Hey – no one loses, do they? I know some of the girls aren't exactly willing, but if they don't bring in the money, they get hurt, right? I get relief, they get some money ... how is there a problem? That's what I told myself, anyway.So, there I was, on my way north on the M1 one morning in February; pulled off to use the facilities and get some coffee. Suitably refreshed, I set off again. Exiting some service areas can be a bit of a mission, as they say. I was on the exit road when I saw a large, black Mercedes stop at the top of the exit slip and a figure get out. The car moved off, burning rubber and the figure just stood.Getting closer, I saw what looked like a twelve-year-old girl, really thin, but dressed as no twelve-year-old should be; she was wearing what I call a pelmet, a micro-skirt that barely concealed her crotch, a bolero jacket over a thin blouse, and high heels.I suppose there were a number of things I could have done. If I listed them, the one thing I did do. “I know what you are going to say, dear. I’ve been to the stones. I know what you experienced.” Her expression was unfathomable, except that to Amélie’s eye it was tinged with longing and perhaps lust. “I’ve recounted to you some of the stories people tell about them.”Mistress Heathcoate sighed. “Ah, to be young.” Sandrine and Amélie exchanged another look. “Tell me what the two of you found, first. Did Master Gérard accompany you?”Amélie nodded but did not say anything.The two young women squirmed and shifted in their seats. The casual observer would have been excused if he or she concluded they were afflicted with an itch, perhaps not entirely a physical one.“The first thing I felt,” began Sandrine, “once more was how warm they were. Warm, but not soft, not really.” She paused. Licked her lips. “Not soft, no, but welcoming, caressing me, even.”Amélie giggled. “Like the stone wanted to feel my nipples!” Sandrine poked her and Amélie poked her back. “I’m serious. You know I’m.
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