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It sounded like someone rattling the back door, or at least moving it slightly. Yes, there it was again, the loose-fitting bolt moving in the frame. A burglar? I started breathing heavily. I was not a coward by any means, but this night our parents were out and it was only me and Charlotte left in the house alone. My sister was three years younger than me and I was only sixteen. Our parents felt us sufficiently responsible to be left alone, especially when they had a wine-tasting (a.k.a. wine-guzzling) party to attend. Granted, it wasn't a common occurrence and it was the summer holidays ? it wasn't like we had to do anything responsible like go to school the next day. Still, when reality comes-a-knocking fear grips you.So, in a split-second I had jumped, nay ? catapulted myself to the conclusion that someone was trying to break into the stout back door of our suburban English home. Not an unheard-of situation, I'll grant, but nevertheless an unlikely one. It took me about. Gazing with narrow eyes sucking her thumb watching you play out x-ray images of what her ass would look like under the one or two skimpy layers of clothing she's wearing. She's watching you watching her all the while her thumb slides in and out of her mouth so slowly that the causal observer would think she must have just stumped it. But your locked in, tunnel vision, periscope with the cross hairs dialed in. Your Torpedo is, locked, loaded and primed, ready to burst open her tiny backside, sink her ship, dropping a nuclear milky white load deep inside her. Gaping a massive hole in the crack of her backside. Seamen spend long hours at their station, standing, rocking to the ways of the ocean and that's a good thing. She wouldn't be able to sit comfortably for a week when I was done with her. I brushed her hair away from her ear, pulled down on her ear ring like a ding dong bell and said, "Are you a sailor?". "If you are my captain" She muttered already bending half way down groping.
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