Özlem's Amazon

by Penny Lee

Özlem Keçeli's family had owned and operated the bath house for at least six generations. The building itself, adjacent to the principal city square, was originally put up hundreds of years earlier still, with a separate haman for men and women, and the flagstones in both baths were indented and smooth from the soles of thousands of clacking takunyalar worn by the bathers, who over the centuries had come to relax in the steamy heat and have their bodies washed and massaged on the huge domes of heated marble in the centre of each chamber — the gobek tasi, or navel stone.

In this part of Turkey, bathing was still a highly popular activity, and Özlem's father had recently taken on two new staff to work in the evenings — an itinerant couple in their mid-twenties, who had impressed him with their earnest attitude and professed intention to work hard and save enough to set up home back in Samsun. Both Hasad and his wife, Afet, had claimed previous experience and had demonstrated to Özlem's parents their undoubted talent to execute a competent wash and massage just a week before, and now they had been taken on with a month's probationary period.

It was a most unusual step: a break with family tradition, to employ strangers, but needs must — the nephews and cousins who would once have spent their working lives as masseurs or attendants in the chambers these days wanted to study at the universities in Ankara and Istanbul, and so change was inevitable.

Özlem herself dreamed of going to college, but at only twelve-years-old, she still had many years of study at secondary school before she would have her chance. Until then, she was expected to play her part in the family business, sitting at the front desk in the evenings, collecting the money as she did her homework, or before school, helping to lay out the towels and the striped body cloths, or pestemals. She had done such tasks since she was a small girl — it was expected and she didn't complain — when business was light, she simply let her lively young mind wander.

For as long as she could remember, Özlem had spent her evenings at that desk, head propped in her hands and observing the to-ing and fro-ing of the customers, listening to snippets of conversation or better still, imagining herself far away, in distant lands or back in time. Being brought up in the ancient bath house, which was really just an extension of the family home, she had an acute sense of history, which had been fuelled as a child by her grandmother's story-telling. She had loved the traditional folk tales and was fascinated by the old lady's reminisicences of her own childhood, listening in awe to her recollection of being in the crowd in the Square outside the bath house when Atatürk himself came to the city.

But most of all, she enjoyed the legends and fables of the ancient peoples who first occupied this land thousands of years before. She used to imagine a small girl working in a hamam, just like herself, watching and listening as great warriors and explorers sat drinking tea, regaling blushing princesses with fantastic accounts of their adventures.

She felt comfortable in her small kiosk. It was her little sanctuary, in which she was safe to daydream.

But now the presence of these two strangers had broken the spell.

Outside opening hours, performing her chores in the silence of the night, Özlem would never think twice about walking round the cavernous chambers, slipping down into the cellar to check on the furnace that heated the expanses of marble and provided the perpetual supply of warm water. Just after midnight, she had been quite startled to find Afet, sitting silently in the empty darkness on a bench in the main vestibule, the camekan, where bathers would linger for a glass of tea or freshly-squeezed orange before returning to the heat and bustle of the city. Afet had smiled at her and Özlem had looked into the woman's jet black eyes and a funny little shiver had made her skin gather into goosebumps. It wasn't just the obvious fact that at such a time of night, the newcomer should not have been in the bath house at all.

Back in her room, Özlem reflected on the moment, recalling Afet's wide, easy smile, her flawless white teeth, and the wild shock of her hair cascading over her strong shoulders in the half light.

She was intrigued by this stranger, who had so recently joined, and wondered about the place she was from, and who she really was. Samsun: ancient land of the Amazons, she recalled from her grandmother's tales. The warrior race where women dominated. She imagined Afet powerfully astride a panting thoroughbred, shield in hand and fresh blood on her battle axe! Not a taxing feat of imagination, given the breathtaking impact she had had on the young girl, the first time the proud, statuesque young woman strode straight-backed into the hamal with her pestemal wrapped tightly over her perfect, toned body. Özlem recalled both legend and deliciously fresh memory and grinned at the comparison: thankfully this modern-day warrior-woman had not found it necessary to lop off one of her gorgeous breasts to make it easier to handle her longbow.

It was the weekend, and the schoolgirl snuggled contentedly in her bed. Two days without school. She was accustomed to being up late, making up her sleep with a nap after school each afternoon, and she wasn't tired.

The image of Afet wouldn't go away, and as Özlem lay on her back, eyes wide open, she suddenly became aware of her own hand, between her legs, and her fingers, which had been absently stroking between her labia. She instinctively twisted her head and checked the door of her room, then chuckled and continued, this time deliberately, until her slit was damp and her clit tingled and her tummy shuddered with guilty ecstasy.

The realisation that her own body could produce such intense enjoyment so easily had come only recently to the young girl. It was only in the past few weeks, reassured by giggling confidences exchanged at the back of the school bus, confirming that indeed others in her class had already made the discovery, that she had gone further than simply stroking herself. And had learned just how good it felt if you persisted, and how wet your cunny became, and how much more satisfying it was if you imagined forbidden thoughts as you did it.

Even as she climaxed, Afet's sultry, mysterious face appeared to her and basking in the delicious, panting afterglow, Özlem thought to herself how appropriate was the woman's name — it meant 'outstanding beauty'.

In her naivety, Özlem thought her increasing fascination with Afet was simply curiosity — the novelty of having an exotic stranger on the premises. She was unable fully to recognise the deeper instincts at work — the ever more obsessive crush that over the course of the next two weeks had driven her to take every opportunity to watch the new masseuse, to hide behind the columns in the female hamam and admire her muscular arms and hands at work on the appreciate customers, stretched out on the marble, covered in sweat and lather. She was largely unaware of the emotional forces now controlling her, that made her stomach tighten when Afet smiled and brushed past her in the small sogukluk — the cooling-off area, and made her head light when she found an excuse to tidy up in the women's cubicles at the very same time Afet was drying herself at the end of the working day, and she could steal glances at the older woman's strong back and firm, lean legs. Under the desk, in the tiny wooden cabin at the entrance to the bathhouse, where Özlem would spend her evenings selling entrance tokens and studying her schoolbooks, her hand would sometimes slide up under her skirt when Afet was lounging on the benches between clients, her thrilling smile lighting up the dim lobby in recognition of a generous tip. The young girl would stroke the softness of her panties until she could feel the wetness soak the thin cotton, and dream that she was instead caressing the full womanly body of the mysterious newcomer.

Özlem was tongue-tied around Afet. She hated herself for it, for seeming like a silly little kid in the woman's presence. But whenever she was alone with this lithe, exciting woman, the air felt electric and her very breath seemed to be sucked from her lungs, and she would stutter her words and angrily feel the flaming redness burning her treacherous ears.

And it seemed to her almost as if Afet could sense the her unease and would tease her with those dark, flashing eyes, framed in long black lashes, and in the way she parted her lips and slowly ran the tip of her tongue around to keep them moist against the heat of the bath chamber.

For Özlem, it was a delicious, bewildering torment. To which she readily returned, each evening.

On her way home from school, homework and supper was furthest from her mind — all she wanted to do was find a way to watch Afet and imagine being with her. It puzzled and frustrated her, yet in the solitude of her bedroom, her hands busy beneath the sheet, she happily accepted the strange, naughty feelings, and revelled in the simple pleasure to be had there.

It was apt that the incident occurred only shortly after an especially energetic bout of masturbation. What the heck? Yes, it was late, and a school night too, but Özlem had thrown off the sheet and lifted her nightdress around her waist and wantonly rubbed and squeezed her clitoris in the moonlight until she was simply too tender to do it any longer. She marvelled at the consuming pleasure that took over her body and reckoned it got better each and every time she did it.

Which these days was almost every night.

Özlem's bladder felt full and when she had caught her breath and come down a bit from that incredible high, she decided to trot along to the WC, to take a precautionary pee and so avoid having to get up in the night.

As she closed her bedroom door and padded along the corridor, she heard the faintest of clicks. It was not a normal night noise, the sighing and scratching of a centuries-old building with which she had grown up. And it had to have come from the bathhouse, not within the annexe in which she lived with her parents. She paused and strained her ears. There was no hint of movement from her parent's room along the hall. Oh well, she was still too elated from her masturbation to sleep, and so after she had finished in the lavatory, dutiful daughter that she was, she elected to investigate. She lifted the ring of keys from the hook in the hallway and crept through the connecting passage, easing open the heavy door to the bath house vestibule.

In the shafts of grey-blue moonlight spearing down from the skylights in the vaulted ceiling, all the familiar shapes and silhouettes seemed in order and still: the benches and tables and the ornamental fountain; the samovar and orange press; the small wooden reception kiosk, with its chair and desk and telephone.

Except that door to the booth was ajar. And it should be closed and locked.

She tiptoed across the cool slabbed floor and peered inside. Something was not right. She reached up and turned on the internal lamp and instantly her blinking eyes could see exactly what it was. The small concealed panel in the floor had been lifted and not been put back precisely. Özlem wiggled her finger against it and removed the false piece of floorboard. Where she should have seen the battered old cash box, was only a dark void.

She gasped and stepped out of the kiosk. As she turned, mind racing, about to dash through into the house to rouse her sleeping parents, a tiny movement registered at the extreme edge of her field of vision — a curtain moving then falling still.

The faintest vibration of footfall.

The girl froze. Her mind was incapable of deciding what to do. She stared like a terrified rabbit as the curtain moved again, and a hand appeared. Then a leg and the rest of the arm, until a slim, dark figure emerged and stepped cautiously into the vestibule.

Afet suddenly realised that the light was on in the kiosk and looked up, her mouth open in surprise. Then she caught sight of the small girl in the short nightie standing next to it, transfixed and staring right at her disbelievingly. A sharp pain shot threw her chest; she started and clutched the scratched moneybox close against her bosom. The dull clatter of coins inside the tin made identification conclusive.

Woman and girl stood stock still, surveying each other awkwardly across the dimly lit expanse of the bathhouse lobby. Afet was first to speak.

"I heard a noise.. I, er, had to come back because I had forgotten something, and I was about to ring the bell when I found a window open..."

Her voice was thin and weak and unconvincing. As if it were a shock that she should find the tin in her hands, she suddenly held it out in front of her, waving it at the silent girl. Her voice had a reedy quality that touched on the pathetic.

"Look! I found this. The robber must have left it..."

The implausibility of her impromptu explanation proved too much. It was not worth continuing — if she couldn't sound convincing to herself, there was no way she would be able to bluff the owner's daughter. She bit her lip, considering if she should simply barge past the girl and dive out of the small window through which she had broken in. Inside, she was livid with herself — this should have been a piece of cake — a couple of weeks to suss the place out, work out the routine (old man Keçeli was so stupid, he only banked the takings once a week), then away with the cash and she and Hasad could slip away in the night, to return to Sansum and buy the smallholding they had coveted for so long. It had been easy so far, working out the lax way in which the family handled the money, observing where it was kept and coming up with a plan. Leaving the window unlocked and slightly open at the end of the evening. Afet had not intended to do the theft herself, but it was obvious that Hasad's broad shoulders would never fit through the tiny window in the kitchenette where they made the tea. It should have been so simple. If only she had not been greedy and wasted those extra minutes raiding the staff lockers as well — it was not as if she had found anything worth nicking anyway. Shampoo and a broken watch.

She could feel her dreams evaporating into the heavy heat of the night.

Özlem was her father's daughter: the family business was as important as the family itself, and this woman had violated it. Her fear swiftly became indignation and she raised her chin and replied with a steady firmness that was in direct contrast to the uncontrollable trembling of the hands clasped behind it.

"You were stealing our money! How could you? My parents gave you and your husband work, and paid you and found you a room, and you repay them like this?"

Özlem ignored the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

"Put the tin down," she ordered, amazing herself at her own steadiness, forcefulness even. "Then you must explain yourself to my father."

A warm trickle escaped down her cheek and she rubbed it crossly away. She was angry not so much for the crime, or Afet's breaking of her parent's trust, but because this fascinating, stunning woman had been shown to be flawed: was not the personification of perfection who fuelled Özlem's nocturnal fantasies.

Afet bent and placed the cash box on the floor and stepped forward towards the young girl.

"Özlem, I am so sorry. Please. We need the money. We only wanted to buy a place of our own back home. I was stupid. I was desperate. I am so sorry."

She advanced slowly across the lobby.

"Please, Özlem. Don't tell your father. I don't want to be locked up. I have a suspended sentence from a previous misunderstanding and they'll be hard on me. I have returned the money. Just let me go. We'll leave right away and you’ll never see us again."

The twelve-year-old focussed on the woman whom she had idolised, and saw that she too was crying, and her wonderful, brooding, dark face was now creased in supplication. Afet's pain was her pain too. It broke her heart.

"You would go to prison..."

It was more thinking aloud than a threat or comment. Özlem had a momentary vision of the slim women, bent and broken in baggy denim fatigues, her long gypsy hair hacked short and the sparkle long gone from her wild, ebony eyes.

The schoolgirl's imagination staggered around, confused and flailing, unable to avoid the awfulness of the situation and its consequences. She became a spectator and the words she spoke and the thoughts she had were not of her conscious being. She picked up the cash tin.

Afet watched her miserably, shoulders rounded in defeat and self-loathing at her own ineptitude. She had failed Hasad and far from being together in their own place, she would soon be locked in a police cell, followed by God knows what. Her ambitions were shattered. She let out a doleful moan.

Instead of being on her way back home, at last with enough cash to pay that silly old fool for his scrubby land at the head of the valley, here she was, caught red-handed, cornered by some weird little girl in a wrinkled nightie.

Özlem shot her a glance. Fragments of ideas were falling into place. She was not yet aware of where her brain was leading her, but she found herself taking the woman's elbow and propelling her firmly into the female side of the bath house, past the changing cubicles, past the showers, through the sogukluk and into the blue gloom of the huge, empty bath chamber. Afet meekly allowed herself to be guided, assuming the girl was going to lock her in the vast marble-clad hararet.

Özlem flicked a switch, illuminating the dim lamps around the walls. The wall of heat slapped her hard and she realised that every inch of her skin was chilled with nervous perspiration.

She placed the cash box by the door and turned the large brass key in the ancient lock. Afet observed in silence, unsure what the girl was doing. Why were they both in here? For a second, she wondered if she might yet bluff her way out of this mess, but the distant, purposeful resolution that burned in the young girl's eyes soon extinguished any such hope.

Floating about in that thin cotton nightdress, with her face so inscrutable, the kid seemed like some ethereal being, sent to deliver divine retribution. Afet shuddered.

Özlem took the ring of keys and walked around the huge circular marble slab in the centre of the chamber.

She paused at a stack of dented metallic bowls and removed the first one. Dipping the copper tas in one of the half-dozen stone kurnas — water-filled troughs — that were set against the walls around it, she spun around and cast the contents in an easy arc over the domed marble. A column of steam billowed in the hot, heavy air. She placed the bowl down silently and watched the water drip over the worn edge.

Then, turning to face Afet, fixing her with a blank, pitiless expression that came from deep within, she grasped the hem of her thin nightdress and with a single movement, hauled it over her head, discarding it on the floor without looking. Still holding Afet in her stare, she climbed up on to the wet marble and slowly lowered her skinny, naked body down flat against the hot, slippery marble. Her skin was aflame, not just from the heat of her flesh pressed against the steaming hardness — every nerve felt alive, her heart was pounding, her breath short. She stretched out her arms and legs and formed a star, relaxing her muscles until her body seemed to melt into the marble and the moisture on her skin boiled and bubbled. In the cloying stillness, interrupted only by the regular dripping of water into the troughs, she heard her own voice speaking. With a calm steadiness that denied the lump of anticipation in her dry throat.

"Wash me."

Afet's own mind was in turmoil. Had the girl really said that? What the Hell was happening? Why was she lying naked on the marble instead of screaming blue murder and running to her father or dialling the cops on the phone in the kiosk? This was unreal. The girl should be turning her in and yet was spread-eagled on the slab and ordering Afet to wash her. She had little choice but to obey, if she was to see where this was heading, and to learn her fate.

She approached the edge of the slab and sat on the edge. Dressed in her jeans and a dark cotton shirt, she was already in a muck sweat from the tension of the bungled burglary. Trickles of perspiration tickled the sides of her ribcage as she lowered herself to the smooth stone.

Afet reached for a plastic bucket and took it to the nearest kurna, to fill it. She had to play the girl's game. Maybe if she did, she could yet talk her way out of this pickle.

She perched again on the side of the navel stone and for the first time, actually looked straight at the girl. Of course women normally had pestemals or towels wrapped tightly around them, to protect their modesty. She had never washed and massaged a naked body, let alone a skinny kid's. Normally you didn't pay much attention to the person prone on the slab — the limbs and backs and shoulders were just objects, and your hands and fingers prodded and pulled automatically. Normally you did it all and barely registered the person until it was over and you made pleasantries in the hope of boosting your tip. Normally. But this was far from normal. Her freedom was on the line and this damned kid was calling the shots. She poured the contents of the bucket over the slim legs and pale, narrow back of the petite girl. In God's name what was she playing at?

Özlem stiffened as the cool water splashed her fiery skin. She glanced back at Afet.

"Don't be so ridiculous — you'll get soaked. You can't do it properly wearing your clothes."

The older woman paused. Now the little bitch was pushing her luck — ordering her about like this. She scowled, but inside, she knew she had no choice other than to humour her. With undisguised irritation, she tore off her clothes, all of them, and chucked them in an angry ball against the far wall, where the flagstones were dry. Allah kahretsin! There was no towel or spare pestemal in the dingy, deserted chamber.

Seething at the indignity of her own nudity, Afet snatched a plastic bottle of shampoo from beside the trough and refilled the bucket. She crawled over the slab, ready to begin on the girl.

Floating in the suds was an abrasive massage mitt known as a kese, which was employed after the first soaping to exfoliate the bathers, rasping off grubby little rolls of dead skin. Afet plucked it from the bucket laid it carefully down on the slab. Her lips twitched with wicked anticipation. She was actually looking forward to applying it to the insolent girl's tender young body. Some small consolation. Oh yes, she would be less than gentle with it — her one chance to make the creepy little piç suffer too!

At the first touch of the soapy sponge, Özlem relaxed and pressed down again against the heat. She flexed her hips and forced her groin down hard, closing her eyes as her fleshy mound flattened and embraced the unyielding marble. The lather tickled her legs and Afet's firm fingers encircled her ankle, grasping her slim young calf and squeezing the muscle through her hands like soft, warm dough.

Has'siktir — this whole situation was totally absurd! But she did it anyway.

Soaping the girl and manipulating the firm flesh of her legs and arms and kneading her back. It was so strange, and definitely not right, looking down along her own glossy nakedness at the small, hard young body beneath. There was no cloth to hide the girl's slim bottom, or the shadowy cleft of girly peach peeking out from between her legs. No cloth to mark where her hands usually stopped their passage and skipped over to resume the massage at the waist. The girl kept her thighs apart, and Afet's hands slithered high up towards her crotch. She realised what she was doing and hurriedly shifted, laying her soapy palms on the girl's shoulder blades and working the soft sinews of her neck.

Without bidding, Özlem rolled over on to her back.

She half-smiled, her eyes roaming appreciatively over the sullen woman crouched over her. She relaxed back into the marble and waited for Afet to continue.

"Slowly," she murmured.

The girl's confidence took Afet by surprise. She retreated quickly down the slab to begin soaping her feet. This was so undignified, being forced to kneel on all-fours over on the slab, rather than standing to one side. It was unseemly, too intimate, let alone uncomfortable, and the way that she was being controlled by this kid was irritating her intensely.

Miserably, she visualised the little farm, tucked away in a hidden corner of the Black Sea coast. She pictured the crumbling cottage and the gnarled fruit trees and the ramshackle shed full of cackling chickens. She had blown her chance. And this damned kid was just rubbing her nose in it.

She massaged the girl's legs to her knees and brushed the surface of her thighs with a cursory flourish, hoping to cover the brazen little bitch's gaping crack with foam. Özlem shifted and opened her eyes, fixing Afet with a steely gaze.

The masseuse stopped. What now?

The slightest of smirks played across the girl's lips. Afet found her wrist being gripped and her hand guided back down the kid's body, until the soap-laden sponge rested directly over her pubis.

"You missed a bit."

Afet had never attended to a customer's private parts before. She was fazed. Falteringly, she wiped the sponge between the girl's thighs and up over her hairless, pouting pussy. The little hussy sighed and closed her eyes again. Afet finally realised what was happening; that the girl was getting off on this. She was shocked, scandalised. How old was she? Twelve, thirteen? This was so indecent! Nevertheless, her fingers still spread out across the tops of those slim, hard thighs and she began to knead and massage steadily upwards to the girl’s wantonly exposed groin. Higher, pressing the solid muscle and trying not to look at the girl's smooth, neat little labia, or to acknowledge the indisputable beauty of that trim, glistening mound. Nor the cute way that tiny curl of rosy skin over her clit winked cheekily up at her in the soft light of the steamy bath chamber.

It was too much. No way was she actually going to touch the girl there. Definitely not. Afet pushed and squeezed the tight, dimpled little stomach and moved gratefully up to the gentle curves of her immature chest.

This time, Özlem made no comment at the omission. She relaxed against the hot, wet marble, eyes closed and totally absorbed by the exciting new pleasures being administered by Afet's hands. She sighed again as the soapy warmth engulfed her small, flattened breasts, this time with satisfaction rather then annoyance. Her fleshy young nipples were so incredibly sensitive: as the woman's fingers brushed over them, an electrifying tingle rocked her body.

To reach the girl's shoulders and throat, Afet had little choice but to straddle her prone body. There was no other way to reach. She shuffled her knees uncomfortably up the hot surface of the marble until they were either side of Özlem's waist, painstakingly careful to avoid any direct contact. But no sooner had she knelt up and run the soapy sponge over the youngster's collar bone than the twelve-year-old opened her eyes, and this time she was smiling quite openly.

"Wait," ordered the girl. Afet stifled the grunt of annoyance that was aching to escape her throat. She was being totally humiliated by this arrogant, weird, little schoolgirl. But what alternative had she?

Özlem lifted her head from the upturned tas that had been supporting the back of her head above the unyielding marble. Her hair was plastered flat with sweat and her face was flushed pink. Her forehead was studded with a random array of glistening beads of moisture, which sparkled in the light of a dozen lamps around the walls of the hararet chamber. And her bright, dark eyes shone with mischief. She looked into the woman's face above her, equally reddened but distinctly sullen, yet similarly sparkling with perspiration. Then she looked down, taking in the points of Afet's generous breasts, dangling loose and free under her body. Soft and tempting. And now, thanks to this twist of fate, hers for the taking.

The girl began to sit up, drawing her body up the greasy wetness of the slab. She knew precisely what she was doing: had been plotting this move as she lay motionless under the spell of the older woman's hands.

"Sit," she instructed, and herself sat upright, simultaneously sliding her knees apart, so that if Afet were to avoid colliding with the rising girl, she had to settle back on her buttocks, down on the slab. Her backside met the heated marble and she found herself in the hideously ungainly position of sitting between Özlem's knees, with her legs wide apart and her feet astride the girl's hips. Exactly as her young jailer had intended. She moved her hands to cover her crotch.

"Tsk-tsk," tutted the girl and the horrified woman looked up at her and saw her head shaking slowly from side to side and her mouth set in a smile of utter devilment.

Özlem looked pointedly at Afet's hands and her expression turned to triumph as the woman obediently moved them aside and Özlem at last had a fully uninterrupted view of the mysterious delights on display beneath the small patch of tight black curls gathered where her legs met. She was not disappointed, and she surveyed the thick ripeness of the woman's labia and marvelled at the delicate petals between, deep pink and glinting with perspiration and the water of the bathing process. Afet followed the girl's eyes, aghast at being the subject of such obvious scrutiny and when the girl's tongue darted from between her lips and stroked the serrations of her teeth, in an unconscious yet blatant gesture of pure lust, there could no longer be any doubt. Dear God!

The twelve-year-old propped herself upright. Her face was almost touching Afet's, a few more inches and Afet's nipples would make contact with her own hot, wet skin. Her chest swelled and fell in deep, measured breaths.

"I don't have to tell anyone," she began, "but I'm not sure I can trust you now."

Afet stared at the girl. She held her breath.

"Can I trust you?"

Swallowing hard, Afet had a sinking feeling, but her heartbeat still began to quicken. What did the girl mean — was there a chance of saving the situation? Prompt her!

"Yes. I've been stupid and I'm sorry. Please don't turn me in."

Özlem reached up and placed the tip of her finger under the woman's chin. She watched closely, tracking with her nail the passage of a trickle of sweat that chose that moment to slip down from her throat and into the glistening valley between those soft, firm breasts. She felt Afet go rigid under her touch. She felt the power. The surge of exhilaration at the hold she had over this wonderful beauty.

Her very own Amazon.

She looked into the woman's nervous, suspicious eyes and deep in the pit of her stomach, a delicious spasm welled and spread through her loins. She opened her palm and cupped one of the pert, hot, damp breasts, stroking the end of the nipple with her thumb and the warmth in her groin throbbed and ached.

"I don't have to tell my father," she murmured very quietly, her attention seemingly given over entirely to the effect her stroking was having, puckering the brown skin about the thick nipple and causing it to swell and harden. Afet's body was entirely stiff, so taut she was almost vibrating. The girl's fingers were so delicate, electrifying, and she dared not move — she had to listen hard to hear Özlem in the stifling silence of the echoing bath chamber.

Satisfied that she had brought the woman's nipple to full hardness, Özlem looked up, retaining a soft handful of hot, tremulous breast.

"But you would owe me a great debt and I do not know if I can trust you to honour it."

A chance! The girl was offering a way out. Afet tried to ignore the unwelcome yet obscenely thrilling sensation flooding out from her captive breast. She was ashamed at how good it felt. A world away from Hasad’s clumsy fumbling. She had to ignore it: what was the girl suggesting? Please. Just tell me!

The girl's face was closer — her eyes were open wide and unblinking yet Afet could not read their expression.

"In return for my silence, would I have your solemn promise to repay my kindness?"

The young girl was almost inaudible. Afet leaned closer still, straining to catch any nuance in her words. She replied without thinking, all her concerns and fears suddenly spilling out of her quivering lips.

"Yes, yes. I promise. I will do anything to make amends. Just please don't report me. I would die in prison. With my record, I would be sent down for years. You can trust me, Özlem. I will do anything..."

Suddenly she heard her own words, registered the implications. And all the time, there was the agonising presence of the girl's uninvited hand toying with her trembling breast. She understood what was at stake. No further need to spell it out. This was unbelievable. Blackmailed by a wretched schoolgirl. Who wanted... goodness knows what? God, what a mess!

"Three months. Promise to stay three months. Be my teacher. Be my first lover!"

And with that, Özlem bent her head towards the stunned Afet, and placed her lips over the woman's incredulous mouth, and brought her hand to the back of her head and as she pressed their mouths together, her stomach seemed to burn and sizzle and her legs and arms throbbed and she suddenly wanted their bodies to melt into one. Afet was frozen. She had no ready response or cunning plan. This was appalling! Disgusting! But it felt so indescribably good. The touch of the girl's lips was unlike anything she had ever felt. So light, so tender, and genuine. Totally unlike Hasad's selfish grunting and lustful advances.

Her mouth relaxed. And then responded.

Girl and woman embraced, their bodies finally sliding wetly together.

Afet tasted the girl's delicate sweat and felt the timid probing of her tongue and she pressed her lips harder against the child's mouth and slid her arms around her hot, slippery back and pulled her closer. She shut her eyes, better to appreciate the touch of such soft skin against her own breasts, the narrow hips about which she now closed her thighs. Feathery fingers were stroking her cheek, pushing her lank strands of hair from her face and exploring the whorls of her ears with a tentative tenderness she had never before enjoyed. Their first long, uneasy kiss had been a revelation. Now, looking into the schoolgirl's open face, the impish cunning entirely replaced by undisguised adulation, even rapture, she bent forward again, once again to taste that hesitant, inquisitive innocence.

"You can have the money," Özlem murmured when their lips parted.

Afet frowned. From one surprise to another. She held the girl gently, fascinated fingers playing lightly over the smooth, oily, damp skin at the nape of her neck.

"Go back out through the window. I'll tell my father we've been burgled. I'll keep the money safe and give it to you when it's time for you to go back home."

The longing in the young girl's eyes was so disarming. And her words were a God-send. Yes, she had the power to destroy the woman. But her voice had lost its harshness. She was just a little girl: naïve, pleading, desirable.

Özlem added softly, "Just promise me you'll stay a few weeks. Until my birthday."

Her young body was so slight and pliable in the woman's strong arms. Narrow, vulnerable shoulders. Moist, velvet skin at her neck. Every undulation of rib and spine clearly defined under the soft, damp, sparse flesh. So very small. And loving. And in need of love. Afet hugged the girl and touched her lips softly above her eyebrows, on the dewy incandescence of her forehead. Her senses were overloaded with the salty sweat taste of the youngster’s skin and the sickly sweetness of the soap suds streaking their bodies. Thigh to thigh, chest to chest. Where they touched, it burned. The unrelenting heat rising from the navel stone crushed her and prickled at her skin. In her nostrils: the unmistakeable musk of arousal.

"I promise."

The little farm at the head of the valley would still be there in three month's time.