“None of your business who, you damned owl!” the little girl hissed into the night.The next sound she heard was one she knew well: Paul Macon’s ...aughter. The nine year old boy, dressed in black with his T-shirt pulled up over his face and the brim of his cap pulled low, emerged from the shadows not sixteen feet (five metres) from her.“I thought I saw something move,” he told her as they met, “but I wasn’t sure it was you.”A moment of whispered discussion and they settled on the banyan tree. Her mother's body jerked in a spasm, as the African thrust again and his dark body sank onto the soft whiteness of her mother.Her hands dropped to her shorts. She quickly pushed down the zipper, and thrust her hand inside. It may be wrong, but she could not contain herself. Her fingers sought out her wet centre.In the bedroom, The Nasty Man's black body had begun a regular humping motion. Her mother's shapely white legs had risen to wrap tightly around him.Sex! She was watching sex. Fucking!. More

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