The Baby Doll

I returned the phone receiver to its cradle and closed the little metal door that read, “Emergency Only.” I said, “I talked to Building Maintenance. They say it’s a massive power failure. Maybe citywide. They’re working as fast as they can and they’ve notified the fire department, but since neither of us is injured, having a heart attack or in labor, we’re not an urgent priority. So we wait.”

The young woman said, “Why do we still have lights if the power’s out?” She looked upward at the fluorescent glow coming from the elevator car’s ceiling. Her skin was radiant, even though the pale bluish-white light made my own arms and hands look like those of a corpse.

I said, “The building’s got a backup generator that keeps the air circulating and emergency lights on for a while. It’s just not powerful enough to do all that and get the elevators running again.”

With more composure than I’d expected, the young woman said, “So we wait.”

I said, “So we wait.”

Simultaneously, we sat down on the floor, backs leaning against the walls of the elevator car. Although I’m not usually the claustrophobic type, I put as much space as I could between myself and my fellow prisoner of the blackout. She leaned against the wall opposite mine and straightened out her long, smooth, legs. I sat with my own legs crossed, doing my best to create an invisible zone of non-contact between the two of us. The elevator car’s dimensions were maybe eight feet by eight feet. I did everything I could to make sure there was at least four feet of space between us. It was a challenge.

She was stunning; not only that, she was young. Very young. Uncomfortably young. I calculated I was easily old enough to be her father, and considering how randy I’d been when I was a teenager, being old enough to be her grandfather wasn’t out of the question.

She had blonde hair done up in a single, casual ponytail that extended down the middle of her back. She was petite, and on the thin side. She wore a tiny little bright blue-and-orange tank-top shirt, (no bra straps that I could see), a barely-there denim skirt and blue flip-flops. My guess was that she’d been on her way to the mall to scope out the boys and buy the latest Justin Beiber CD. Her skin, as I’ve said before, was radiant and full with the flush of youth. Teen-aged boys would’ve driven through stop lights to stare at her walking along the sidewalk. Hell, I’d have probably done the same thing, and I was certain her parents hadn’t even met yet when I’d graduated high school.

She said, “So, if we’re here for a while, what’s your name?” An unusual level of maturity in her tone of voice, I thought.

“Robert Morgan,” I said. Although I usually go by “Rob,” something told me to use my full name as a reminder of my maturity.

She said, “Hi, Robert Morgan. I’m Josslyn Blackmun.” Then she spelled it for me to differentiate her name from the more common variations, such as “Joceyln” or “Joslin.” She shook my hand and when I broke the handshake, she gave my hand one more little squeeze before she let go, just as a reminder that she didn’t find my touch uncomfortable.

I recalled that Building Maintenance had assured me the air would keep things cool for at least an hour or so, but I found myself already beginning to sweat. I was stealing glances at Josslyn’s legs, especially her thighs where they disappeared under her insanely short denim skirt. If she’d opted to stand up or to even stretch, I was certain I could get a good, clear view of her panties, and I was torn between wanting her to stretch, and praying she did nothing of the sort.

I decided to steer the conversation in a direction that would remind me of Josslyn’s tender age. I said, “So, which high school do you go to? What do you want to do when you go to college?”

She smiled like she’d just remembered a private joke. She said, “I’m not in high school anymore.”

I folded my arms in a classic defensive posture. I said, “Oh, really? Did you drop out? What do you do for a living?”

Now, Josslyn laughed, still enjoying her private joke. She said, “I’m a Baby Doll.”

My mind raced through a catalogue of terms I’d heard my own teenaged daughter use in conversations with her friends. What was a Baby Doll? I asked, “What’s a Baby Doll?”

Josslyn said, “A Baby Doll is an actress-slash-model-slash-paid personal companion who specializes in catering to the fetish of men and women who want to be with underage girls, but who don’t want to break the law by doing so.”

I knew exactly what she meant, but she must’ve interpreted my shocked expression as befuddlement. She said, “People pay me to have sex with them or pose for pictures for them because I look like I’m under eighteen.” She brought one leg up and my eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to her crotch underneath that short, short skirt. What color were those panties?

Josslyn asked, “How old do I look, Robert?”

I tried to look nonchalant, but I knew I was failing at it. I shrugged. “Sixteen, maybe seventeen?”

She smiled. “Thank you. That’s something I work hard to sell.” She reached into her purse, a little pink vinyl number that looked like it was all the rage at the nearest high school. She handed me a folded piece of paper, an identification card, and some photographs.

I looked through them, trying to appear more disinterested than I was. The piece of paper was a copy of a birth certificate for Josslyn Blackmun, and according to the date of birth, she was one month shy of turning twenty years old. The card, a driver’s license, had the same information. The photos were of Josslyn, mostly from what appeared to be high school, but they all displayed some form of visual evidence that they were at least two years old. In one photo, she was wearing a cheerleader’s outfit that displayed a prominent “08” number on the skirt. In another photo, she was standing with other students next to a banner that read, “Class of ’08 Rules!”

I handed the papers and photos back to Josslyn and she said, “I’d show you my senior yearbook, but it wouldn’t fit in the purse.”

She started talking, and I mostly listened. She told me about how she’d always looked young for her age, and how she figured out how to exploit that fact for her benefit. She told me about how certain alterations in her makeup or her wardrobe or her hairstyle could make her appear younger still. She told me about the six different cheerleader outfits she had at home, the four different schoolgirl uniforms, the ways she could act like the innocent naïf just as easily as she could the worldly-beyond-her-years slut. She told me about the little packets of fake blood she sometimes inserted into her vagina to simulate the piercing of her hymen. She told me about the prominent local clergyman who enjoyed abusing his authority with her. She told me about the high school principal who couldn’t indulge his lust for the hundreds of girls he encountered every day at work. She told me about the closeted suburban lesbian housewife who lusted after
the friends her daughter brought home. I half-expected her to proudly proclaim she was performing a public service, and if she had, I’d have been hard-pressed to counter her arguments.

Josslyn told me about how some of her clients liked to “deflower” an innocent. Some of them liked the rush of dominating someone they considered helpless and easily overpowered. Some of them enjoyed the way she made them feel as young and as vibrant and energetic as she.

Finally, Josslyn said, “What about you, Robert? What gets you hard at the thought of fucking one of those teenaged girls you see at the mall or in the high schools?”

I laughed, an all-too-phony laugh. “I haven’t had the urge to have sex with a teenager since I was one myself.”
Josslyn laughed. “Bullshit, Robert. It’s part of my business to know what people want, and you might as well have a neon sign flashing above your head.” She stood up and kicked off her sandals. She reached under that insanely short denim skirt with her hands and tugged down, slowly removing what proved to be a tiny little white thong down her thighs, then her calves, then her dainty little feet.

She then wriggled out of the skirt, and removed her top. She had little breasts, but large, erect nipples. She said, “Let me guess. You’ve always had a thing for the young ones, haven’t you, Rob? When you were a teenager you chased them all over town, didn’t you? But then you graduated high school and you went to college and you entered your twenties and thirties and forties and the age difference between you and those sweet young things just got bigger and bigger and you started feeling like a creep, didn’t you, Rob? Like a dirty old man. For lusting after the same thing you’ve lusted after your whole life. Your passions didn’t change, but you did. You just got older.

I said nothing, but my erection painfully pressed against the fly of my slacks.

Josslyn knelt down and began unbuttoning my pants, pulling them and then my underwear down around my ankles. She smiled at the appearance of my erection.

I tried but failed to get some words of protest out as Josslyn removed a condom from her little bitty purse and she put it on my raging hard cock. She sat down in my lap, held my cock in her hand, and guided it into her pussy.

Oh, my God, that tight little pussy! She grimaced as the head of my huge prick slipped past the lips of her little bitty cunt, grimaced even more as my shaft went deep inside her, paused for a moment to allow her body to get used to the size of me, and then, once my cock was all the way inside, and her pelvis was pressed against mine, there was an expression of relief and pleasure on her face.

She did all the work. Her torso moved back and forth, riding my cock and she let out little, high-pitched moans while she did so. At first, I was afraid to touch her body while she fucked me, afraid to admit I was enjoying myself, that I was allowing this to happen. My hands eventually moved along her smooth, little belly and up to those tiny breasts with the big nipples. She moaned when I caressed them, and when I pinched one, she squealed and laughed. Then, my hands moved to Josslyn’s buttocks, squeezing it and pulling apart her ass cheeks. One of my fingers found its way to her anus, and I delicately pressed against it; I didn’t dare go further, although I wanted to. She gasped and started riding me with more force and energy.

She started kissing me, her tongue darting in and out of her mouth and into mine, still gasping and moaning all the while. She was leaning forward close enough for me to take one of those tantalizing nipples into my mouth, so I did so and I bit it, hard enough for her to gasp so loudly it echoed in the confines of the elevator car.

She was thrusting and thrashing around now so vigorously and with so much energy I feared my cock might slip out of her pussy, but she didn’t let that happen. She was shaking and trembling and I could feel the muscles of her cunt contracting around my cock, making it feel even tighter, and I could hear her gasping and moaning reaching a higher pitch until I thought she sounded like…like a teenaged girl.

I came. Hard. Usually, I can feel the orgasm in my entire body, but this one was entirely focused in my penis, like a high-powered rifle. Like a laser. I was cumming so hard it hurt. I grabbed Josslyn around the waist for fear she might be blasted off my body. She was trembling as I grasped her and she moaned and gasped and finally whimpered, as if my orgasm had battered her into semi-consciousness. I felt battered, myself.

When I returned to my senses, I was still grasping her tightly, my head pressed against her chest, her tiny little breasts with the big nipples within reach of my tongue. We were both breathing like we were exhausted. For a long time, we just sat there, her on top of me, my penis inside her, throbbing and pulsing and eventually becoming flaccid.

Finally, Josslyn stood up. With a workmanlike air she started dressing.

I stood up and pulled up my pants. I didn’t know what to do with the used condom, so I tossed it into the corner of the elevator car. I said, “Um, I don’t know what you charge for your … services, but I don’t have much cash on me.”

Josslyn giggled and said, “No charge. Think of it as a free sample. I wouldn’t be doing this if I just didn’t like to fuck.”

The fluorescent light flickered, there was a groan and the elevator car shook, and then some motor somewhere roared to life. The blackout had apparently ended. We were going toward our original destination, the ground floor.

Josslyn smiled. “Perfect timing,” she said. She was pulling her blouse over her head and over those little-girl breasts of hers. She said, “Robert, can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” I said. Not that I could deny her anything at this point.

Josslyn removed a small notepad and a pen from her purse. She said, “You know about Photoshop, right? You know that anybody can create any picture they want to look any way they want, don’t you? And anybody can get any birth certificate they want, too? And how anyone can get a fake ID these days? Especially teenaged girls?”

I could feel molten lead bubbling up from my bowels into my stomach. “What are you saying?”

Josslyn was writing something onto her notepad. She said, “I’m just saying that if I were really an underaged slut who liked fucking with older men, it would be very easy for me to set things up so that I looked like I was over the age of consent.” She paused for a moment and laughed. “Relax, Robert. I’m just fucking with you now. I’ll be twenty next month. I’m perfectly legal.” She tore a sheet of paper off the notepad and gave it to me. She said, “I’m just wondering if the notion that I’m really under eighteen makes you more likely or less likely to call me sometime. That’s my cell phone number.”

The elevator doors opened. Josslyn strode out of the car, took a deep breath of fresh air and said, “Catch you later, Robert.” She walked around the corner and she was gone.

I thought better of leaving the soiled condom for some maintenance worker to find, and I picked it up and deposited it into the nearest trashcan. I tossed the notepaper Josslyn had given me out the window of my car on my way home.

I’d already memorized her phone number.

© 2010 J.T. Benjamin. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Treasure Chest Categories

Treasure Chest Authors

Treasure Chest Archives

Pin It on Pinterest