Awakening Innocence
Some people, perhaps in particular, I mean some Men, have an instinct which enables them to detect the purity of Innocence, and who perceive, in it's possessor, an opportunity for exploitation. They may not be always particularly self-aware, may not be attuned to this particular gift – or curse – and certainly not particularly interested in the responsibility which ought to accompany it. So they see a rosebud, can appreciate that it has a beauty in it's present form which, in time, will develop into it's mature state and give pleasure to all who encounter it; but they cannot see beyond the now, nor have the patience to wait for then, so they pluck it; they hold it in the palm of their hand, examine the fresh glow and fragile perfume and take pleasure in owning it, not fully realising that, separated from the stem which was it's source of nourishment, the bud will wither and die – in truth, is already dead, like the King's head chopped by the Axeman's blade from his body. And not being capable of understanding this, or indeed, anything, beyond meeting their own, immediate, desires and their need to fulfil them, will eventually be disappointed when the rosebud, so carelessly, heedlessly, selfishly plucked, perishes, they will blame it for it's own demise, unable to take any responsibility for their own, critical, actions and interventions.
     George Gill was one of these. Not a knowingly cruel or hurtful man – indeed, he had been known to say, with true feeling and an utter honesty in his own self-deceit, that he was too tender-hearted for this world, that he was always a soft-touch, who would give anyone a helping hand and that his sympathy had been exploited more that once. And he absolutely believed this to be true – could give chapter and verse on his good deeds, generosity, open-handedness; his donations to good causes, his involvement in the good works carried out by the Chamber of Commerce and the Masonic Lodge to which he belonged. Oh yes, it was all true. Absolutely. He was the kindest of men. And his wife, a pale, wan woman, frailer than she ought to be at her age, largely from four difficult childbirths, would echo his words while her eyes glowed with admiration for George and brimmed with the tears which sprang so readily from them. “He's a Saint,” was one of her most-used self-deceits.
     The rosebuds which George instinctively admired and coveted and, when occasion permitted, plucked and enjoyed, were those particular young females who had recently left childhood behind, but had not yet entered into maturity. Their chronological ages could be anywhere between 11 and 17, some were beginning to mature early for their ages, while others were slow developers; but chronological age was of no concern to George; he could not have, for the life of him, put into words exactly what it was about one rosebud which lit up his eyes and stirred something in his trousers, and another, almost identical in age, appearance and experience, which did nothing for him at all, which left him cold and uninterested – luckily for her. She would never know what it meant to have George 'take an interest' which was the innocent phrase shared by George and Sandra, his meek and unchallenging wife, which implied some fatherly wish to protect and shelter, to encourage and support, those rosebuds which he had singled out for himself.
     And he did help them and give them support. It may have been running shoes for a naturally athletic girl, whose family was struggling to give their daughter that little bit extra which her natural talents needed in order to find their full expression; it may have been books for another, or ballet classes, music lessons, extra maths coaching, or books. These contributions seemed no different from the 'Good Deeds' done by the Chamber of Commerce in the community, or the, less proclaimed, but still appreciated, generosity of the Masonic Lodge – peopled as it was, in our town, by the better off businessmen, civic leaders, entrepreneurs – men in positions to 'make the difference' which would benefit those less well endowed. The difference was that George's individual girls, his particular protégés, as it were, were 'off the books'.
     He did not trumpet them, parade them for praise, for as he said to Sandra, “it can feel demeaning, for everyone to know you can't afford to support your own kids, give them that little bit extra, so we don't want to expose them to that, do we?” And Sandra could only agree, and feel pride that her own Hubby was so kind, so generous, so modest, in his 'interests' and the knowledge that she knew what others didn't, gave her an intense pleasure, made her glow, as though bathed in George's reflected light.
     And it contained his secret, while also making Sandra, for all her ignorance of his activities, complicit in George's peccadilloes – one of the minimising terms by which George thought of the ways in which his 'interest', in 'his' girls, was manifested. He certainly never thought of it as abuse. He would have been genuinely shocked if that term had been applied to what happened between himself and his little stable of hand-picked fillies, trained to please him. And please him they did – while they were young enough to whet his appetite, and while they still had the freshness of the morning dew upon their peach-soft skin. Of course, there would always come the day when even the sweetest, most tender rosebud began to lose her charm, and George, while genuinely fond of every one of his Girls, knew well that he was no different from Canute and that he could not hold back the passage of time – and sad though he truly was when each had to give up her place in his little nest, he could always console himself that she would be safe with whichever friend he passed her on to, and that the vacancy in his own arms would be quickly filled. It is said that Nature abhors a Void, and George certainly did.
     Although there were always between 2 and 4 girls at any time, there were also another two or three potential rosebuds waiting to be plucked. These were girls he had marked out earlier, some even from the age of five. Not that he had done anything with them when they were so young – God Forbid! He wasn't a Pervert! But he had noted their bone structure, their flawless complexions, their eyes, hair and teeth, had known who he would select, approximately when, and had a fair idea of whom she would be replacing. None of this was ever written down, was ever, in George's mind, perceived as grooming or a process of corrupting the minds and morals of these future rosebuds. It was all just part of the way that George was made, as much an instinctive part of him as breathing, and he never had to consciously plan ahead and or make elaborate preparations: he did what he had to do when the time was right, before a replacement was required, and, in most cases the exchange was affected within 24 hours, so natural and smoothly did George function.
     At least, that was until he discovered Gor.
     Before that, George had never thought of himself as being 'part of something'. He saw no link between his activities and paedophile rings, or BDSM groups. He discovered and trained girls to give him pleasure – and always, he would have said, if ever asked – for their pleasure too: so that they will get more out of life than otherwise might have been the case. Generous, always, to a fault.
Even the passing on of girls was done in the way someone might pass a perfectly serviceable sound system to a friend when updating one's own, or a spare jacket when the wardrobe is getting squeezed for space. It's just recycling among friends, giving what we no longer need to someone who will appreciate it, get pleasure from it, and treat it with the same care as we did ourselves – and it will widen the girl's experience and that can only be for her own good. Yes, a positive and beneficial thing for all concerned – particularly the girls, for George was always scrupulous in selecting their next carer.
     It was Gor that introduced George to the idea of Owners and Slaves. Something about that, hinting at a darker side of life than he had ever imagined, piqued his interest. He read on. Voraciously – he read book after book by John Norman, then found commentaries by other writers, guidance for adherents wishing to emulate on earth the paradise on Gor, where true Dominant Men are ever owners of Submissive Women, and George saw that what he was surely destined to do was to become Ubar of such a Society in his home town. To make his own Home Stone the focus for such a Gorean Society. And he set about it with zeal.
     This was about the time when I first realised that he was aware of me – other than just one of the spotty, snotty kids who ran their mothers' errands; I think it was also the time when I became aware that I was actually older then my sister, Stacy. My height had suddenly increased and she still carried the heavy puppy-fat that I had now shed, as I started on the climb from childhood to adulthood. A photograph of Stacy and Me, and another of both of us with our Mother, show me looking quite warily sullen – I was told my mood swings were hormonal, which didn't really help, but did at least absolve me from any responsibility, of which I made ample use.
 
     I do remember the events of the particular day when George let me know that he was aware of me. I had been sent to his shop for some fruit – nothing exotic, just bananas, apples, oranges and pears, George himself served me, and as he was handing me back the change, slipped a satsuma into my hand, “for yourself, Teri,” he said, and winked. I carried my bag to the door and, halfway through, looked back; he was watching me and winked again. I fairly skipped home and ran up to my room, to rerun the encounter over and over again. It was just a little orange, but charged with so much significance: here was a man, not a family member, who knew who I was, had called my by my name, had given me a present – a secret just for me – and had winked. Twice! I had not the faintest idea what it was about, but I knew enough to be able to hold it tight to myself and not tell a soul. It was my first proper grown-up secret and it formed a bond between me and George. It marked me as 'Special', to him at least. Not that I thought very much of it, for he never tried to draw me in to anything, just, whenever I went on an errand, he would slip me something for myself – and not anything significant, just a piece if fruit: my favourites were bananas, satsumas, dessert pears, Victoria plums and, in season, strawberries, gooseberries and Pomegranate, so you could say it was a healthy fixation on my part: I got lots of vitamins out of it.      
     And really, that was it for a couple of years. And it was the day before my 15th birthday that something eventually happened. I had popped in for some fruit for a pudding mum was going to make for my birthday, and I mentioned this to George, and he smiled and said he hoped that I have a very memorable birthday. “I don't think it'll be anything special,” I said, “my Dad and my Sister have both got Flu, Mum and I had it a couple of weeks ago. Dad says we'll celebrate properly when they're all better.” And George said, “well, if you look in about six in the evening, just when I'm closing, I've got something you might like that may fit the bill – I think it'd be right up your street.” His mild innuendoes didn't even register with me at the time – having my birthday missed by my Dad and Stacy having flu was pretty mean, and having to wait was pointless, so I'd accepted it was just going to be, here are your presents, go and keep quite, they need to sleep.
     So when I told my Mum I was popping out to see one of my school friends she just nodded and waved: “Don't be late, bye Teri.” Which was how I was able to arrive at the Greengrocer's just before six. A last customer was just leaving and after she had gone, George locked to door and drew down the blinds on the door and windows. He told me that his assistants had already left and we could go through to the back shop. And he gave me a glass of champagne – which I had never tasted before, but it tasted just like lemonade to me. He asked if I like Science Fiction and when I said that I did, he drew a book from under his desk and, apologising for not wrapping it, gave it to me and wished me a Happy Birthday. The book was about Gor. It wasn't one of John Norman's books – I would read them later. This was an illustrated account of our Twin Planet and the social structures and classes and religion and daily life and sex. And he talked about it all – he'd obviously read it and knew all about the books but he didn't talk to me like an adult to a child, or a teacher to a pupil; I felt as though he was the first grown-up to speak with me as an equal and when I said that what he was telling me about Gor didn't really sound like science-fiction, he agreed, and said it was more like Fantasy-Fiction, which often creates other worlds and societies which are very different from our own: and he spoke of Ancient Greece and Rome and seemed to know a great deal of detail about their cultures and laws and relationships between the different levels and classes, and at one point when he was telling me about the different Roman Gods he asked if I had a boyfriend- I was a bit taken aback, as it didn't seem to belong to what he was talking about, and I said I wasn't interested in boys, and he laughed and said nor was he, and I laughed too and that took the tension out of me – I told him that I didn't know many boys, not of my own age – almost all of my cousins are girls and we much prefer our own company, and he said that he preferred the company of women too; and that seemed to me to mean that he thought of me as a woman, and I felt quite pleased by it. He asked what time I needed to get home and when I said I'd usually be back about nine from my friend's he offered me a coffee and said we might as well relax while we talk. And we talked about lots of things: he didn't so much ask me direct questions as asked me how I felt about things, all sorts of things, and it was like being treated as an equal, and then it was time for me to go – and he said he'd walk me round, and though I demurred, not wanting to be escorted like a child, he said that he would feel bad if he let me go alone at this time of night, you never know what crazies might be out there, and that seemed to make it like a knight escorting a lady and he walked me home, and at the gate shook my hand and thanked me for such a pleasant evening and said that if I ever wanted to call in again, same night every week was when he stayed late to unwind and have a bit of time to himself and he'd be delighted with my company. I sounds corny and obvious and I seem so naive as I write about it and reflect on my responses to him and I wonder how I could have believed him but I did, because I didn't have any experience to inform me and guide me to a different, better judgement. I believed him, I enjoyed the mature attention and being treated as his equal, which I obviously wasn't but didn't see, and so I went back the next week, and the next, and the week after that.
     I think that there was, buried deep within me, a longing for the time when I had been an only child, There wasn't any more than 18 months between me and Stacy, so she had been around for most of my life and, though I loved her and still do, with all my heart, there was something about being unique, the only one. About not sharing those evening with George. About it just being for me and me alone. So far as I can remember, I never felt anything sexual in them. It was all on a different level. It was about identity.
     We talked a lot about Gor. And I studied the Book that George had given me for my Birthday.