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You are here again. Although I love you more than life itself, you are an alien disturbance in this environment…a flaw in the space-time continuum inhabited by your brother Adam and I ever since the catastrophe that destroyed the marriage between your mother and I.

Life on a hill country farm in the Wanganui back blocks is tough. But your mother came from Otago hill country farming stock, as I did, and we took on the isolation and backbreaking work with our eyes open. The land had been worked before but the previous owners ran out of cash and, eventually, the bank foreclosed on them. As a consequence it was cheap land. 480 hectares, fifty-fifty paddocks and virgin bush, medium to steep contour and good access. Our nearest neighbours were twenty-five minutes away by farm-bike or four-wheel drive utility.

Your mother and I threw ourselves into bringing the land back into production with energy and enthusiasm, and the burning vision of the young. We were ruthless in our management systems, kept within our personal and financial capacities, and the capabilities of the land, and eventually started to gain a reputation for producing export quality beef and lamb. We also waged a fierce war on the feral goats and pigs, and the possums, that continually came over from the adjoining Conservation land to re-infest our bush whenever we seemed to be gaining the upper hand.

We would never be millionaires but we were comfortable. Every year my brother, your Uncle Bill, would stand in for us so that we could get away for a break for at least two weeks, either in New Zealand or over to Australia. But we were always glad to get back home. We loved our land and we loved each other. The traditional male-female division of labour held no sway. We shared every task. I was just as likely to be doing the laundry or preparing a meal while your mother was mustering stock for drenching, as vice versa. We weren’t just man and wife – we were good mates.

Adam came along when we had been here for four years. He was a fine, healthy baby and there were no problems with his birth or his infancy. Yet, inexplicably, no matter how hard we tried afterwards, your mother could not conceive again. Until, suddenly, six years later, you surprised us both.

When you got to primary school age your mother started to get restless. She wanted to expand her horizons. I had no problem with that. After all she had worked damned hard for nearly fifteen years. She came up with the idea of studying extramurally for a degree. She already kept our financial records and suggested that if she got qualified in accountancy we wouldn’t need to employ a chartered accountant to finalise the books each year. I agreed. We were doing quite well, so we could afford to employ a labourer to relieve her of her part of the heavy work. Adam was off at boarding school, so basically all your mother would have to do was look after you and the house, and to study.

Your mother took to the course work like a duck to water and her exam results each year were excellent. She had to go to on-campus courses at least once a year, sometimes twice. That was fine by me - all part of the horizon expanding process we had agreed was necessary for her. Inevitably, subtly, your mother began to change, to grow intellectually and as a person. In a lot of ways she was leaving me behind, but our relationship was still strong. She completed her 21 papers in a very creditable five years and was capped when you were eleven years old. I thought that was it, but your mother had really caught the studying bug. She decided to go on and take a Masters degree. At the same time, just for fun, she started an elective paper – Women’s Studies.

A different kind of literature took the place of management, economics, statistics and tax law. Femininist books and papers by Steinem, Greer, Goldman and others more extreme began to litter the house. I looked at some of them in passing and blanched at the hatred of the male of the species that filled their pages. Then, after attending a compulsory course on campus, your mother announced that she had invited one of her new-found friends to come and stay at the farm for a few days.

Jules, real name Julie, was a short, hard-bodied young woman with flat, grey eyes, close-cropped hair, a stainless steel stud in her left nostril and a permanent, hostile frown. But, I don’t have to describe her to you my angel, do I? You know her very well. She was not in the least interested in the farm and only stepped outside the house to smoke one of her foul smelling French cigarettes. At least she respected my wishes in that area. The rest of the time she was closeted with your mother - presumably laying plans for the emasculation of all mankind. I was not comfortable that she was in our house, but she was a friend of your mother’s and I was as civil to her as I could manage.

Then came the fateful day when a steer found its way through a damaged fence line into the bush and ended up falling into a ravine and getting stuck. Ruben, the hand, and I climbed down to it with the idea of winching it out somehow, but found that the b**st had broken two of its legs. It would have to be destroyed. I never carried a gun around the farm in case of accidents. A weapon only came out of the gun safe when it was time to kill an injured b**st or to go hunting. For some reason, even now I can’t say why, maybe it was a premonition, but I turned off the farm-bike’s engine some distance away and coasted down the track to the house. You were sat at the kitchen table doing a correspondence school art project. You were due to go to boarding school in two months time, following your twelfth birthday. When I asked you where Mummy was, you just smiled and shrugged.

As a security precaution the gun safe was hidden behind a sliding panel in the master bedroom wardrobe.

Jules lay stark naked on the counterpane on my marital bed with her spread legs hanging over the edge and her feet planted on the floor. Her sex was shaved entirely bald except for small triangle of black hair at the peak of her slit. My wife, your mother, equally naked, was knelt between her thighs licking her out. One of her fingers was buried deep in Jules’ backside. Your mother turned her head and looked at me as I walked into the room and stopped dead in my tracks with horror at what I was seeing. The thought burned across my mind: What it was you who had just walked in? The odour of female genitalia was almost overpowering. Your mother stared at me brazenly for a few seconds and then turned away to resume pleasuring her lover. Jules ignored me totally.

I couldn’t trust myself to speak. I was shaking so severely that I knew my voice would come out all weak and querulous and I was not about to give Jules, or your mother, that satisfaction. Nor was I prepared give them a psychological advantage by using v******e - like most really big, physically powerful men I am basically gentle - although my hand did go straight to one of the shotguns when I opened the safe. But then I thought of you and Adam, and what killing them would do to you both, and sanity prevailed. Instead, I took the .308 rifle I had come for and didn’t trust myself to load it until I was well away from the house.

I emptied the entire five shot magazine into that poor cattle b**st. One bullet would have done the job, but I was figuratively shooting “the two whores” as well. Ruben looked at me gravely and shook his head in sorrow. He had seen things happening that I was too close to and too blindly trusting to recognise.

When I got back to the house, you, your mother and Jules were gone. All sorts of counselling services tried to effect a reconciliation, but I knew it was a lost cause right from the start. A year and ten months later the family court officially ended our marriage. To give your mother her due, she only asked for financial support for you and openly acknowledged that as the aggrieved party I should not lose the farm to “pay her out”. Jules really spat the dummy when she heard your mother saying that.

Adam, now twenty and an adult, could do what he liked. He was taking his agriculture degree down at Lincoln University and later chose to come back to the farm when he was finished. You told the family court that wanted to be with me. But the female judge, your mother’s female lawyer and the female social worker attached to our case, and of course your mother and Jules, all agreed that that was no option for a girl of your tender years.

I was “granted” two one-week visits a year by you during school holidays. The ball-busters also specified that another female must be resident at the same time as you are. Joanna, my cousin’s daughter who is the same age as Adam, comes to stay when you are here. Even though she is a “Loopy” Joanna loves the outdoors and likes nothing better than working with the stock and going off tramping the bush and hunting with Adam.

Adam is a quiet young man. Big and strong like me, excellent with the a****ls and with an instinctive feel for the land. He is a born hunter, patient and with good bush sense – one of the few men that I trust totally to identify his target before firing and to make sure it will be a kill before he lets loose. He refuses to discuss your mother. The only indication I’ve had of the depth of his feelings about her was one night when I came home late from a Federated Farmers’ meeting to find the television destroyed with a fire log through the screen. When I asked him about it the next day, Adam just muttered that we didn’t need a TV and that the news and weather forecasts were much better on the radio. But two evenings later I was at our local rugby clubrooms having a quiet beer after a committee meeting when the club secretary told me that his missus had seen my ex-wife on TV. She had had a tape running and the secretary offered it to me.

A week later I called in again and he ran the tape on the club’s machine. Your mother, bare breasted, heavily made up and with a metal studded collar and chain around her throat, was acting-out oral sex on her “mistress” on a float in Auckland’s gay Hero Parade. But, I don’t have to tell you all about that either, do I? You were on the float as well. You were not waving to the watching crowds. You did not look happy to be there.

And now you are here, my lovely, angelic alien. You are almost eighteen now. Your mother, all bristling hostility and very few tight-lipped words has just dropped you off. Jules stayed sat in her car, smoking and staring into the distance. For the next seven days I shall be simultaneously in heaven and in hell.

Day One: Monday…pleasure and pain renewed

You wait until Jules takes your mother away and they are out of sight before you turn to me for a welcoming hug. You are now very grown up. It is your second visit for the year. I haven’t seen you or spoken to you for six months. You sent me short letters and cartoons you drew for your school journal, once a photograph taken by a school-friend’s mother. Always secretly, the stamps paid for out of your own pocket money. I wrote letters to you, but have no confidence that you received them. You didn’t wave your mother and Jules goodbye.

You turn to me and raise your arms for me to pick you up. I have read enough so-called “c***d protection” literature over the years to know that I must not touch you below your shoulders or above your knees. Your mother and Jules will question you closely when you are back in their control, looking for an excuse to enforce a termination of your visits here. Therefore, I drop to my knees. On my feet I stand 1.98 metres. On my knees we are both at hugging height.

You feel so fragile under my callused farmer’s hands and so warm. You press your slim body against my front, clinging to me tightly and telling me that you love me over and over again. You carry on clinging to me even after I try to disengage. You are crying. Your warm tears are soaking my neck where your face is buried. Your hair, your skin and your clothes smell of cigarettes and the city.

Your room has been cleaned and tidied, of course, but otherwise it is just as you left it the last time you were here. I help you to unpack your bag and put your clothes away. We are tentatively feeling our way towards a renewed relationship and don’t speak very much. For some strange reason I feel as awkward and tongue-tied as I did the first time I took a girl to a dance as a teenager. But you take every opportunity to make physical contact, touching my hands as we jointly unpack your bag, leaning against my side as we stow things in drawers and cupboards. Once you reach out to stroke my hair. Yes, it is much longer and greyer than it used to be.

Meanwhile, I am watching you, marvelling at the beautiful things about you that for the last six months have only been fond memories – the dark pools of your eyes and their impossibly long, soft lashes, your smooth cheeks, your tip-tilted nose and your full, tender lips, your elegant hands. Are you wearing lipstick? I also marvel at how much you have changed. You are taller, slimmer and move very gracefully. I suspect that you have had ballet lessons. Your hair is still long, a shiny, luxuriant dark cascade like your mother’s, but, instead of letting it hang loose you now tie it back, showing off your exquisite ears and the beautiful line of your jaw. You are not buxom like your mother; your breasts are just small hillocks under your sweatshirt. But you show other signs of womanhood. Your little-girl’s tummy has now disappeared, your hips are broadening and your bottom is fuller and more rounded. Time is working its magic.

We finish unpacking and you throw yourself onto your bed on your back with your arms behind your head. Your top separates from the waistband of your jeans revealing your smooth belly and your navel. Your navel is perfect. Your mother always admitted to being rather jealous that the midwife did such a tidy job when tying off the umbilical cord after you were delivered. I notice also that your jeans are such very low-cut hipsters that I can see the waistband of your white panties. The zipper on your jeans has come down slightly at the top. This mode of dress is not suitable for farm work. We will take a quick trip into town after lunch to buy you something more appropriate. Your legs are parted and there is a hint of your pubic mound beneath the stiff fabric. The seam running under your crotch mirrors the crease of your sex.

You gaze at me with heavily lidded eyes and wet your lips with the tip of your tongue. Your manner seems blatantly, invitingly sexual. In one so young! You disturb me. I turn away, breaking the spell, telling you to come and see your pony. The horse recognises you immediately and very quickly afterwards we have him saddled up. I am pleased to see that you have not forgotten how to ride.

Late in the afternoon Adam and Joanna come home from working in one of the back paddocks. Adam is not pleased that you are here. You are disturbing the easygoing comfort of our male existence in a way that Joanna somehow manages to avoid. You are his sister, but you are also the alien reminder of his hurt. I tell you in private moment to give Adam time, that he will eventually come around to showing the love I know he feels for you. In the meantime, your brother and I circle you like moons around a planet – inexorably attracted by you and wanting to get closer but held back by other, equally powerful forces.

Day Two: Tuesday

You want to come with us to finish mustering the mob of sheep that Adam, Joanna and Ruben were working with yesterday. You sit on the farm bike behind me with your arms wrapped around my waist. Your warm body presses against my back. I can feel your hard breasts pressing into me. Because you are on his normal seat, Jed, my scruffy old huntaway sheepdog, is sat on the rack in front of the handlebars. He obscures my view as we climb cross a paddock and I hit a rock outcrop, jolting the bike severely. Your hands grip me in a place where you shouldn’t touch me and they hold me there for far longer than necessary.

I cannot help the stirring in my loins.

When we arrive at our destination a couple of minutes later, you get off the bike as though nothing untoward has happened. It is a good ten minutes before my heart slows down to a more normal rate. I am troubled by flashbacks for the rest of the day.

You help us with the work wholeheartedly and by the time we stop for a smoko break at 10.30 you are as dusty and sweaty as the rest of us. You are wearing one of your new checked shirts with the tails tied in a knot around your midriff, a pair of long cargo shorts and heavy duty socks and sneakers. Your hair is piled on top of your head underneath one of Adam’s old leather bush hats from when he was about f******n. Your cheeks are flushed from the sun and the work and your eyes are shining with happiness. You are utterly gorgeous. You take your mug of tea to one side and go and sit with Ruben whilst he has a cigarette. The two of you talk earnestly, with gestures towards the bush-line above us and across the valley to the ridge that hides the Wanganui River from our sight. It is obvious from his demeanour that Ruben adores you as much as I do.

When it’s time to pack in for the day, Adam smiles to you for the first time since you arrived. You ride back down to the house on the back of his bike. I feel pangs of jealousy. Jed licks my ear, pleased to get his seat back.

You have a bath as soon as we get home and head for bed fairly soon after dinner. It has been a tiring day for a city girl. Adam and Joanna take the .22 with the spotlight and silencer to a nearby patch of bush to bowl some possums he has spotted. You come to kiss me goodnight dressed in your nightie. You lean over the arm of my chair to hug me and thank me for such a wonderful day. Because of what you did to me this morning I am acutely conscious of your nakedness beneath the thin cotton. My loins stir again. And when you get up to leave you look at me pointedly down there and smile a pleased little smile at what you see.

Later that night, on my way to bed, I push your bedroom door open a little way to check that you are okay. You have opened the curtains to let the moonlight spill in through your window. It is a fairly new moon so its brilliance is minimal. You have partially thrown your covers off and lie there, face down in an innocent tangle of bare legs, teddy bears and long dark tresses. I watch you for a few seconds. You are so exquisite. A terrible ache invades my frame and my eyes sting with sharp tears. I pull your door closed and go to my room. sleep comes slowly and is fitful, with wild, irrational dreams.

Day Three: Wednesday

Ruben’s wife, Newa, arrives early to collect you. You are to spend the day with her daughter Hine, who is your age, and their other c***dren. Like most rural Maori families there will be crowds of brothers, sisters and cousins of all ages, shapes and sizes. You will have a good time. You will also go to help Newa at the Kohanga Reo and learn something of the ways and customs of the true Tanga te Whenua and you can form your own judgements about the Politically Correct versions you get from your urban schoolteachers.

Joanna goes into town to do some grocery shopping and Adam, Ruben and I bring the mob down to the shearing shed ready for the shearing gang that’s due to arrive tomorrow. It’s almost an all-day task. Adam grumbles that it would have been useful to have you with us to help out. He is quickly beginning to warm to your presence.

You stay to dinner with the Maihi family and I pick you up quite late. When we get home Adam and Joanna have already gone to their beds. Adam believes he has found a spot up in the Conservation land where a couple of spikers sun themselves and play at first light. He and his cousin plan to leave at 2.00am to get into position to bag them. A few venison back steaks will go nicely on the barbecue we are planning for Saturday. You tell me that you want to bathe and wash your hair before you go to bed.


I am sitting in my armchair in the lounge listening to a quietly playing opera compilation over the stereo when you come out of the bathroom. Wrapped up in a big heavy towel you kneel sideways on to the fire that burns all year round to heat our hot water. I look at you in profile from across the room. When you raise your arms to rub your hair dry with a second towel the one covering you drops away from your torso to form a kind of “puddle” around your bottom and over the tops of your thighs. You ignore the fact that you are now unclothed from the hips up and carry on drying your hair.

The sheer wonder of you stops my breathing. The lamps in the room are dimmed quite low and the shifting flickers of firelight dance on your bare skin. You are a naiad, a mystical sprite sent by the gods to lead men astray. With your arms raised the way they are I can see that your breasts are wonderful, tip-tilted orbs - perfectly rounded, pink-crowned badges of your womanhood. Even from this distance I can see the faint tracery of veins beneath their translucent skin. You appear to be unaware of them. Or are you showing them off? Your eyes are demurely downcast, but I see you flashing glances at me from beneath your lashes to make sure I am observing you. My body reacts.

You finish drying your hair and then you comb out the tangles. I watch on, breathlessly entranced. Hard erect. The opera CD runs out but I don’t notice.

With your eyes still lowered, and with that secret smile still on your lips, you get to your feet and fasten the heavy towel around your waist. You do not bother to cover your chest. You have to walk past me to leave the room. Whether it is by accident or design I cannot tell, but when you are close by me, perhaps a metre away, you tread on the edge of the towel and your momentum pulls it off you. You stand before me, unashamed and gloriously nude – an enchanting nymph. My body almost overreacts. I have not been with a woman since your mother left.

It is then that I see it - a strange mark on your thigh below your sex. I ask you what it is and you walk up close to show me. Your girlhood is mere centimetres away from my eyes. Beneath the dark curls of your hair, I can clearly see the soft pink inside your lips and your tiny hood. I find myself wondering if you are still a virgin. When you move your right thigh to one side, opening yourself up, I catch a faint whiff of your scent.

There, where the leg band of your panties would normally cover it, is a tiny pink rosebud.

The bitches have had you tattooed!

You stroke the back of my neck while I continue to stare at the fork of your thighs and tell me that Jules took you to a tattoo parlour shortly after the marriage break-up. You have had this tattoo for nearly six years now, but have been too worried about how I would react to tell me before. Jules didn’t let on your mother what she had planned, but she told you that your mother wanted it done. You had to take your panties off so that the man could do the tattoo and you were unhappy about that. But Jules told you not to worry because he was gay. Nevertheless, the backs of his fingers constantly brushed against you as he worked and he leant over and kissed you delicately down there when the job was finished. Jules just looked on and laughed. Your mother went bananas when she learned what Jules had done, but by then it was too late.

While you are relating all this you are pressing me down lightly as if you want me to kiss you just as the tattoo artist had done.

My body betrays me.

In confusion and desperation I tell you to get on to bed. You extract a promise from me to come and kiss you goodnight and then you pick up your towel from the floor and leave without bothering to cover yourself again.

I consider raising hell. Between them, Jules, and your mother through weakness and lack of control, disfigured your innocent body. Then I realise that to do so would give them “evidence” that I have been intimate with you - that I have opened your legs and looked at your exposed sex. Nobody will believe that you showed me voluntarily. Even though you are almost old enough to vote, you are here under my care and protection. I could go to jail. I am between a rock and a hard place.

I join you after I have cleaned myself. Your summer-weight duvet hides you to your chin. My heart is still thumping madly and I kiss you chastely on the forehead. The lithe nakedness of your teenage body is still blazing too brightly in my brain for me to dare a hug. You reach up and try to pull me down to you, but I catch your hands. I kiss your fingers to let you know that I am not rejecting your gesture of love.

As I am about to leave you ask me if I will be doing any laundry in the morning. When I say I shall, you indicate a neat pile of soiled clothes on the floor – the tops and underwear and socks you have worn on the first days you have been here. On top of the pile, spread out like an offering, are the dark blue panties you were wearing today. You look into my eyes knowingly. Tens of thousands of years of female intuition are in your gaze. When I am on my own I cannot resist, as you well knew I couldn’t. Your scent is sharply female, but not yet completely woman. I am abjectly ashamed of my depravity.

sleep will not come. When Adam and Joanna get up and leave for their hunt, I get up as well. I walk straight past your door to the living room without looking in. Adam has refreshed the fire and I sit in my armchair, dressed only in the boxer shorts I normally wear to bed. After an hour spent staring into the flames I doze off.

Your warm form climbing into my lap wakens me. You smell of young woman and bed. You snuggle against me and rest your soft cheek on my bare chest. Your long, dark hair cascades over my belly. It tickles. I start to become aroused again. Unthinkingly I rest my right hand on the outside of your thigh, above your knee. Seconds later I realise that I am breaking the rules and move my hand down to hold your ankle. You reach for it and replace it on you higher on your leg, but this time on the inside of your thigh halfway up. Owing to the size of my hand, my thumb is mere millimetres away from your sex, but thankfully, on the outside of your nightdress. Then you pull the material out from under me and place your hand on top of mine. Your thigh flesh is like warm silk. I long to stroke you but I dare not move, because if I do my fingers will brush against your girlhood and I will be lost. My erection is pressing hard on the outside of your thigh.

You must be able to feel its heat!

Your easy readiness in these matters arouses my suspicions. I ask you if anyone other than the tattoo artist has ever touched you. You are distracted for a moment while you tell me that Jules came to your bed one night and lifted your nightie. I take the opportunity to slide my hand imperceptibly down your silken skin to a safer zone. You tell me that Jules ran her hands all over your body and touched you between the legs. You objected strongly and demanded that she stop and, reluctantly, she gave in to your wishes. But before leaving you alone she swooped and kissed you between the legs. You felt her tongue. Jules told you she can hardly wait for your initiation into their sisterhood and when that happens, the rosebud tattoo will be changed to an open bloom.

I resolve to myself that as long as I live and breath that will never happen - unless it is your free decision to become part of their lesbian scene.

All the lifting and carrying I do on the farm has made me very strong. I stand up with you in my arms and carry you back to your bed. After I have covered you with your duvet I kiss you goodnight again. This time I dare to hug you.

When I stand up to leave you stare at the outline of my still hard penis in my boxers and ask to see it. When I tell you no, it would not be right for me to show you, you pull a face and tell me that I am not being fair because I have looked closely at you. I bury my guilt and relent, because deep down I want to. Your eyes are huge dark saucers as you look at my erect phallus. I rationalise in my mind that if you are that curious it is better for you to see and learn in a safe environment. But it will not be ‘safe’ if I do not get away immediately. I cover myself again and leave you. My heart is crashing so irregularly and so fiercely in my chest I wonder if I am having a seizure.

Day Four: Thursday

Adam and Joanna are still not back from their hunt and the shearing gang has arrived. They will be here for the next three days and the work will be all on, what with all the other jobs that will still have to be done around the property. For part of the time anyway, you will have to help out. However, when I see the way that a couple of the young twenty-year-old roustabouts are sizing you up, I decide it will be a good idea for me to find other work for you – well away from them.

Adam finally returns. Joanna has stayed in the bush tracking another a****l. They managed to get one young stag but the second was too quick for them. He brought home the fore and hindquarters for the freezer and the back steaks for the barbecue. As a reward I give Adam one of the least pleasant jobs on the farm – going around all the paddocks to clean out and re-bait the blowfly traps – and tell him to take you with him. You two will be busy for the rest of the day. And in the face of such adversity, if you are not firm friends at the end of it you never will be.

sleep does not come easily for the third night running. My mind is in overdrive and you are the cause. At about 1.00am I get up to make a cup of tea. As I pass your room I hear you whimper softly. I push your door open slightly to see if you are awake. Your bed is a tangled mess again and, like before, you are laid face down. Only this time your nightie is up around your waist. Your youthful, rounded bottom gleams palely in the moonlight and I can see the shadow of your sex and the rosebud mark between your slightly spread thighs. I stand quietly watching you. You are so beautiful. Only on the verge of full womanhood, but so very desirable.

My groin responds.

Suddenly, you whimper again and you shift on the bed, opening your legs wider and move your abdomen. Then, in your sleep, I clearly hear you say, “No! Daddy! Please don’t…”

My lust subsides as quickly as it arose. I close your door gently and go back to my room, all thoughts of making tea forgotten.

Day Five: Friday

Adam, Joanna and I are up very early. On her way home late yesterday morning Joanna saw some pig sign near one of our patches of bush. It rained briefly but heavily just before dawn to create the ideal conditions for a hunt, so she and Adam have taken his dogs to see what they can get. It is important for us to keep wild pig numbers down because they plough up the paddocks. I am sitting at the kitchen table, in my boxers, supping a mug of tea and checking through some invoices that came in the post yesterday when you surprise me by appearing at my side.

Your hair is a tousled mess and you look to be still half-asleep. You lean against my shoulder and kiss me good morning on my unshaven cheek. Once again I smell your young girl bed-scent and my senses sharpen. Smiling mischievously, you steal my mug and take a swig of my tea. I ask you what you were dreaming about last night. You shake your head and say you can’t remember, but a pink blush suffuses your cheeks.

Without warning you push your way between the table and me and climb into my lap astride my thighs. Your nightie hikes up high and we both look down silently at your exposed sex and the way your sitting position stretches it open. The deep pink rosebud contrasts vividly with the pale shades of your vulva. We also watch my member begin to harden inside my boxers.

I am beyond stopping you when you reach down and begin to undo my shorts’ buttons. My burgeoning tumescence brushes your fingers as it bursts out of their confines and you gasp. When it uncoils to stand upright, the rapidly swelling head almost grazes your open slit. As it is, now that I am fully erect, we are only millimetres apart. You look gravely at what you have created. For my part, I am so keenly alert I can hear Adam’s dogs barking from far across the other side of the farm. They must have a pig bailed-up.

You place your hands on my shoulders and lean forward to kiss me on the lips – a soft, innocent, c***d’s kiss. At the same time your vaginal lips kiss my penis. A jolt blasts through me and I feel as though my whole body is ready to explode. You press your bare groin closer on me as you twine your arms around my neck. With your mouth close to my ear, you say, “I want YOU to make the flower open, Daddy.” Then just as quickly as you climbed astride me, you get off again. You reach out tentatively and air-touch the bulging mushroom head with your fingertips, then you turn away and leave, to wash and get dressed. I sit at the table with my face buried in my hands until my pounding heart and my excitement subside.

Breakfast is a silent affair with the two of us sat opposite each other across the table. Adam appears when we are almost through, hefting an eighty-pound sow. He asks you if you will help him and Joanna sc**** and dress the carcase and you agree. Later on you join me at the shearing shed. You stay close by me all day.

Paradoxically, that night I fall into a deep dreamless sleep almost immediately. I have to get up in the small hours to empty my bladder and look into your room on my way back to my bed. You too have slept serenely, though you are uncovered and your nightie is up around your waist. You lay on your back with your legs parted. The rosebud is a tiny black blemish on the inside of your thigh. Unable to tear myself away I stand enthralled by your beauty. Out of my control, my sex to rears to hardness.

You startle me by whispering, “Hello Daddy.” Your eyes are open. Glittering black pools in the moonlight. You hold out your arms for me to come to you. I am too weak to resist.

I lay down beside you on your bed and once again you free my shaft from its prison. You tug on my shorts, telling me to take them right off. While I obey, you remove your nightie. We do not hold each other - a residue of shyness still remains - but I can feel the radiance of your heat. Starting at my throat you inspect my body minutely. When you arrive at my groin you test the springiness of my pubic curls – the first time you have actually touched me. I feel your breath on my belly, on my shaft. My nerves are stretched to breaking point, begging for and yet dreading the warm caress of your lips.

A small pearl of pre-ejaculate emerges from my tip. You turn and smile to me brilliantly, “It is beautiful.” And then you tell me that you too are wet and ask me if I would like to see. My throat is so dry I can barely croak, “Yes”. Is this really happening? What am I…what are we doing?

You roll onto your back and hold your legs spread wide. I cannot describe the rapture flowing through me as I examine your perfect virginity. Your creases, your folds, the delicate shades of pink, shine softly in the moonlight. Thanks to your arousal, when I breathe in your clean oysters-and-honey aromas you smell more of woman than girl. One touch of your hand on my hair and I will lower my mouth to taste you.

From somewhere inside my skull, the gods of reason tells me that I cannot, must not despoil your youthful beauty and I move away. I kiss your upper lips with all the tender love I feel for you, then gather up my discarded boxers and head for my own room. I hear you weeping softly as I close your door.

Day Six: Saturday

This evening we are laying on a barbecue for the shearing gang. I have found that if one treats these men and women as welcome guests instead of mere contractors, they work faster and do a better job. You, Hine, Newa and Joanna spend most of the day at “woman’s work”, baking bread and preparing side dishes and salads.

After the food everyone lounges around having a few beers and chatting quietly in the lengthening shadows. At your request I bring the stereo speakers out onto the patio and you and Joanna show Hine, her boyfriend Tane and the young roustabouts how you city girls dance. The young bucks find you fascinating and you bask in their hot-blooded attention. But, every so often, you glance in my direction to make sure I am watching.

Hine and her boyfriend disappear. In the rural backcountry sexual liaisons are as natural as breathing and they start at an early age. One of the roustabouts, a handsome Maori lad, is talking to you earnestly. I can see by his gestures that he is trying to get you to leave the crowd, to go out into the darkness with him. You smilingly refuse. You must be doing it very graciously, because he does not look crushed.

The other roustabout tries. He can’t have seen his mate’s earlier lack of success. This one does not take your refusal so easily and he grips you by the upper arm. I remain sat on the old Totara stump we use as a garden seat and carry on my desultory conversation with the shearing gang boss. But I tense, getting ready to intervene. There is no need. As if by magic, Adam appears beside the lad and almost affectionately throws his arm around his shoulders to lead him away and around the side of the house. I see the boy a few minutes later. There is not a mark on him, but he is moving gingerly as though his ribs and gut are extremely sore.

You come to sit beside me and rest your head against my arm. You are wearing a city girl’s perfume for the occasion. I tell you it smells nice and you try to snuggle closer to me. I say, “Bugger it!” mentally and put my arm around your waist to draw you closer. You hold my hand in your warm lap and stroke the backs of my fingers. The only cloud on my horizon looms at midday tomorrow when your mother will come to collect you.

Since I have had a few drinks I cannot trust myself to visit your room, even to say goodnight. But you come to me. Completely naked you slide under my covers, shocking me into a wide-eyed wakefulness. As if reading my mind you tell me that Adam and Joanna are not in the house. At the barbecue Joanna seemed quite taken with one of the shearers, whilst Adam had his eye on a pretty, well-endowed girl from the wool sorting crew. I suspect that they have gone somewhere to do another kind of hunting. Then, despite my initial protestations, you again undo my shorts to release my surging manhood and then pull them from me.

You snuggle against me with your cheek resting on my chest and one leg thrown across mine. My throbbing penis nests against your belly. Your soft flesh burns me. Your mound feels moist against my thigh. You reach for my hand and place it on you, to cup one cheek of your bare bottom. My fingers slip naturally into the valley between your buttocks. If I move my little finger two, maybe three millimetres I will be in the entrance to your vagina. You wriggle slightly and your slippery lips very briefly surround my very fingertip. Then you kiss my chest, tell me that you love me more than anyone else in the world, and wish me goodnight. I lay holding you while you sleep, hardly daring to breathe.

The noise of Adam arriving home in the ute at first light wakes me up. I am alone in my bed and my boxers are on the floor. Did I dream that you slept naked with me last night? I bring my fingertips to my nose. No, it was not a dream.

Day Seven: Sunday…relief and sorrow

There will be no work on the farm this morning. Joanna arrives home shortly after eight. She is positively beaming from her night of sex. After a lazy family breakfast Adam holds you close and tells you “Goodbye”. He says he is going to the back of the farm to sight-in a couple of rifles that have been “off” the last couple of times he’s used them. He is wearing a brave face but I can tell he is close to tears. I know the real reason for his leaving is that he cannot bear to meet his mother, nor to watch you drive away. But I also know he will take the big old Zeiss binoculars with him, the ones that Granddad found close by a dead German officer in the Western Desert, and he will watch from a distance. Joanna goes with him.
We pack your bag. You are dressed once again in your city clothes. Both of us are on edge. Your mother is due to arrive in thirty minutes. I give you several prepaid telephone cards Joanna got for me the other day, so that you can call me whenever you want to without Jules and your mother knowing. You ask me if I have a spare piece of oilcloth and some sticky tape. When I ask you what for, you tell me that as soon as you get out of sight down the road, Jules and your mother will stop the car and search your bag. They will throw away everything I have given you – they always do. You want to tape the cards to your tummy, inside your knickers, to keep them safe until tomorrow when you can give them to one of your friends at school to look after for you. You will have to take a shower tonight, but you will make sure that you are alone. The oilcloth will protect them.

Luckily I have an old waterproof parka in the shed that I have been meaning to dump for years. And I have plenty of surgical tape in the first aid box. I cut the sewn-in breast pocket out of the parka. It is ideal. Totally unselfconsciously, you undo your jeans and pull them and your panties down to your knees. Once again you confront me with your nude girlhood. You hold the small package containing the phone cards where you want it and ask me to tape it to you.

I have to kneel down and put my face near to your sex to do the job. When I have finished you stroke my hair. “Daddy, the other night…I was dreaming you were doing what Jules did to me…and I didn’t want you to stop. You can kiss me now if you want.” You move your leg slightly to one side to make your cleft more accessible. My head is spinning. I lean towards you. The feminine scent of you overwhelms my senses. I am lost. Then at the last second I chicken out and merely kiss the patch of silken skin above the soft swell of your pubis.

You look hurt and disappointed. I hug you to me, clasping your bare buttocks, and tell you that I have a war to win…for you. We hear the sound of Jules’ car coming up the hill and you quickly tidy yourself. We say our love and our goodbyes. At the same time you tell me, of your own accord, that no word of “us” will pass your lips. By the time they pull up we are standing, waiting on the porch.

Your mother’s eyes glare at me coldly as you carry your bag down the steps. She asks you where Adam is and if Joanna is still here. As if in answer to her first question, the blast of a heavy rifle echoes around the hills. You point silently to the implement shed where Joanna’s Toyota Starlet is parked.

I declare the opening of serious hostilities: “Gabrielle has told me everything about the rosebud…and I mean absolutely everything. I also have a tape of the Hero Parade.” Your mother turns on her heel without a word. There is a quick, heated discussion when she reaches the car. Jules fires me a look of pure venom.

You are driven away. You don’t look back.

I hear more shots from up in the tops. Adam is firing far too rapidly to be sighting a rifle in. He is expressing his anger and his sorrow. It is good that Joanna is with him.

I am also filled with grief. My only consolation is that you are safe from THEM for a while. But I am acutely aware that I have only gained a temporary, tactical advantage. I shall have to hire city help to build more evidence so that they will never dare to make a move on you.

You are also safe from me.

And I am safe from you…until next time.