ou might wonder how I came to be the owner of a teenage girl. To be quite honest, I'm not entirely sure myself. It certainly wasn't deliberate, I can assure you. I didn't set out to acquire her and, if I'd been asked at the time, I would have said that I was not interested. Indeed I would probably have been appalled at the very idea. I am a confirmed bachelor. I know I'm divorced and that means that, technically I'm not a bachelor, but I look at my marriage merely as an interlude between periods of bachelorhood. I live alone and it suits me just fine. What's more, I am what could be charitably described as 'mature' and my taste in women, assuming I have any, runs to those closer to my own age. Oh, I admit ogling the young things I see in the streets during my visits to the town but it's an intellectual exercise, nothing more. I well realise that an old codger like me is not attractive to young women, never mind teenagers.

Having said that, I must add immediately that I don't regret it. Not for a second. My teenage girl has brought joy to my life that I never thought possible and given me a new sense of purpose. I have discovered in me a depth, some would say a perverted depth, that I didn't know existed and the proprietary feeling of power that my possession brings is something that cannot be adequately described.

I have said that some might call me perverted and it is true that our relationship is unusual. We have sex, lots of it; much of it unconventional and some of it on, or even beyond, the boundaries of what could be called acceptable. My only defence is that we find our activities mutually enjoyable and pleasurable. To the outside world it might appear that the pleasure was solely mine and that I have coerced her into saying or believing that she enjoys our activities; that I have warped and twisted her mind; that normal girls do not enjoy such acts. But like to think that I am old enough and experienced enough to know when someone's response is genuine or not.

So I own a teenage girl. She is mine to love and trust, to spoil and abuse, to command and conquer as I please. I would have it no other way and, I like to think, neither would she.

Amy is what I call her as that is what I believed her name to be when she first came to me. She was thirteen at the time although I didn't know it. Oh, I knew she was underage but I placed her at least a year older, probably two. She was a runaway and a stowaway. She crawled into the back of my old long-wheelbase Landrover while it was parked in a multi-storey car park and fell asleep. I didn't notice the little bundle of rags, my Landrover is not what you'd call tidy, when I returned from my necessary shopping expedition and flung the last of my purchases in the back. Why she decided my Landrover was a good place to hide, I don't know. She doesn't seem to know either. Whatever the reason, she was asleep when I returned and too frightened to say anything when she awoke as I drove off.

The first I knew that I had a stowaway was when I started unloading and this pale, frightened little face peered out at me. I was startled and shouted something, I don't remember what. That scared her even more and made her try to burrow under the collection of junk that adorns the interior of my Landrover. I was instantly contrite and tried to cajole her out but my shouting had scared her too much and she wouldn't come. In the end I lost patience and told her that she was welcome to stay there if she wanted but it got cold at night and the roof leaked. I said her alternatives were to get out and walk, though we were miles from anywhere and she had no idea where she was, or she could come into the house and have a meal, a bath and a bed. I would leave the door unlocked; I generally did anyway as there weren't any neighbours to disturb me but I didn't tell her that.

There was no response so I left her where she was and went about my chores. By eleven o'clock she had still not emerged - either that or she had fled - so I left a sandwich and glass of milk on the kitchen table and went to bed. I found her next morning curled up in the kitchen next to the Aga. For a while I just stood and stared and wondered what I had invited into my house. She looked so pale and slight; her clothes dirty and torn, her face dirty and scratched and her hair such a dirty tangled mess I couldn't tell what colour it was.

I made a noise. I didn't want to go near her in case she saw me as threatening. Instantly she was on her feet, her eyes darting wildly from side to side looking for a means of escape. She reminded me of a small, trapped animal. I spoke soothingly, keeping my voice low and even, just as you would to a jittery animal. I tried to assure her that I didn't mean her any harm and that she was safe here. As I talked, I began to prepare breakfast, taking care to move slowly and quietly and tell her what I was doing. She had backed into a corner and squatted, watching me intently as I moved about the kitchen.

I made enough for two and dished it up, placing the plates on the kitchen table. I invited her to join me. She made a move to grab a plate but I stopped her, insisting that she was not an animal and civilised human beings sat at table and ate with knives and forks. That put her in a terrible dilemma and I almost gave in and let her eat in the corner. It was clear that she had been through some terrible trauma and it seemed important that she learn to trust me. In the end hunger won and she slipped into the seat and started to wolf down the bacon and eggs. I warned her that this was not a good idea. If she had been without food for some time she needed to eat slowly. If she gobbled her meal up, she would be sick. She wasn't listening. Her stomach told her it was empty and she wanted to fill it as quickly as possible.

Perhaps bacon and eggs weren't the wisest choice but I doubted she would have appreciated porridge or milk sops. I was right about the gulping. She had barely finished when her skin took on a peculiar green cast. Almost without thinking, I scooped her up and dumped her out the back door where she proceeded to spew up all the food she had just eaten. I held on to her as her body heaved with the violence of her retching. When, at last, there was no more and even the dry heaves were over, she fainted.

Now I didn't know what to do. I wasn't a doctor and my knowledge of practical medicine was limited to bathing a cut and treating a wasp sting. I decided the first thing to do was to get her into a bed and get her liquids. Liquids were what you gave people who were ill. I had had a few dry heaves myself in my younger days after a night of overindulgence and liquids were what I took then. I scooped her up and took her to what passes for my spare room. It's mostly a storage space for junk but it does have a bed. I laid her on the bed while I searched for an old blanket. She stank of sweat and dirt and vomit and I seriously wondered if I shouldn't try to clean her up first but, in the end, decided she needed rest and fluids more. I managed to get some water down her then left her to sleep.

It was possible she would wake up and make a bolt for it. If she did, there was little I could do, other than fetch her back; it's a long road up to my house and she wouldn't get far. However, I couldn't keep a close watch on her. I had chores to do, not the least being to clean the back yard.

I was chopping wood so didn't notice her at first. When I did look up she was standing in the doorway with the blanket clutched round her shoulders, watching me work. I straightened and mopped the sweat from my brow. I was not as young as I used to be and I had been chopping for over an hour.

"Feeling better?" I enquired.

She nodded.

"Going to run away again?"

A very slight shake of the head, as if she wasn't really certain.

"Bathtime, then."

Panic flared in her eyes. I put the axe down carefully.

"Look. You're welcome to stay, at least for a while. You've obviously had it rough. If you do stay, I insist you get cleaned up. You can stay there. I'll go round the front and get in that way. I'll run the bath and, when I'm done, I'll come back round here and you can go and have it. If you really want, you can lock the door. The key's on the hook, there. Okay?"

A wary nod. I plodded round the front, forcing my way through the bracken and brambles that I'd never bothered to clear. Having run the bath and made sure there was soap and shampoo and towels, I found an old dressing gown and left that too.

"Bring your clothes down when you're finished and I'll stick them in the washer," I said when I returned to the back door.

She looked surprised; I assume at the idea that I might have a washing machine. My house may be isolated geographically but I do have electricity and I'm much too lazy to spend hours washing clothes so I have a washing machine and tumble drier. I also have a fridge and a freezer. I don't have a TV but that was by choice. I do have a good sound system, though. I like music.

She disappeared, closing the door behind her. I had to grin because I didn't hear the sound of the key in the lock. There was a message there: she trusted me sufficiently not to lock the door but not enough to leave it open.

It was too cold to sit outside so I did a bit of weeding. I use the term loosely as I didn't have a garden as such, just a piece of ground which I had successfully neglected for several years. So weeding consisted of hacking ineffectually at the brambles and dog roses and ferns and rose bay willow herb that had colonised, or, more truthfully, invaded my property. I didn't really care about it but it was something to do until she decided to emerge.

I heard the back door open and turned to see her standing in the doorway again. The dressing-gown was far too big for her. It trailed on the floor and, even rolled up, the sleeves hid her hands. She had a towel wrapped round her head. She looked incredibly young and vulnerable.

"Better?" I asked.

She nodded.

"Can I come in? It's a bit chilly out here."

She nodded again and stepped back to let me into the kitchen. I brought in an armful of wood, which I stacked next to the Aga to dry out, and hung my work jacket on its hook behind the door. I collected her clothes, trying not to breathe in the stench as I took them out to the washing machine. Before dumping them in, I searched the pockets. Her only possessions were a small pink purse containing less than a pound in change and a library card made out to Amy Johnstone, a dirty comb with a number of teeth missing and half a packet of paper handkerchiefs. I wondered what tragedy had brought her to this sorry pass.

"Remind me to transfer your clothes to the tumble drier in about an hour," I said as I handed her her possessions. "Expensive but they'll dry quicker."

She said nothing but clutched the purse to her tightly.

"You need food," I continued. "I'm sorry about the bacon and eggs. Not a good idea. Soup. That's what you need. Something nourishing but easily digested. Any preferences?"

She said nothing so I took cans out of the cupboard one at a time and held them up for her inspection. She nodded at the chicken broth.

"Good choice," I smiled. "I'm partial to chicken broth myself." I busied myself with tin-openers and pans. "Tomorrow we'll have real soup. I bought a ham joint yesterday. I'll put it on to boil later and make stock. Real soup's much better than tinned stuff, isn't it?"

She said not a word but watched me silently and intently from her position in the corner. I set two bowls on the table and cut a couple of slices of bread.

"Come and eat."

She slipped into the seat, sitting right on the edge ready to bolt at the slightest excuse.

"Now remember," I admonished but with a smile, "Wee sips. Pause between each. Let your stomach get used to food again. Stop when you feel full. I can always heat it up again if it gets cold."

Was that the ghost of a smile? Perhaps it was my imagination but at least she did as she was told. As we ate I tried to make light conversation but it's hard when it's one-sided; a bit like talking to yourself only not so interesting. She watched me warily as she supped. Her eyes were not so wild as they had been. Now clean, her face was actually quite pretty; heart shaped with large grey eyes and a small, snub nose. I finished my soup before she was even half way through. She started as I rose.

"Calm, little one," I said. "You want tea?"

She sat back down warily and nodded.

"Take your time. The tea'll keep."

By the time the tea was made; the old-fashioned way with tea leaves in the pot, she had pushed her bowl away. I loaded hers with the milk and sugar. She took a sip and pulled a face.

"Not the way you like it, eh? You need the milk and sugar, though. Think of it was medicine. That always tastes bad."

This time I was certain there was just the hint of a smile. We sat in silence as I tried to think what to do with her. She couldn't stay, that was for sure. I'm a solitary man and my wee house in the wilds suited me just fine. But it wasn't really big enough for two. Well, actually it was. There were two rooms I didn't use at all. The floorboards were damaged in one and the other had a broken window that I had boarded up rather than fix. I had never used them and they would need a wheen of work to be habitable. The bit I used was fine for me but certainly not suitable for a teenage girl. Tidiness was not one of my vices and I tended to shove unwanted items somewhere out of the way and forget about them. Some would say my house was cluttered. I preferred to think of it as comfortable.

I studied her, trying to work out where she had come from and why she was on her own with nothing to her name but a pink purse, a library ticket and a broken comb. What had happened to her? Had she run away? Had she been abandoned? Until she started talking I was in the dark and could make no long-term plans. Still, at least I could offer her temporary shelter for a few days until she was back on her feet and I could find out more about her. I suddenly noticed she was staring at me with an expression of absolute fear on her face and realised I'd been staring at her.

"I'm sorry," I smiled. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I was thinking about what to do with you…" She jumped. "I meant here," I added hastily. "I'll have to clear some of the junk out of the spare room and make up the bed properly. We should probably air the mattress but that'll depend on a good day. There's plenty of food for a few days so we'll be okay there…"

Her face was working strangely, her mouth opening and closing. It was as if she was trying to speak but had almost forgotten how. "Time," she managed at last.

"Time?" I said in surprise and glanced at the clock. Then I remembered I had asked her to remind me about her washing. "Well done, Amy," I said smiling broadly. "I'd forgotten all about the washing."

I felt almost elated as I transferred the washing. What a breakthrough. She had spoken. Perhaps this was crack in the dam and she would now open up and tell me her story. She was still at the table when I returned but she had slumped forward and was fast asleep with her head resting on an outstretched arm. I smiled to myself. In a way it was another breakthrough that she felt safe enough to fall asleep at the kitchen table. I tiptoed past her and made her bed up properly. The old blanket had been enough to protect it and, although the mattress smelt a bit fusty, it didn't smell of sick. I touched her lightly on the shoulder and said her name quietly. She was instantly awake and on the run. As it happened, she turned straight into my arms. Until then I hadn't appreciated how small she was. I am not particularly tall but her head didn't even reach my chin. I tightened my arms around her as she struggled and spoke to her quietly but firmly. I tipped her chin to look her in the eyes. As I did, I could see the wildness pass. She was panting, fighting for breath, at the strength of her panic attack. Sanity returned to her eyes and she slumped against me.

"Come, my little one. You need to sleep," I murmured. "I'll wake you at tea time."

By tea time her clothes were dry and I took them up when I went to wake her. Her hair, mid-brown, was a mess again as she hadn't combed it before falling asleep. I smiled for she looked so sweet and vulnerable. I gently called her name. She was instantly awake and sat up in bed with a start, her eyes darting around frantically as she tried to remember where she was. She had still been wearing the old dressing gown when I had tucked her in but, somewhere along the way had taken it off. The sheet fell away to reveal the most beautiful pair of small breasts I had ever seen. They were like half-tennis balls with brown cherry nipples perched precisely in the centre. My heart stopped, then started beating again in double-time. I felt my face flush.

"Here's your clothes," I said more gruffly than I intended. "Tea's in ten minutes."

She appeared as I was dishing up. She was dressed, not fashionably but not dowdily, in her grey baggy jeans with the outsize patch pockets, blue jumper and black denim jacket. It was no wonder she had been cold: it was a wonder she hadn't frozen to death. I had to smile, though, for, although she had attempted to comb her hair, it still stuck out at all sorts of crazy angles.

"A mess," she said.

"Doesn't matter. You look great anyway. Come and eat."

It was true, the bath and sleep and food had done wonders for her. The haggard look was gone from her face and some of the wildness had receded from her eyes. She was still pale and drawn but, all in all, she was a remarkably pretty girl. We ate in silence; she not being inclined to talk and me not wanting another meal of talking to myself. I would be patient. She would talk when she was ready.

"Good," she said as she finished the last mouthful if stew.

"Thanks. Tea?" She hesitated and I grinned. "Tell me how you like it."

She gave a fleeting smile. "One sugar, a little milk."

"Coming up."

We took our tea through to the living room where I had a fire going.

"Cosy," she said, looking around. She stopped and looked around again.

"Sorry. No TV," I said, guessing what she was looking for.

"What…?"

"What do I do in the evenings? Read, listen to music, listen to the radio, work." It's not that I have any objection to the television; it's not against my principles or anything, I just don't have one. I don't need one. I have two great passions - reading and music - and I find they are enough to fill my time pleasurably without the need for television.

"Work?"

"I write." I pointed at a section of the bookshelf.

She pulled out one of my books.

"'The Friendly Weed'?" she read.

"My best-seller." I grinned.

At her puzzled look I explained that I was a nature writer who scrabbled a living, but only just. There's a limited market for serious books on nature, even if one is regarded as a bit of an expert; that is if being quoted on 'Gardener's Question Time' qualifies. I had struggled along for years, quite content to make a modest living from my books and the occasional lecture. Unfortunately, Melanie, my former wife, was not so content and it was this that led to our divorce. As a sideline, I had been writing, on and off, a rather light-hearted book about common plants that are regarded as weeds. I rather objected to the fact that, just because a plant was common and thrived without the devoted attentions of an expert gardener, it was regarded as a weed and, therefore, something undesirable. I had mentioned it casually to my publisher one day. To my surprise she was enthusiastic and asked to see the manuscript. To my even greater surprise, she liked it and wanted to publish it. I polished it up, agreed the illustrations, corrected the galley proofs and thought no more about it. Publishing is a long-winded affair and it takes quite a while for the finished product to appear on the bookseller's shelves.

It was published just before Christmas and, to my utter and total amazement, it became a best-seller. Rather like Lynne Truss, I caught the public fancy at exactly the right time and the tone of the book, chatty and relaxed, was just right for a Christmas read. The real clincher was that I was mentioned on 'Gardener's Question Time' again but this time castigated for being 'frivolous'. Suddenly I was, if not rich, at least considerably better off than I had been. It was then I upped sticks and moved out to this little house perched on a hillside in the middle of nowhere. Well, it was relatively inaccessible at any rate. If I was careful and, other than my passion for books and music, I was, I could make my money last for quite some time.

She looked at me with wide eyes. "You're a famous author?"

I laughed with genuine amusement. "There are a few places I could go where my name would be recognised, like the University or the Botanic Gardens. Outside that…" I shrugged. "I wrote one book that sold reasonably well a few years ago. Now, I doubt one person in a hundred would know who I was."

For some strange reason that conversation seemed to open a connection to her. Whether it was because I was a published writer and, therefore, 'famous' or whether it was because, despite that, I was just a boring, mundane old man or whether it was for some other reason completely, I don't know. However, she seemed to relax her guard a bit. Over the next few days, she started to talk. At first it was practical things like "Where's the salt?" and "Good casserole." but gradually she began to express opinions and volunteer information. I didn't push. She would talk in her own good time.

Every evening we would spend some time talking. I would tell her stories of my travels in search of plants or we would listen to some music or read. She was a voracious reader; the fact that her one possession was a library card probably indicated that. Strangely, I found her presence not at all intrusive although, at times, especially when I was working, I would forget about her entirely and her voice, asking if I wanted a cup of tea or something would come as a complete jolt.

Gradually, very gradually, I got her story out of her. Two years previously, she had been sent to live with her grandparents in Manchester. She didn't know why. Her mother had said something about having to 'go away': her father was long gone and she didn't remember him at all. Her grandparents hadn't been very keen to have her: she had the feeling they did it out of a sense of duty rather than love. They were unable or unwilling to say where her mother was or what had happened to her. Indeed they made it clear that the subject was not to be raised. All she knew was that she was very unhappy.

Her grandparents were elderly and found they were unable to cope with an energetic teenager and when her grandfather's health began to fail earlier this year, they had thrown in the towel. It was not possible, apparently, for her to return to her mother so they arranged for her to stay with an 'aunt'. She had no idea who the people were that took her in. She was convinced they weren't related to her at all. If anything things were worse here than at her grandparents'. 'Aunt Jenny' and 'Uncle Frank' had three children of their own and lived in a small house. There was no actual abuse of any kind but the parents had their hands full with their own brood and had little time for another. The children teased her unmercifully because she was small and had a strange accent and because she was alone and afraid. What made it worse was that she started to develop sexually and there was no-one she felt she could turn to for help and guidance.

In the end she could take no more. She stole some money, about twenty five pounds as far as I could make out, and got on the first bus out of Manchester going vaguely north. She had no real plans; only a desire to get away from that hateful place and somehow find her mother again.

She made it as far as Carlisle. There she got stuck for the bus people wouldn't sell her a ticket to Glasgow; a place whose name she recognised. She spent three terrified nights living rough. She thought about hitch-hiking but was too scared to attempt it. Then she saw a lorry with the word 'Glasgow' on it and that gave her an idea. She managed to find out where the overnight lorry park was and stowed away on the back of a container lorry.

Here she had two incredible pieces of luck. The first was that the driver didn't bother to check his load when he arrived in the morning and the second was that he was, indeed, heading north. The trip was a nightmare. She was perched on the back of an open lorry travelling up the motorway at seventy miles an hour. The lorry swayed and jounced continuously and the containers shifted about alarmingly. Every moment the screaming, bone-chilling wind threatened to pluck her from her precarious perch. She managed to hook herself on, her whole body numb with cold, and hang on for three gruelling hours until the lorry finally drew into a depot on the outskirts of Edinburgh. While the driver was signing in and obtaining instructions about where to drop his load she somehow managed to release herself and stumble away.

For several hours she lay in a dry ditch, shivering with cold and desperately trying to get some feeling back into her numb limbs. She was forced to move when it started to rain. She began to walk. She was exhausted and starving. She had very little money and, anyway, realised that she couldn't just walk into a café in the state she was in. After what seemed like hours she came to the shopping mall where I had been parked and, without knowing why, had clambered into my Landrover and passed out. It was a tale of such incredible bravery and such incredible stupidity that my heart went out to her.

She was quiet after finishing her story and went up to bed early. I puttered around for a while, tidying up and securing the doors and windows; not from intruders but from the weather. The stars shone like diamond points in a moonless sky and I suspected it would get cold later on, perhaps even a touch of late frost.

I was deep in a dreamless sleep when something woke me. I opened a sleepy eye to note that it was still dark. I listened for a moment wondering what had disturbed me. I was used to the creaks and groans of the old house and of the wind in the trees outside, although tonight was quiet, and normally I slept like a log. All was silent than I heard what sounded like crying. I sighed and padded through to Amy's room. She was curled up in a foetal position, sobbing her heart out. I knelt on the floor and put a comforting arm around her. Instantly, she turned and flung her arms around my neck like a drowning sailor round a piece of driftwood. I murmured soothing words and stroked her hair until she gradually settled down. As I held her I became aware that I was holding an attractive girl in my arms. I had known she was pretty, possibly beautiful, from the first day we met and I had come to like her as a person. But I hadn't seen her as attractive or desirable, at least until now. It was an inappropriate and unworthy thought and I tried to suppress it.

I don't know how long I knelt there holding her, comforting her until her grip relaxed enough for me to ease her back into bed. I had given her an old t-shirt to use as a nightie. It had ridden up to her waist and I stared guiltily at her slender thighs and the panty-covered mound between her thighs. With a quiet sigh I pulled the covers up and stood. My knees ached, my back ached and I was cold through-and-through. I was too old for this sort of caper.

I crept back to bed but sleep did not come easily, partly because it took me a while to get warm again but mostly because visions of her perfect breasts and firm, rounded thighs kept intruding. I became erect. Eventually I managed to push these indecent visions aside and fell into a troubled sleep.

I was making breakfast the following morning when she arose. The first I knew that she was up was when her arms circled my waist.

"Thank you," she said.

I twisted in her arms. "You're more than welcome."

Her breasts, as firm as the tennis balls they resembled, pressed against my stomach and I could feel myself begin to stiffen.

"Breakfast'll burn," I said, disengaging her gently and turning away so she didn't feel my reaction. I'm sure my face was flaming.

She woke me again that night with her sobbing. This time I took a pillow to kneel on. Again she clung to me and again I had to push from my mind the inappropriate thoughts about her nubile young body. She settled more quickly that the previous night and for that I was grateful. It would have been less arduous to have lain on the bed beside her but it was far too small. That's my excuse, at least. Once again I had trouble getting back to sleep. The same thing happened on the third night though, this time, she gave a sigh of happiness as the flung her arms around my neck and settled back after only a few minutes, curling up and sucking her thumb like a baby.

It was bad enough that she was disturbing my nights but she began to disturb my days as well. Not that she behaved any differently: the difference was in me. I had stopped seeing her as a stray waif who needed somewhere secure and safe to recharge her batteries and had begun to see her as an object of lust. Actually that wasn't strictly true. As she had relaxed and opened up to me, I had come to enjoy her company. She was bright and lively with an enquiring mind an uncanny ability to sense my mood. She didn't chatter or giggle or moan or whine. She was neat and tidy, in contrast to me, and did her share of the chores without fuss or effort. At the same time she was cute and sexy with her high-set, tennis-ball breasts and her narrow hips and taut little bottom. Not the ideal image of woman-hood that normally turned me on but I found I wanted her: wanted her badly.

These two images of Amy sat uneasily juxtaposed in my mind and I found I was becoming distracted. I was unable to concentrate. She seemed to sense my mood for she became very quiet, almost tiptoeing around the house. I went for a tramp to try and get my thoughts in order.

For once it was a reasonable day, if breezy. I stomped along, taking nothing in, my mind obsessed with what I was going to do with her. At the edge of a small wood I stopped for a breather. The trees kept the worst of the wind away and I sat on a stump gazing out over the countryside for quite a while. I had gone round and round in mental circles for so long that my brain had seized up. I sat, not thinking of anything in particular, hearing the wind soughing in the trees and the harsh calls of the rooks.

And then the thought hit me. It was so absurd and revolting that I rejected it out of hand to begin with. But, like a whipped puppy, it kept returning, inserting itself insidiously in my brain. Time and again I tried to reject it but, each time it returned, it took on a renewed force. In the end I was forced to admit it and examine it seriously.

She had no-one; no family, no friends, no ties. Her mother and her grandparents had rejected her. She had not mentioned any other relatives. Nobody knew where she was. To the world she had just disappeared and, from what she had told me of her 'aunt' and 'uncle', they wouldn't be trying very hard to find her. She only had me. She needed me. I believed she had become quite fond of me. I could keep her. She would be mine. I could do whatever I wanted with her. Her only recourse would be to run away again but, if I played my cards right, she wouldn't do that. I didn't mean I would chain her up in the woodshed and live out some sick fantasy involving whips and torture. No, I would bind her to me with love and kindness. I would teach her, mentally and physically. I would look after her and care for her and, in return, she would become my sex toy. Mine and mine alone. To have and to hold quite literally. The idea was so dazzling, so overwhelming, so perverted that I found I was trembling. Could I make it work? I was almost afraid to go home.

I went over and over it again and again over the next couple of days. I studied her covertly, wondering, agonising. Could I do it? Could I make her mine?

Circumstances forced my hand. I was rooting around in the freezer, trying ot decide what to make for tea when I realised it was getting rather empty. The fridge was almost empty, too, as were the cupboards. A shopping expedition was required. This was the moment. The moment of truth. Could I pull it off?

"Amy," I said as we were drinking our tea after breakfast. "We need to go shopping. We're running out of food and you need something to wear."

She looked at me expectantly.

I took a deep breath. I took fifty pounds from my pocket and placed them on the table between us. "I'm going to give you some choices. One, you can take the money. I'll drop you at a railway station or bus station and you can go wherever you want. Two, you can take the money. I will buy you clothes and whatever else you need and then I'll leave you at the railway or bus stations. Three, you can stay here." I paused and took a deep breath. I looked her straight in the eye. "If you choose to stay here you will become mine."

She looked me keenly. She picked up the money and riffled it. She looked at me again then back at the money. Time stood still. Even the kitchen clock seemed to have stopped ticking. My heart was pounding so loudly it was almost deafening. She looked at me for a long minute then put the money back on the table.

"I'll stay."

"You realise what this means?"

She shrugged. "I've seen the way you look at me."

I let out a long, trembling breath. A wanted to yell and scream and dance about and cry, 'She's mine. She's mine. She's mine,' and jump up and down like an excited schoolboy.

I tried to keep my voice even. "Good. Keep the money anyway. Buy yourself something nice. I'll get the Landrover started. We'll leave in about fifteen minutes."

She nodded. There didn't seem anything else to say.

I found I was shaking as I went out to the front. I sat in the Landrover with my head on the steering wheel for several long moments trying to compose myself. I had done it. I had really done it. Then reaction set in. My God, what have I done? I've told a teenage girl that she is, to all extents and purposes, my slave. What possessed me to do that? It went against everything I thought I believed. A slave? What if she doesn't co-operate? How will I deal with it? What if she runs away? What if…? I took a few deep breaths and told myself sternly to stop. It was done, for better or worse. I was committed. She was committed. As the adult, it was up to me to make it work. She was my responsibility now and I had to take it seriously.

Amy was quiet on the way.

"Clothes first, then supermarket," I said as I parked he Landrover.

"What sort of clothes?" she asked.

"Some practical, some nice. Don't go too mad for you'll grow." She looked at me enquiringly. "Look, I don't know what teenage girls wear. Remember we live in the country so you don't want to be tripping about in high heels and a miniskirt. On the other hand, you're a pretty girl and deserve to be able to dress up at times. Your choice."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Are you going to buy clothes, too?"

I looked at her askance. "Why, yes," I said thoughtfully. "It's about time I updated my image. You can help me."

"Goody," she said with an evil grin.

"Why do I feel I might regret this?"

She patted my knee. "S'okay. Don't worry."

Shopping turned out to be fun, if tiring. We must have visited every teen-fashionable clothes shop there was. Amy didn't go mad, nor did she give me a fashion show. She took her choices to the changing rooms and handed them back when she was finished, keeping one, maybe two sometimes none, for purchase. I could see jeans and tops and skirts and a dress and jumpers but had no real idea of what sort of things she was buying. I just paid over the money as directed.

I took her to the outdoor shop and bought her hiking boots and waterproofs. She wanted to know why. I simply grinned and said it hadn't rained yet. We had lunch in McDonalds. Not my preferred choice but Amy loved it - she was a teenager after all. She was having a grand time. She didn't chatter but her animated expression and her whole posture said she was enjoying herself. I got my pleasure knowing she was having fun. Buying clothes for me turned out to be quite an experience. Normally I would just buy the first thing that looks not too bad and fits, preferring cord trousers and flannel shirts. Amy was having none of it. Every one of my proposals was turned down with a pursing of the lips and a little shake of the head. She prowled the shop like a cat hunting for a mouse. Every so often she would pounce and add something to the growing pile in her arms.

"My niece," I explained to the amused young salesman. "She thinks I need a change of image."

I was hustled into the changing booth and told to present each item for approval. I found it rather embarrassing to be told to walk and turn by a young teenage girl while she eyed me critically. Most of the garments were rejected but I ended up with, I have to confess, a rather nice selection, including a very fashionable jacket that I would never in a million years have thought suitable.

"That was fun," Amy said as we left.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." I glanced at my watch. "Tell you what. How about we go out for dinner? We can do the supermarketing later."

"It's a bit early," she said hesitantly.

"Don't you want to do some personal shopping? You've got fifty pounds, remember?" She looked relieved. "Is an hour enough? An hour and a half? Okay. We'll meet back at the Landrover in ninety minute, find somewhere to change into these new togs and have dinner. Oh, here…" I dug into my pocket and produced another twenty pound note. "In case you need more."

She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed my cheek. "Thanks," she said and skipped off.

I dumped our collection of bags in the secure compartment in the Landrover and spent a happy ninety minutes in a bookshop of my acquaintance.

We changed in the toilets of the shopping mall. I was curious to see what Amy had bought in the way of 'nice' clothes. I was, of course, ready before her and had to pretend a deep interest in various brands of mobile phone until she appeared.

"Hi", said a small familiar voice.

I turned to see, not Amy, but… Well, it was Amy but not the Amy I had come to know. She had a dress on for a start. It was relatively modest; coming to mid-thigh with a demure top and broad shoulder straps. The material was kind of shimmery with thin, diagonal stripes in various shades of blue. The skirt was full but the bodice and waist were shaped. She had put on stockings or pantyhose and strappy shoes with three-inch heels. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a sophisticated bun and she had applied make-up very carefully. She was still a teenager, she couldn't hide that, but she could easily pass for sixteen or seventeen.

"I'm sorry I took so long," she said nervously, misunderstanding my silence.

"To look like that, you can take as long as you like. Amy, you're beautiful," I said awestruck.

She blushed. I offered her my arm which she took with a flirty look and we set off to dinner.

Dinner was fun. It had been a long time since I'd been out with a woman, far less one as young as Amy. It wasn't a particularly posh place, just a simple Italian restaurant that I'd visited once or twice before. The food was reasonably cheap, reasonably well cooked and presented and pleasantly served. Amy had never been in a restaurant before and was very nervous.

"Do you crouch over your plate and shovel food into your mouth," I asked with a grin.

"No, of course not," she said indignantly.

"In that case you've nothing to worry about. To a girl who travelled from Carlisle to Edinburgh on the back of a lorry, this should be a piece of cake."

She straightened her shoulders and marched in. A young waiter, tall and terribly Italian-looking, came hurrying over.

"Signor. Signorina. You wish a table for two?"

"Thank you."

He made a great show of seating Amy and she blushed prettily.

"I think he likes you," I teased. This made her blush even more.

"I don't know what to order," she wailed, putting down the menu and looking at me in despair. "What are all these things?"

"The art of good menu writing is to make something simple sound very grand. That way they can justify charging an exorbitant price for it."

I went through the basics of an Italian menu. I suggested she tried the special penne which I'd had before.

"Signor, you do not treat the young lady right," the waiter said when I declined starters. He winked outrageously at Amy. "Such a beautiful girl deserves the very best."

"I've eaten here before and your starters make strong men weak," I laughed.

He took our orders and departed with a flourish.

"Is he flirting with me?" Amy asked, her face aflame.

"Outrageously," I smiled.

"I've never had anybody flirt with me before. Don't you mind?"

I touched her hand. "No. He doesn't mean it and, besides, you belong to me. Remember?"

She started. "Oh. Yes, I do, don't I?" If anything she blushed even deeper.

Our food arrived and once she realised that the other diners were not watching her and making adverse comments about her table manners, she began to enjoy herself. We left the restaurant in a warm glow. Outside, she slipped under my arm and snuggled up beside me.

"I really enjoyed that. Thank you," she said, giving me a hug.

"I enjoyed it to. You're good company," I replied. "But don't get too comfy, we've still got the supermarket to do."

She sighed. "Must we? It seems so… mundane."

I stopped, looked at her and laughed. "Mundane. What an excellent word. You're right. It is mundane. We'll go tomorrow."

We passed the city limits and the darkness closed in around us, marooning us in a noisy, throbbing, diesel capsule. Only the headlights existed to cut a path through the jungle of the night. Every mile we travelled took us deeper into unknown territory. There was a tension between us that was palpable. Tonight was going to be a watershed. Our relationship had already changed and would change further. Today's expedition into the bustling world of normal people and normal activities had been but an interlude. It had moved us on but not to our final destination. A commitment had been made and, tonight, that commitment would be honoured. My wee house, my comfortable refuge, was a mysterious temple in which strange rites would be accomplished. Neither of us would emerge unchanged, but for better or worse only time would tell.

In the living room I stoked up the fire which had sunk to glowing embers and watched the flames leap up the chimney. In a way it was symbolic. I was playing with fire; fanning flames that could turn suddenly into an uncontrollable conflagration. Was I ready for it?

She stood passively, waiting for me to make the first move. The light from the flickering flames warmed her skin and made her lips look fuller and redder and even more kissable than usual and cast her eyes into deep, shadowy pits.

I sat and patted my knee. She perched, not looking at me. In the firelight the metallic sheen of her dress took on a .

"Thank you for today, Amy," I said softly, stroking her arm. "I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much. You know that tonight I'm going to make you mine."

She nodded, chewing her lower lip.

"I need to if you've ever had sex."

She shook her head; a quick, denying gesture. I breathed an inward sigh of relief. No worries about her having contracted some disease, then.

"Do you masturbate? Play with yourself? Down there?" I put a hand on her stockinged knee and slid it up under her dress. I smiled to myself as I encountered a patch of bare thigh. The little minx was wearing stockings rather than pantyhose. I cupped her mound and she started. "It's all right. Everybody does it."

She glanced up at me disbelievingly.

"Normal people do but they mostly deny it. It makes you feel good." I was pressing my fingers in little circles over the end of mound where her clit was. "Does this feel good?"

"Yes." She admitted reluctantly.

"Do you do this to yourself?"

"Sometimes."

"You're a very beautiful girl. You deserve to feel good. Open your legs."

She spread her knees obediently. I dipped my fingers lower, feeling along the length of her slit.

"This feels nice, too, doesn't it? It makes you feel warm and tingly inside."

"Yes," she husked.

I slid my other hand under her armpit and felt for a small, firm breast. "And this, too. You like your breasts to be touched. It makes you feel warm and tingly, too."

"Yes," she sighed, leaning against me.

This was turning out much better than I had anticipated. My cock was so stiff it was painful.

"Have you ever been kissed?"

"No."

I took my hand from between her legs and tilted her face towards me.

"I'm going to teach you. Copy what I do."

I brought my lips softly down on hers. I wanted to crush her lips to mine and stick my tongue down her throat but I knew I had to take it slowly and softly. I kissed along her lower lip, then licked it quickly. I placed my mouth against hers and held it for a moment, letting her become accustomed to the sensation. My hand went back between her thighs and resumed its teasing of her vulva. I felt her mouth soften. I began to move my lips against hers and felt her mimic me. She settled against me and sort of sighed in the kiss. With my tongue, I gently prised her lips apart and licked between them. She started slightly then relaxed again. I flicked my tongue back and forth against hers and was delighted when I felt her respond. Our kiss deepened. Our mouths pressed tightly together. I sucked her tongue into my mouth and felt, rather than heard, her moan. She began to respond more passionately, thrusting her tongue back at mine, mashing her mouth against mine. We were both breathing heavily when we parted and our faces were flushed. The front of her panties were damp to the touch.

"Did you like that?"

She nodded, blushing furiously.

"I liked it too. You kiss well. Would you like to do it again?"

Another nod. "Good. I'd like that, too. Swing over so we're face to face. No. You'll crush your pretty dress. Better take it off."

She pulled the dress up over her head and laid it over the arm of the settee.

"You're so beautiful. Let me look at you."

She stood, clad in her pale blue bra and panties, stockings and high-heeled shoes, with her head lowered. She was a wet dream. My cock was so stiff it was painful. I wanted to cart her off to bed and ravish her but I knew I had to be patient. She was, in truth, the sacrificial virgin and I wanted her to come to me like a lamb to the slaughter. Although she was mine and I could throw her on the rug and rape her, I wanted her submission to be willing for, if it was, she would more readily accept my dominance.

"Don't be embarrassed, little one. Stand with pride and let me look at you."

She raised her head reluctantly but her gaze was steady, almost defiant.

"Take off your bra and come here."

She reached behind her for the clasp, her tennis-ball breasts threatening to burst out of the flimsy garment. I hurriedly shucked my jacket and shirt.

"Skin to skin is much better," I smiled, as she straddled my lap and I pulled her close until the hard points of her nipples drilled holes in my chest. She shivered at the contact.

"Put your arms around my neck and kiss me."

She was so biddable. She snuggled up and wriggled her breasts across my chest before raising her face and parting her lips for the kiss. This time I did not hold back. I kissed her with all the passion I was feeling. I owned her. I owned her body and I owned her soul and I let it all come through in that kiss.

"You know you're mine?" I said in a voice that was barely under control. She hung limply against my chest and nodded. "I can do anything I want with you - and I will. You will submit because you can do nothing else." I could feel her trembling. "I'm not vicious or unkind. I won't starve you or beat you or torture you. I'll take care of you and look after you. I'll teach you about pleasure, how to give it and how to receive it, and you will be there for me wherever and whenever I want. Tell me you understand."

I felt her nod against my chest. "Yes," she whispered. "I understand."

I cupped her mound and squeezed it. "Say it. Say 'my cunt is yours'." She shook her head. I increased the pressure. "Say it."

"My… My c-cunt is yours," she whispered.

"Look my in the eye and say it again." My fingers were massaging her labia. The lips were soft and I could feel her dampness through the material of her panties.

Her head came up slowly and in her eyes was an unfathomable look. "My cunt is yours," she said in a curiously breathy voice.

I palmed her breasts, flicking the nipples with my thumbs.

"My breasts are yours."

"My breasts are yours," she repeated.

I put a hand on the back of her head and kissed her briefly but fiercely.

"My mouth is yours."

"My mouth is yours." Her bosom was heaving with the violence of her emotions and she was trembling all over but her voice was steady and her eyes never left mine.

I cupped the cheeks of her bottom, pulling them apart and prodding her sphincter with a finger.

"My bottom is yours."

"My bottom is yours." She faltered slightly at this one.

She was silent for a moment, her gaze focussed inwards. Then, without warning, she gave a half gasp half cry, slid her arms around my back and hugged me fiercely.

"Yes," she said to my chest. "I'm yours. You can do anything - everything - you want with me. I'll do anything you ask. Just please, please don't ever leave me."

I prised her away and looked deep into her eyes. "I won't leave you - ever."

I had intended to take her to bed and make love to her; to introduce her to sex slowly, but the hunger in her eyes matched that in mine. I eased her down onto the rug in front of the fire and pulled her panties off. She spread her legs, revealing her fuzz-covered mound. Her labia were red and swollen with passion, the outer lips parted to reveal the delicate pink interior glistening with moisture. It was the most beautiful, most erotic and most arousing sight I had ever seen. In that one gesture, that one simple act of spreading her thighs and offering herself to me, I knew she truly was mine. I threw off the rest of my clothes, not caring where they landed. My one aim was to bury my cock inside her. I dropped to my knees between her parted legs and stopped. It wasn't finished. The ritual wasn't complete. I don't know how I knew that, I just did.

I hefted my cock, stroking it slowly and lovingly and watching her eyes as she stared at it hypnotically. "Look at my cock. Isn't it big? Isn't it beautiful? I'm going to fuck you with it: push it up inside your cunt; all the way up until it won't go any further. You'll find out what it feel like to have a cock deep inside your cunt; filling you, stretching you, completing you. Then, when I've filled you and stretched you completely, I'm going to fuck you; fuck you until I cum - cum inside you. You'll feel me fucking you. Feel me cumming. It will hurt, the first time, but I'll be patient. After the first time it won't hurt. You'll enjoy it; enjoy being fucked by my cock. It will bring you great pleasure. You'll look forward to it eagerly. You'll want me to fuck you. Take hold of it. Both hands. Feel how hard it is; how hot; how big; how soft."

Her hands trembled as she touched a man's cock for the first time and her eyes filled with wonder.

"It feels so strange; not what I imagined it would feel like at all," she whispered as she stroked and petted my throbbing cock. "It's sort of hard and soft at the same time - and so hot." Her eyes flicked up to mine. "I'm ready."

"Put it in, then."

She pulled me down and placed the tip of my cock between her labia at the entrance to her vagina. She was trembling all over. She bit her lower lip as she felt a man's cock where nothing other than her fingers had been before. I rocked back and forwards gently, rubbing the tip of my cock up and down her slit. I knew she was already damp but I wanted her well prepared before I entered her. She sensed what I was doing and began to rock her hips in time with mine. Her eyes were squeezed tight shut and she breathed in short pants. She still had hold of my cock and was masturbating herself with it.

When it happened, it happened almost without either of us being aware of it. One moment I was sliding up and down between the slippery lips of her labia and the next the tip of my cock was at the entrance to her vagina. She gave a little half sob and tried to pull away. Although she knew, intellectually, what was going to happen, the reality was something else. I was having none of it. I was where I wanted to be and nothing was going to stop me.

"Amy. Look at me." I said. "Look into my eyes as I enter you. Look into my eyes and realise your total surrender to me."

Her eyes flew open; wide yet not frightened.

"It will hurt when I break your hymen but I'll take my time. Concentrate on feeling me inside you. Feel my cock stretch you. Feel how wonderful it is to have a man penetrate you. It's what your cunt was made for - to be filled up with a man's cock - with my cock."

I slid in another inch and encountered a barrier. I pulled back and started moving in and out, letting her get used to the feeling of being fucked. At each down-stroke I probed the fleshy barrier, trying to determine how strong it was. Her vagina clasped me tightly and I it was taking all my willpower not to thrust forward and bury myself inside her.

At first she lay quiescent, overcome by the strange sensations of being fucked for the first time. But she was a naturally lubricious girl and, probably without even being ware she was doing it, she began to respond. I could wait no longer. I was in danger of cumming and spoiling the whole thing.

"I'm going to push hard now," I said quietly. "It will probably hurt but I don't know how much."

She nodded to show she understood. I drew back and thrust. There was a sense of something tearing and then I was inside her; not all the way but certainly more than half-way. She shrieked and flinched, her face screwed up and tears stung her eyes.

"Just a little more then I'll stop," I said gently.

I pushed again and the final few inches of my cock slid up inside her. I was in; fully embedded in my darling girl's wonderful cunt. I looked down at her. I couldn't get over how small she was. I felt that, if I lay on her I would crush her.

"Lie still, little one," I murmured. "Lie quiet and let the pain pass. Was it very bad?"

"A bit," she said.

"It'll never hurt again, I promise. From now on you'll only get pleasure from having my cock inside you."

I lay still, supporting my weight on my elbows and gently stroked her hair until she started to relax.

"I'm going to move now," I said. "Tell me if it still hurts."

I eased back until I was only just engaged. Her vagina was clamped so tightly around my cock that I felt I was pulling out of a vacuum pump. She gave a little whimper though whether it was through pain or because she didn't want me to withdraw, I don't know. I paused then slowly forced my way back in again. This time her breath hissed between her teeth. She didn't cry out or give make any sign to stop me so I repeated the action.

She put her palms flat on my chest and gave me a small smile. "Feels very strange," she murmured.

"Sore?"

"A little. But don't stop."

I began to move slowly. I was mentally reciting the full Latin names for every native plant in an effort not to cum. She was so hot and so tight I could feel her sucking at me every time I moved. Without being aware of it, I began to speed up. Her fingers dug into my chest then shifted to grip my arms.

"Curl your legs around my back," I said.

She did, although she could only get them half-way round.

"Oh," she gasped. "I can feel you even deeper. What do you want me to do?"

"Whatever you like. Wriggle, squirm, move up and down."

She bit her lower lip in concentration as she tried to match my rhythm. We spent a few uncoordinated moments until she got the hang of it.

"Oh God, Amy. Like that. I feel I'm really fucking you like that," I gasped.

Whatever she was doing seemed to nip the sensitive tip of my cock as I thrust in. It was exquisitely painful. I thrust harder. I didn't care if I was hurting her or not, A red mist rose before my eyes. The need to cum was overwhelming. I was dimly aware of her thrashing about beneath me and calling out but I was mainly aware of my cock sliding in and out of her fabulously tight cunt.

And then I was there. I seemed to cum for ever and ever, as if I was emptying my soul into her receptive womb and she was arching up against me, begging me to fill her with my seed.

I hung from my elbows, fighting for breath, the blood pounding in my ears and the sweat dripping from my face and half blinding me. As I became aware of my surroundings I realised I was still lying on top of Amy. I looked down. Her eyes were shut tight and she was weeping silently, the tears trickling down the side of her face.

"Amy. Amy, my love. I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

I eased off her, rolled stiffly onto the floor and gathered her into my arms.

"Amy. My love. My darling. My little one. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I crooned.

She opened her eyes and attempted a smile. "S'okay," she murmured.

"I'm sorry. I meant you first time to be loving and gentle. Did I hurt you badly?"

"A bit. It's was so… overwhelming. I never thought… I didn't realise…"

"I got carried away. I shouldn't have."

She looked at me keenly, almost fiercely. "Yes you should. I'm yours. You can do what you like with me. You've…" She frowned. "I don't have the words for it. You… possessed me, used me, marked me as yours. So don't be sorry. It's what you wanted isn't it?"

"And you?" I asked gently.

She was silent for a moment. "Yes." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "It's what I wanted, too."

She shivered and looked away, staring at the flames. Her face was streaked with tears and sweat, her thighs with cum and blood. I clambered unsteadily to my feet and staggered upstairs to fetch a damp cloth and a blanket. My knees were so weak I could hardy manage the stairs and my hands were trembling. I wiped the blood and semen from Amy's thighs and the sweat from her face.

"We should really shower but I don't know if I can," I said. "I'll carry you up to bed and bring up some tea."

"No, not bed," she said. "Stay here. It's nice."

I helped her onto the settee, put the blanket around her shoulders, and went to make tea. We snuggled up together, cocooned in our blanket, our room, our house and watched the flames dancing in the grate. Outside I could hear the wind soughing in the trees and knew we were in for rain. I knew I needed to talk to her about it; about what she felt, but it could wait. I was on a euphoric high. I had done it. I had made her mine. And, on top of that, I knew loved her dearly.

"Bill, there's something I have to tell you."

"Hmm?"

"It's important."

"I'm listening."

"I'm not Amy Johnstone."

I was fully awake. "But… How…? The library card?"

"I found it in a bus shelter."

"But… What…? Who are you?"

She shrugged, a faint movement under the blanket. "Does it matter?"

That floored me. "I don't suppose it does."

"I'm Amy Johnstone now." She giggled quietly. "I like that name. It's nicer than mine."

"Why did you tell me?"

"I don't know. In case you decided to try and find out about me, I suppose."

"I probably would have."

"I know. Now you can't."

"No." I was puzzled. Why should she suddenly come out with this. Then it struck me. She was telling me she had no past; only a future. And that future was with me. It was another way of acknowledging my ownership.

"There's something else you should know."

"What?"

"I'm only thirteen."

"You're what?"

"I'm only thirteen. My birthday was in February."

"Shit."

Thirteen! My God, I had thought she was at least fifteen. Thirteen! And only just hirteen. It was April now. She was a child. I had turned a child into a sex-toy. My mind spun cartwheels. I felt my world cave in. I was having difficulty breathing. Thirteen. I glanced down to see her looking at me anxiously.

"You okay?" she asked. "You're not going to pass out on me or anything, are you?"

I managed a ragged smile. "No. I'm not going to pass out or anything. You just took me by surprise, that's all."

"Why? How old did you think I was?"

"About fifteen."

"Is that a compliment?"

I laughed, a genuine one this time. "It is, indeed. You don't behave like a thirteen-year-old. You don't look like a thirteen-year-old. In fact, tonight you could have passed for sixteen or seventeen?"

She chewed her lower lip.

"Does it make a difference?"

"Huh?"

"That I'm only thirteen?"

The million dollar question. I took my time before replying. "No. It doesn't matter at all. You are who you are whenever you were born. It wouldn't matter if you were sixteen or seventeen or twenty two. It's you I love and you I need and you I want."

As I said the words, I knew they were true. It didn't matter. It didn't matter that there was a generation between us. It didn't matter that she was barely in high school. What mattered was that she was mine and I loved her. I tightened my arm around her and she settled into my embrace with a soft sigh.

"No," I repeated almost to myself. "It doesn't matter at all."

In the grate, a log collapsed in a shower of sparks as those beneath it burnt away.