That is what Ian calls me at least, my mum doesnt really call me much at all. I should tell you a bit about myself, I am fifteen years old, white, wit... long dark brown hair. I am about 55, slim and beautiful with a heart shaped face and firm young tits, pretty large for my age if not actually big. In the kitchen, my darling mothers voice echoed through the house directing her bullish boy friend right to me, thanks mum. Ian was a bastard and that was no surprise, he was the newest in a long. I found it hard not to ogle her myself, though at least I was allowed to look into her cheerful, beautiful face as she consulted me gratuitously about purchases and even, after a leisurely coffee, about various clothes in the kind of girlie shop I hadn’t had an excuse to go in before.There were pretty girls all over the place, but that didn’t faze me now. In a minute Rachel would come out of the changing cubicle and do a twirl for me, and everyone else would know I wasn’t after them. I carried. More

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