"Hey! Pierre-Luc!"

I turned at the sound of my name. A woman I recognised was waving at me from across the street. It was Marguerite, my onetime lover. I crossed and we embraced. It must have been two or even three years since I had seen her, but I remained fond of her and she of me. We had shared many intimacies - and not only the sexual. I took her to a café and now we now shared only a pot of coffee while we caught up with each other's lives. She told me she was soon to be married to a prosperous wine exporter who was currently away doing business in the USA. She congratulated me on my recently published book on the Merovingian kings and I was flattered and charmed that she had taken the trouble to read the dry academic tome. After a time she glanced at her watch and told me she had to leave as she had arranged that afternoon to visit a friend who lived across the lake. Then, as a friendly gesture, invited me to join her and on a whim I accepted.

Marguerite's friend Isabelle Kerriac was a woman of about our age - mid thirties - but sadly confined to a wheelchair as a result of the car accident that had killed her husband. We sat outside in the lakeside garden of the charming villa and drank wine. In the late afternoon, we were joined by a child - a pretty, fair-haired girl of twelve who was introduced to me as Genevieve, Isabelle's stepdaughter, home from school.

She proved to be a charming girl just emerging from the chrysalis of childhood and displaying all the conflicting traits of a girl on the cusp of adolescence. She sat on the grass in her short, sleeveless dress and displayed much of her long, slim legs. I noticed the straps of a small bra, though to judge from the tiny points that pushed the front of her dress, it was hardly necessary. I glimpsed the crotch of her panties too - virginal white. After a time she went off to shower and soon after that Marguerite and I left too.

This was the first of my visits to the Kerriac household and with each that followed Genevieve became more attentive.

"Little Genevieve is in love with you," Marguerite said a week or so later, her eyes twinkling.

"Nonsense," I laughed self-consciously. "Anyway, she is still only a child."

"Aha, but you like them young and innocent!" Marguerite chuckled. As I said, we had shared many intimacies. She knew of my predilection for pretty young girls. She had never criticised me for my secret vice and once when we discussed it said that she was sure most men desired sweet and tender flesh, but were ashamed to admit it.

Perhaps, but not to the point of fascination as I did.

"True," I acknowledged, "but there is little chance of my satisfying my passion."

"Not necessarily," Marguerite said. "You will have noticed that even in your presence the charming Genevieve displays the sulks and tantrums of the pubescent girl. Isabelle is often infuriated by this behaviour in a child who is, after all, not her own flesh and blood but a responsibility she inherited from her dead husband. She has often told me of her longing to bend Genevieve over and beat her bottom soundly. But of course, being crippled, this is beyond her."

"Are you suggesting that I beat Genevieve?" I asked incredulously. "Quite apart from the question of whether Isabelle would in truth welcome my chastising her stepdaughter, such action would scarcely raise me in Genevieve's affections!"

"Do not be so sure," Marguerite smiled. "When I was about Genevieve's age I went to a tennis coach named Hugo. He was very fit and good-looking, and very strict. Naturally, I had a massive crush on him and did all I could to attract his attention, showing off my newly developing body at every opportunity. One day at the end of my lesson, he angrily told me that if I gave more attention to my serve and volley and less to flashing my thighs I should play much better. I was humiliated by his perception and angrily swore back at him. In answer, her pulled me across his knees, pushed up my short tennis dress, pulled down my panties and severely spanked my bare bottom. I had sometimes been chastised in this manner in my younger childhood, but not for some years, and never would my father have even contemplated baring my bottom. Not only that, but Hugo slapped very much harder and longer than either of my parents ever had. Consequently, I ended up screaming hysterically and throwing my legs about in a much more revealing way than I ever had on the tennis court! But worse - or better - was to come for when he finally stopped spanking me. Hugo put his hand between my legs and quickly masturbated me to the most spectacular orgasm of my young life. This was strange, for while he had been spanking me my mind had been filled only with my pain and humiliation with no erotic thoughts at all."

While Marguerite made her reminiscence, I remembered how she had sometimes enjoyed ritualised spanking as part of our lovemaking. This had generally involved role-play with she as naughty child and I as angry parent or teacher. Now I saw the root of these fantasies that had so enraptured me and persuaded me to disclose my own dark desires.

Marguerite continued: "After this, my coaching sessions usually concluded with some sexual contact, though not always spanking. Mostly, to begin with, Hugo explored my body as he willed and we indulged in mutual masturbation. Sometimes, though, he would spank me and I suffered the sting for the subsequent bliss. Later he taught me the delights of oral sex. But my mouth was the only part of me he ever penetrated. Perhaps he was concerned for my youth, or fearful of the consequences of taking my maidenhead. Whatever, I remained a virgin until I was nearly fourteen and by then Hugo had long been off the scene."

Fascinating though Marguerite's revelations were, they did not much advance my relationship with Genevieve. She was clearly still infatuated by me and was in turns shy and saucy. For instance: it was now the school holiday and Genevieve spent much of the time in a tiny bikini. This covered only her miniature breasts and her crotch and buttocks, emphasising her long, slender limbs and flat tummy. But although she flaunted herself in this skimpy costume, she would also hide herself behind her hands at her groin and bosom. Conflicting messages then, and a frustrating puzzle for me, especially after Marguerite's interesting childhood memories.

One day Genevieve suggested that we should climb the mountain that rose from the shores of the lake. By now, Marguerite's fiancé had returned from the USA and she no longer visited Isabelle so much, so it was just Genevieve and I who set off. I write 'climb', but clamber would be the better word to describe our expedition for our route was more of an energetic walk than true mountaineering. It was a warm day and Genevieve had dressed in tee shirt and shorts with her feet protected by stout boots and short red woolly socks. I must say that she looked enchanting. As we ascended, I felt the effects of my lack of fitness, and although obviously much stronger than Genevieve, it was she who bounded up the slope like the springing kid of a mountain goat while I slogged behind. I was quite happy for her to be ahead as I enjoyed watching the movement of her small buttocks against the tight seat of her shorts as the gluteus muscles stretched, rippled and compacted.

Genevieve covered about twice the distance I did as she ran back and forth happily jeering and cajoling me, to greater effort. Gradually, though, her cheerful banter became more impertinent and I confess that I was stung by some of her insults probably because they emphasised the gulf in years between us. At last, when I was forced to pause for rest her taunts became truly offensive. I think perhaps she was subconsciously trying to provoke me in some way, but with the images of a younger Marguerite and her tennis coach forever in my mind I was incited to a response she had probably not considered.

Suddenly inflamed as much by anger as by lust, I grabbed hold of the mocking child and, putting my left foot on a convenient boulder, swung her over my bent knee. I was struck by how small and light she was. Then as she struggled wildly, I spanked her little bottom hard and long. Luckily, I had recovered my breath by now. I did not take down her shorts, but even so the heavy spanks must have stung a great deal, as Genevieve was soon screaming shrilly and begging me to stop. I guessed that she had never before been subjected to such treatment.

At last, I let her go, and Genevieve rolled on the grass clutching at her sore bottom and howling without reserve. I left her to it and walked a little way off to contemplate my foolhardiness and wondered whether the certain break in our relationship was worth the pleasure I got from spanking her. I decided that it was. Eventually, Genevieve's tears subsided and she stamped off, though continuing up the slope when I had expected her to retreat to the villa. I followed on behind as before, but now there was no contact between us as she was clearly upset and furious with me. Thus our climb continued until a couple of hours later we stood together on the peak. There, to my astonishment, Genevieve slipped her arm through mine and eagerly pointed out the villa and other landmarks far below.

Genevieve had quite regained her good humour as we returned down the mountainside and chattered on as effusively as ever she did. When, in the early evening we wearily came again to the villa, Isabelle asked us how we had got on. I made some conventional responses about the view being worth the effort, but then Genevieve bluntly blurted out that I had spanked her.

"Good," her stepmother said calmly, "I hope it may make you behave better in future."

"I shouldn't think so," Genevieve said impudently.

Later, as I crossed the lake back to my apartment I considered Genevieve's words. Were they mere juvenile bravado? Or were they an cheeky incitement to further intimacy? I wished I had Marguerite to advise me, but she was now fully taken up with her wealthy wine merchant.

The next villa from the Kerriac's was owned by a family who rarely used it although the grounds were well maintained by a visiting gardener. One time when the owner was down to inspect the property, he visited Isabelle and invited Genevieve to make use of the tennis court. Genevieve eagerly passed this on to me and begged that we might play. I agreed, the thought of Marguerite's youthful experience hot in my mind. I am not a great player and Genevieve was quick and agile, however, my greater strength and reach saved me from being embarrassed. Genevieve was fiercely competitive and fought for every point. Often she won them just because I was entranced by the supple movement of her body in motion or the glossy sheen of sweat on her skin as she concentrated on receiving my serve.

However, this competitive spirit did not make her a good loser, although most of the time she kept her bad temper in check. One day, though, after she wildly made a difficult return that went at least two metres out, she stormily declared that it was in. I calmly pointed out that she was mistaken and claimed the point and the game. Genevieve flew into a furious tantrum calling me a cheat and hurling her racquet to the ground where it bounced with a flat twang as the frame broke. This was enough for me and in a moment I had leapt the net, grabbed the ill-tempered brat and dragged her to a bench that stood at the edge of the court for spectators. Genevieve shrieked shrilly as I forced her to the side, but her screams increased in pitch and volume as I bent her across my knees, threw back her short skirt and hauled down her panties.

Ah, that bottom! Unless you are an fan of young girls' bums it is probably difficult for you to understand my pleasure at the revelation of Genevieve's nether cheeks. But if you share my enthusiasm you may well imagine how my eyes admired those childish buttocks, while my hand, resting on those smooth resilient mounds, still slightly damp from the sweat of her exertions, sent the torrent of delicious sensations speeding to my overheated brain.

But this was only the preliminary. Now I raised my hand for the first spank. A red palm print sprang upon the milky skin, quickly obscured by a the flood of colour that washed through those sensitive cheeks as smack followed slap in rapid succession.

It was as well this villa was fairly secluded and the tennis court surrounded by a high hedge that deadened sound, otherwise some passer-by might have believed murder was being done, such was the hysterical nature of Genevieve's shrieks as I soundly spanked those delicious buttocks. And loud as were my victim's yells, her struggles were no less in vigour. As I pounded on, her whole body was in a frantic commotion of writhing activity as the young girl 's agony made her quite oblivious to the humiliating indecency of her display.

At last, I released Genevieve who fell to the grass where she knelt on the ground crying loudly and tenderly clutching at her beautiful red bottom that was stuck heedlessly into the air - a most amusing sight! I sat watching, trying to decide what to do with the throbbing erection that uncomfortably filled my trousers. I thought of how Marguerite's tennis coach, had abusively masturbated her in similar circumstances, but I must admit that I did not have the courage to follow that example despite the temptation. Then still crying, Genevieve struggled to her feet, eased up her panties and ran stumblingly back towards her own house. After some time and much inward debate, I followed.

As was her habit, Isabelle was sitting in her wheelchair outside in the sunshine. "Hello," she said, "what's up with Genevieve? She came running past here and into the house to her room without a word. It seemed as if she was crying."

"Yes," I admitted, "I spanked her."

"Oh," she said placidly. What had she done this time?"

"She had a tantrum when she lost a game of tennis." I said. It sounded a bit weak as a reason for severely spanking a twelve-year-old's bare bottom, but all Isabelle said was: "Well, I'm sure she deserved it," and left it at that. We chatted on other matters until it was time for me to go back across the lake when Isabelle specifically invited me back the next day, which was unusual as normally my visits were pretty informal.

The next day, as I crossed the lake in my motor launch, I was once again unsure of my welcome from Genevieve, and when I arrived at the villa my doubts seemed confirmed for there was no sign of my attractive young friend. However, Isabelle greeted me with her usual good humour and after about ten minutes Genevieve arrived looking enchanting wearing a mini dress and an affectionate smile. I could see that she had taken even more trouble than usual over her appearance and sat on the grass close by me, resting against my legs. This token of intimacy reassured me that my harsh and humiliating punishment of the previous day was forgiven. And more than this, I soon suspected that my furious chastisement might actually have warmed her feelings for me as much as it had heated her bottom. And so it proved for the charming twelve-year-old took every opportunity to be close to me, holding my hand or linking her arm in mine. And when were alone and I bent my head to playfully peck her cheek, I found her moist lips pressed to mine in a passionate kiss.

This then was the start of the new phase in my relationship with Genevieve; and I have to say that I did nothing to discourage these demonstrations of her adoration. In the days that followed, we embraced many times and as our fervour intensified I taught her by example the techniques of open-mouthed kissing and the use of tongues to enhance erotic pleasure. Genevieve was an apt pupil and her early naïve clumsiness soon gave way to enthusiastic expertise. And more followed as I first stroked her small breasts through her dress and then loosened her scanty brassiere to caress them more intimately, using my lips and tongue to kiss and lick the hard, erect prods of her excited nipples. Then with her ardent cooperation I slid my hand up her slim, smooth-skinned thigh to touch her over her panties, which soon became wet and slippery from her juvenile juices. Later, my fingers slid beneath that damp cotton triangle and directly touched her oozing slit, feeling the hot, moist mat of fine new hair that lightly covered her most intimate part. I found her tiny clitoris and raised it from its enfolding hood to hard throbbing delight as she orgasmed repeatedly under my attentions.

Nor was Genevieve herself inactive in our embraces. She responded enthusiastically along every step of our stairway to sexual intimacy and was not shy to initiate a fresh level. Such as when I felt her small, slender fingered hand unzipping my fly and slipping inside my pants to squeeze and manipulate my penis, bringing me to a hot and sticky climax just as I did to her.

One day when we were walking in the wooded lower slopes of the hills, I took her in my arms and laid her down on the cropped grass of a sun-dappled glade. As I kissed her gently but insistently, I slipped off her mini-dress. She stiffened nervously at this, but then relaxed as I calmed her with my kisses, to which she responded hotly. So reassured was she that when I unhooked her small bra and slipped it from her shoulders she acquiesced with only a shy smile. I kissed the tiny, uptilted points of her dark, hardened nipples and her breath came short and fast. I moved my mouth down over her rib cage and my tongue explored the whorls of her belly button while she shivered with pleasure. I slipped my fingers into her panties and drew them over her narrow hips and down her long, slim legs. Instinctively, her right hand moved to cover her exposed pudenda, but then, with a small moan of acceptance, she threw it to her side. For the first time I saw Genevieve naked. I gently parted her slender thighs and pushed my face between them. I inhaled the heady perfume of her hot little cunt. My lips kissed her lightly pelted labia. My tongue slid into her slippery slit and I tasted the sweet nectar of her fresh-flavoured juices. She moaned softly and pulled up her knees, opening her legs wider to allow me more intimacy. My tongue moved on to find her miniscule clitoris and she responded frantically, writhing from side to side and bucking her bottom as she climaxed - the first of many orgasms. For no sooner was she bathing in the afterglow of this one than she was climbing the slopes of the second. Then I lifted and turned her so that she lay along my body, her head towards my groin. She understood instantly and her nimble fingers soon exposed my throbbing cock to enclose its head in her small mouth. Now it was my turn to explode, pumping thick streams of semen down her slender throat. And so it went on.

It would not have been difficult for me to have taken the young girl's virginity that summer, but some instinct of-What? Decency? Guilt? Fear? Whatever, it prevented me from pushing my desires beyond playfulness such as twelve-year-old might legitimately experience - though normally with one closer to herself in age and experience.

And yet, despite the fervour of our liaison, there remained a simpler more innocent side to our companionship. We still played tennis and cards; swam in the lake and walked the hills; ate, joked and sunbathed in the garden. For another curious factor in our relationship was that I remained in some way the adult and she the child. I would still correct her behaviour in all aspects of her life save the sexual, and on those occasions when she failed to comply with my standards I bent her across my knee for a sharp spanking - though never so severe as the one I gave her after her tantrum on the tennis court. I cannot say for sure these punishments aroused Genevieve in a sexual way, but I do believe she found them comforting in a more profound manner. I rather think that her lack of a father left me as both the figure of authority and of sexual desire and I could fulfil both roles without the conflict that a real parent would provide. But perhaps this Freudian analysis is ov ercomplicated.

Towards the end of August, I received an invitation to lecture for the next few months in England. The thought of spending the autumn and early winter on that drab island was dispiriting, but I could hardly live permanently on the royalties of my book. I told Genevieve of my decision as we lay naked together among the sun-warmed boulders of a neighbouring hill after we had used our mouths to bring each other to mutual orgasm. She wept very prettily and begged me always to keep her in my thoughts, to write often and to soon return. I promised easily.

Of my sojourn on the fog enshrouded island of grey Britain I need say nothing. I received several letters from Genevieve, each shorter and less ardent than the last as the gap between them became longer. After that, I had only a standard greeting in my Christmas card. The following February I returned gladly to France and eagerly made my south-east to the mountains and lakes.

Strong winds swept icy rain across the lake as I piloted my motor launch across its choppy waters. How different from the previous summer, I thought as I huddled beneath the raised canopy and watched the villa emerge from the dimness. I moored the launch and hurried inside. Isabelle had a blazing log fire as well as the central heating and I soon began to feel cheered under the combined warmth of that and her welcome. After some time I ventured to enquire after Genevieve.

"Ah, she is upstairs with Marcel."

"Marcel?" I enquired with rapidly beating heart.

"Her boyfriend," Isabelle explained, pulling a slight face. "He is fifteen. I had thought he was perhaps too old for her," she added with unconscious irony, "but of course Genevieve will soon be a teenager herself."

At that moment, the young pair came into the room. Genevieve greeted me with a mixture of embarrassment and defiance. She was taller and several pounds heavier, her slim frame having filled out. Her breasts now had the fullness of early maturity and her hips had broadened. Her buttocks had swelled too, no doubt, but she sat across the room, away from me, with the gangling boy by her side. She had lost the clear complexion of her childhood and her skin was greasy and here and there spots erupted. We talked stiltedly until with obvious relief the young couple made their escape from my company. After that I told Isabelle of my new offer from an American university, which I had now decided to take up. She wished me well, looking rather sad, and I promised deceitfully to keep in touch. Soon after that, I went back across the lake.

Four months is such a long time when you are twelve.