His fingers trace a pathway on my skin, matching the spark that races inside me, from the touch of our lips and tongues down to my fiery, needy centre. I hear myself whimper hopefully, widening and wanting His fingers, willing them to stroke and probe and yes, to pinch and pull, spank and scratch, until the sensations sear through my body and my mind is lost in colour and pleasure and desire. His other hand tightens its grip on my hair, arching my head back as His lips approach my ear. He speaks, His deep familiar velvet voice another component of my need, my aching need for all that He is...and all that I can be.

"Are you ready now, little one? Are you ready for your first cock? For my cock?" I open my eyes and meet his, warm and friendly but glinting with purpose. Between panting breaths, I squeak out a 'yes', and another, and another, tumbling from me as His firm hand spreads my thighs and rising to a crescendo as His stiff cock spears me to the core. He murmurs, the words humming in my ear. "Good girl".

But I should start my story at the beginning. My name is Poppy, and I'm a good girl. Or should I say I was a good girl? A good girl says 'no', or so I was told, but I've learned to say yes to all the desires that lay hidden in me for so long. To say yes to things I'd never even dreamed of, but crave now when I'm with Him.

He is Uncle Simon - not a real relative, just a family friend. I suppose my mum felt sorry for him. He'd lost his wife years before, and lives alone now. Mum used to pop in and help him out with housekeeping, and sometimes I'd go along and he'd help with my homework. He always knew the right answers, and the right thing to say if I was having a bad day. As I got older, mum would let me go round on my own. I liked helping him, with a woman's touch in his rather austere, masculine space - a bunch of wild flowers in a cup on the windowsill, picked from the roadside on my walk over, or a pretty picture I'd found in a charity shop, to brighten his walls. I liked watching him get animated and purposeful as he found his hammer and a picture hook. I even liked the gentle teasing as he set the picture hook at his own height, well over six feet, before challenging me to hang the picture from it. I stretched up on my tiptoes, arms raised...unaware, then, that he was watching my skirt rise to show the soft, smooth skin of my thighs. Unaware that my stretching pushed my breasts out, straining against my blouse. Unaware what he was thinking as he stepped up close behind me, his broad chest against my back and his big hands brushing gently up my arms as he reached out to take the picture from me and rest it on its hook. Unaware that it wasn't the hammer in his trouser pocket that I could feel pressing against me...

I didn't know, then. I was...innocent, I suppose that's the word, though I refuse to feel guilty now.

Everything changed last summer. It was a glorious, bright blue, warm, wind-free saturday afternoon and I had walked to Uncle Simon's carrying a little crystal vase I'd found, that I thought would catch the light nicely on his mantlepiece. I had my new strappy sandals on, with a pale pink skirt falling to just above my knees and a loose white blouse, open at the neck, showing off the butterfly pendant I'd bought with my first wages from my first job - just a saturday morning job at a wool shop, but I enjoyed it, helping the customers and chatting with the sweet old lady who owned it.

Simon's door was ajar when I arrived, so I knocked and called out. "Uncle Simon? It's Poppy. Are you in?" His voice resonated from the bedroom, as rich and deep as ever, but with a note of sadness to it that I hadn't heard before. "Come through, Poppy. I'm in here".

I stepped along the hall, pushing at his bedroom door and poking my head round it. I had never even seen his bedroom on my previous visits, and it felt somehow wrong just to walk in now. His curtains were closed, but from the doorway I could just make out that he was sat up in bed. Oh!, I thought, realising that he wasn't wearing a pyjama jacket - but not entirely sure why the sight of his bare shoulders, the patch of hair on his chest and his neat pink nipples should have caused me to stumble. I held on to the door handle and asked if I should enter.

"Of course, of course, come in. If I'd known you were coming I would have got up, but I haven't really felt like it today. Is that for me?" he asked, glancing at the vase I was carrying. "You're such a good girl, to think of me. Pop it down here, on the bedside table and sit and talk with me."

I hesitated for a moment, troubled by the sudden thought that his lower half, hidden by the blankets, might also be pyjamaless. I pushed the thought away - boys didn't interest me and I knew that good girls didn't concern themselves with that sort of thing. Stepping into the room, I put the vase on the table and smiled brightly at Simon. "Shall I open the curtains? It's a lovely day!"

Simon sighed. "You weren't to know, Poppy, but today is my wedding anniversary...or would have been, if...well, you know." He made a half-hearted apologetic smile. "I do miss her."

"Oh, I'm sorry! You must be feeling so sad." I reached out, bending over to give him a hug like I'd hugged him so often in the past. Arms loosely round his neck, my head resting on his shoulder. Realising that my skin was now pressed against his, and that I could smell his familiar musky, manly scent more strongly than ever before. Realising that something inside me was fluttering like that time I'd been in the school play, just before I went on stage. Realising that his hands, which at first just lightly touched my shoulder blades, were now firmly stroking the length of my spine. I raised my head and looked into his deep brown eyes. His hands stopped at my waist, as though they were encircling me. Thoughts flashed through my mind. That he had nearly touched my bottom. That I had wanted him to touch my bottom. That good girls didn't have thoughts like that.

So innocent, then...