Sortie / Day One / Through the Door
The door neither opens nor closes, you simply pass through it, out of the filthy sphinx's placeless space and into a new place.
| If Sara is thirteen years old she is painfully thin for her age and undeveloped. If she is nine she is incredibly tall and lean. The better guess places her at eleven and fine boned.
Her face is broad, and slightly heart-shaped with an unusual elfin cast due to a relative lack of baby fat for her age. Her poreless skin nearly shines in the grey dawnlight--her blissful innocence written on her fine features like fire light reflecting off of pearls. Her chest, partly visible under the bunched pajama top, reveals a flat, childlike smoothness, barely contoured at all until the edge if her ribs gives way to the slowly rising and falling concavity of her stomach. That stomach is defined by the sharp-seeming edges if her hip bones that cut up away from her curveless hips only because of her delicate thinness and supine position. Her hands are delicate and smooth. Her fingernails close-cropped and each is marked by a ragged, scratchy square of pinkish nail polish--the pale cosmetic remnant only managing to cling to the middle two-thirds of each thin nail. Her ephemeral thinness leaves her thighs barely thicker than her biceps, thin enough to leave a tiny triangular gap between them right where they meet her delicate hips. Her inner genitalia are perfectly hidden by a seam-tight slit between her baby-smooth labia majora. Only the faintest puffiness hints at the pink folds within. |
You are now in a girl's bedroom, rendered in white paint and pastel accents. Edgeless grey light streams in through a bay window that reveals an unremarkable, suburban cul de sac, quiescent in the predawn gloom. The room is furnished in an artful compromise between the cornerless invincible furniture of an early grade schooler and the pink and peach laciness of an older girl, still untouched by the rougher, darker pretensions of adolescent rebellion. The childish signature on a few pieces of artless art on the wall declares that this room belongs to someone named Sara.
Sara, as befits the early hour, is asleep in her bed. Sara is pale skinned and towhead. Her hair is the color of sun-bleached sand and the consistency of cotton candy and wreaths her sleeping head in a tangled halo. It is cut to a length shorter than is common for girl's her age, but still well past the nape of her neck.
Just looking at her reveals evidence of the act which triggered your sortie. Her bedding has been thrown aside and her pale blue, cotton fleece pajama top has been yanked up to expose her torso to the ribs. The faded pajamas bottoms have been yanked down to her knees. This leaves her pale, flawless skin exposed from rib cage to thigh.
Splattered liberally across her thin thighs and hairless, slightly puffy labia are several strands of drying semen. Cradled in the curve if her stomach is a pool of cooling cum so fresh that it is still in the act of separating out onto whorls of differing textures and opacities, proof that the transgression that triggered your sortie happened mere minutes go.
The obscenity of the slick pool of cum on her bare belly seems all the more filthy as it contrasts against the angelic innocence of her sleeping features.
The delicate skin around her prepubescent sex shares the alabaster perfection of the rest of her, with no bruising or chafing in evidence. This, plus the way her half-stripped pajama bottoms bundle at her knees, locking her legs together, not to mention the girl’s uninterrupted sleep, mean she almost certainly was not penetrated. She slept through her defilement--a prurient act, performed on an innocent, that nonetheless failed to corrupt that innocent.
Sara is your host.