” he whispered, kissing her ear as he whispered the words. “Don’t think of the blood,” he advised, feeling her stiffen, cupping her buttock, curling his arms further round her, capturing the further buttock and gripping it tight.

“He would have gone quickly,” he said, she sobbed, “I think,” she stiffened. He kissed cheek. It was smooth like the skin of a peach. He tasted the salt of her tears.

“Don’t cry, sweetie pie,” he whispered, as he kissed away her tears. His lips closed over her nose, his tongue probing gently into the orifice. (He’d always wanted to do that.) “You must be strong. Not think of the blood.” As he said it her arms wrapped tight around his neck and she pressed herself hard up against him — her ‘Uncle Gregor’, her father’s close friend. She was sobbing, her lungs shaking tightly against him, her well-shaped breasts squashed flat.

“Don’t,” she whispered pleadingly. “Don’t,” she said again.

“I won’t,” he whispered back, her tiny ear in his mouth, sucking the ear, stroking the girlish whorls with his tongue. He breathed into her, lightly probed the neat ear-hole with the tip of his tongue. “It was quick,” he whispered, in amongst the kissing and the licking of the girl, his arms around her, each hand around a youthful buttock. Half on the desk, half off it, he couldn’t stop kissing her. He eased her astride a knee and gently raised it. “He’ll be in heaven now,” he said. He felt the girl melt in his arms, no doubt with heady thoughts of heaven; her father there, in paradise.

He eased his leg higher between hers. Felt the hard nuzzle of pubis. Reached a hand to her face. He drew his head away from hers.

“God’s angels will have taken him,” he whispered, his face an inch from hers, his hand at her cheek, gently stroking it. Leaning forward, he kissed her eyes — they closed — her cheeks, her lips — they opened — talking as he did, whispering to her, “In his blessed care,” his lips brushed hers. “Don’t you think?” he asked, feeling her pelvis pulse against the pressure of his leg. She gave a tiny smile, he kissed the lips in smile. “Don’t you?” he persisted, kissing her lips as they opened to answer. His hand ran down her throat. Her lips may have kissed him back.

He was whispering again. “The pain would have been awful,” felt her stiffen once more, pulled her arched body hard against his chest, a hand now between them, in the v of her jacket, pressing her against it, whispering into her ear, “But not for long.”

She was quaking again, with sobs that had renewed. His hand moved between them, down her front, loosening a button on her yellow box jacket. The swell of her breasts pressed close either side. “But God,” he left it there. She squeezed him tight, pressing his hand between her breasts.

God but this girl was built well!

“Be strong,” he whispered into her ear, then kissed her, little kisses all over her face, then whispered it again into her other ear as his lower hand reached lower, from lady-like buttocks onto back of leg — her leg — until it found her stocking tops. He lifted her hem on the hand’s return. Kissed her cheeks again of tears.

“Can you be strong?” he asked, kissing her lips as he did, and as she answered that she could, kissing them again. As she kissed him back, his hand eased her skirt up her leg while the other loosed the three remaining buttons of her jacket.

“We must be strong,” he whispered into her lips, as she replied that they would, kissing back. Soft little kisses. Eager little kisses. Supportive little kisses. As if each were shoring up the other. “For we are human,” he whispered, opening his mouth wide over hers, and feeling hers reciprocate. They were both now breathing hard.

The skin at the top of her stocking was smooth and soft and firm. His hand was closed around it. He rocked back on the desk, lifting her onto her tiptoes, legs spread wide around his thigh, one hand gently easing the hem even higher on her hips as the other loosed the buttons on her jacket.

“He would have wanted this,” he said. He felt her tense, so hurried on, “He would have wanted you to know that you were cared for, loved, even though he’s gone to everlasting peace.” She relaxed. “Would have wanted you to know that people love you. Really love you.” She relaxed some more. He felt her fingers steal further round his neck — one atop his collar, the other in his hair. “Would have wanted to know they would care for you, hold you close, love you for the lovely girl you are.”

She turned her mouth to his, and eagerly they kissed.

Her tongue was in his mouth, his own now swirling round it, making little growling sounds, telling her she wanted to be loved. “Let yourself go, relax into the care and love … into God’s care and love,” he said, and as he did he eased the open jacket from her front, clearing the way to her breasts. “Take comfort in the bosom of Christ.” His hand went over hers, atop the flimsy bra she wore. “Find in his bosom the love that passeth all understanding.” She sighed in the love of Him, as her father’s long time lawyer caressed her, and kissed her neck below her ear. “The love overfloweth,” he whispered, delving deep in his long neglected memory of scriptures, licking the skin of her neck, cupping her breast with loving tenderness, pushing his thigh up hard between hers, and bringing her onto her tiptoes.

“Gregor, we shouldn’t,” she gasped, arousal clear in her anguished tone.

“Megan, how long have I known you?” he answered, his lower hand cupped around her buttock, fingers in the cleft of her behind — but moving deeper, so that they might finger lower on the girl. “I was at your christening,” he said, moving his mouth to the girl’s, intent on having less talk, more passion, more fire.

She pulled her face away. Her hands defensively onto his chest.

She tried, half-heartedly, to push them apart.

“How long?” he whispered, holding her firmly, squeezing her breast with his uppermost hand, rolling her pudenda on his upthrust thigh. Her eyes snapped closed, her brow furrowed quickly in a frown, her breath drawn in sharply through tightly clenched teeth. She was clearly not immune to the feelings he was feeling, nor immune to the way she was being felt! He did it again, felt her shoulders climb, her back-bone arch. “Please,” is all she whispered, as he eased a plump breast out from the constraints of her bra, and cupped the bare bulk in his hand.

“He loves you,” he said, raining little kisses on her face. “God loves you,” he continued, licking her eyelids, nose and cheek. He took her cute nose in his mouth, sucked on the tip, put the tip of his tongue inside her nose. “You must let release have its wings,” he prattled on, wondering how anyone could listen to such garbage. Young Megan, could — it seemed! Her arms were back around his neck. Her plump and luscious lips were looking for his.

“You have to give yourself completely to be saved,” he said, dodging her lips, keeping the prattle going, letting her suck on his ear. Another luscious breast came free from her bra, then the bra itself sprang open, the flimsy cups redundant on either side.

More boldly now, he cleared away the detritus of passion: the open bra, the jacket, pushing them off her shoulders, down her arms — taken briefly yet forcibly from him, for the purpose of disrobing, then returned to their position round his neck. He tossed the clothes — a wrist flick, like in squash — over towards the oxblood sofa. (The jacket made it, the bra fell short.) He pulled roughly at the buttons of his shirt, dragged the tails out his trousers and the sides out the way; felt the hairs on his chest as they came against the creamy softness of the girl. The wiry presence had an instant effect . Suddenly her breasts were pancake flat against the hair, and hers were the arms that were holding them together. Tight and hard and wanton.

“He would love …” the lawyer said, but his sermon was cut off by the teenager’s lips. Thick and plump and broad and wanting, to devour, and be devoured.

Gregor Arbuthnot, partner of the law firm, officer of the Court, ‘Uncle Gregor’ to Megan, card carrying atheist, self-admitted luster after fresh and nubile flesh, didn’t know where the girl had learned to French kiss like this, nor did he worry too much, for she soon took his breath away. Sweet Megan was highly aroused. All talk of her father — even God, come to that — appeared to have been trumped by the need for sexual release … of her hot, foxy body. And Gregor did his best to oblige.

The hotter she became the more obligingly she let him have his way — stroking and caressing where he wanted to, kissing and licking where his urges desired. The desk was the examination table; the girl the River Nile, to be explored and the lawyer became the student, of just how explosively a youngster could react, when orgasmic eruptions were the focus.

Three times Megan came, each time with a burst of high-pitched squeals and writhing, manic energy. Once with his head between her long teenage legs. Once with his penis deep inside her. And the last time, as he discharged inside her with a grunt and a growl, and a tight grasping squeeze from her svelte young thighs.

He let her stay like that, spread-eagled on his desk, as he picked up the papers and his hand-phone from the floor where they’d been pushed in the heat of their embrace. The intercom sounded, with distress.

“Someone to see you, sorry it’s late,” came an unexpected voice. It was Gracie, his assistant, also working late. He thought she’d gone by now. Arbuthnot had to focus to think who it could be, what case it could be linked to, what appointment he had missed. The effort wasn’t helped by the half-naked girl on his desk, glowing pretty pink, gasping like a beached seal. He reached out and let his fingers absently dabble in the glistening glade between the girl’s long legs.

“How long have they been waiting?” he asked the intercom.

“Nearly twenty minutes,” came the reply.

That long?

He lowered his head. He took one of Megan’s nipples in his mouth. Chewed it gently. Swirled his tongue around it. Delighted in the groan the act elicited from her. He should have one of these all the time, on his desk, he thought, a permanent fixture, just like this, in this state, this naked, in this state of hightened arousal, with whom he could toy, while thinking of other things.

He positioned his index and middle finger of his right hand straight up in the air, like the barrel of a pistol. He viewed them against the lamp by the window. Then he lowered the weapon, moved the tip lightly down her svelte young form, stopped at the neatly etched little belly button, then on, through the damp sticky copse of fair hair. Then he slipped the two fingers inside her. She gasped. Her pelvis kicked he pubis in the air. Then her girlish thighs lifted gently and luxuriantly from the polished wood surface of the desk, to assist this simple entry to her privatest of parts. A pretty moan came from between her pretty lips.

He could sell something like this to his friends. Desk adornments, he could call it. Perk up your office: buy a Megan!

Better still, he could rent them out. Rent them out for a day at a time.

Make a bomb.

Mind you, he’d need some way of getting them like this … acquiescent, foxy, hot … and ready for anything!

He curled his fingers in her.

She groaned, and thrust.

“Mr Arbuthnot … are you there?” asked the intercom.

“Who’s the client?” asked Arbuthnot, fingers deep in Megan.

“Not a client. Megan’s mother,” came the reply.

As the door opened.