I had taken, some mornings, to laboring myself over a sink ringed with soap scum. Done up in a mint green á la mode, it was located in the secondary upstairs loo across from James's room. Contained within was a queer little port window framed by peeling white sealant. From it I had an excellent view of the neighbor's picket fenced yard, as well as a small patch of much trodden land that James had apparently claimed as his tiny kingdom. I was never a man to rush toiletries in the morning, hygiene being of especial importance to me, but nor could I recall taking quite so long to drag a safety razor down my stubbled cheek. From here I could watch the dear child amuse himself with sticks and mud, though his patience for any sort of play seemed short lived. He would hop from one mound of ground to the next, dragging the white toe of a shoe through sodden earth, perhaps to spite his mother's fastidious concentration on outward appearances. Throughout the two-week duration of my stay thus far, I had not once seen him interact with other children. Perhaps he thought himself above it, as he never seemed lonely in his solitude, and he occupied himself quite happily with all manners of solo cavorts. While slowly dabbing aftershave upon my freshly rinsed face, I watched in fascination as the creature hooked his knees over a low-hanging branch of a slightly diseased looking poplar tree. Hanging upside down, he wavered in midair, wisps of inky hair fluttering in the soft summer breeze. My hand stilled upon my face and oh, oh, how my innards boiled, how my throat constricted with monstrous lust, how my groin ached with penitent neglect. I patted my now fragrant hands dry upon a towel without bothering to wash them, stealing another hastened glance out the round glass. Be still my purulent heart, the boy's shirt had come untucked to expose a beautiful length of cream skin. The hem fell to his chin, and to my utter shock he at once bit upon a stray corner, inadvertently (I thought) pulling it all the further. His hips had all the awkward angularity of a growth spurted child, but softer somehow, sloping gently towards a petite middle. James's bellybutton seemed a mere shadow upon his belly, and upwards from that were two rosy nipples. I would have gawked for an eternity were there not a sudden rapping at the door, and in surprise I dropped my towel.
"Mr. Moran?" came the balmy voice of Veronica. "Breakfast is on, when you're ready." I gave my thanks and assured her I would be down momentarily, simultaneously seizing the dropped towel from where it had landed upon my feet. I could tell she hesitated from behind the door, though I knew not why, and breathed my relief as she left me in peace. When I looked out the window once more James had disappeared.

Breakfast was a tense affair in the Moriarty household. I gave my best impression of a man both oblivious and preoccupied, lifting slices of rendered pork to my mouth in comfortable silence. Veronica occasionally filled the silence with the greasy corpulence of her blathering voice, punctuating her fraudulent anecdotes with dainty sucklings upon sectioned citrus fruits. James leaned his cheek upon one hand, elbow propped up improperly upon the table (which Veronica corrected once with a slap, but he shortly restored his position) and his free hand tracing letters in a puddle of maple syrup. I diligently kept my focus on Veronica's flapping lips, but dragged my eyes over James whenever I could manage to do so without rousing suspicion. The first two times he was doing nothing of interest, though I could have watched him for hours, dripping amber syrup from his dainty fingertips. As I raised my eyes to him a third time, however, his black eyes were vehemently upon me. I could not find the strength to look away, but quickly filled my mouth with a clump of scrambled eggs to prevent from sputtering. The boy dragged his index finger through the syrup before lifting it to his mouth, a blushed tongue poking out to press against the base of his digit before it was enclosed entirely by wee, supple lips. I must have startled terribly, for I tasted the metallic tang of a bitten tongue. The eggs had long gone gummy in my mouth but I continued to chew resolutely. Veronica continued to prattle on, reaching out for a ceramic pepper shaker that she then used to eclipse her hash browns in a nauseating heap of the spice. The child's face remained devoid of emotion as he pushed his finger deeper into his mouth, the last knuckle disappearing into what surely must have been a cramped space. I knew I would not last long without becoming crippled with my carnal longings; with much reluctance I excused myself from the dining table.

July was slipping into August and with it bringing new heat, so much so that snappy dressing was impractical as it was lethal. I desired much to roll my trouser legs up to my knees, but thought it indecent, daring instead to peel off my shirt in favor for a paltry A-shirt. I lounged feverishly upon a badly cushioned pinewood chair designed to prop up the legs most comfortably, fanning myself with a folded bit of newspaper. Veronica had provided me with lemonade so saccharine it hardly quenched my thirst, though I found its cooling effect most meritorious. James and his obtuse mama waltzed out to join me on the piazza, both in matching states of undress. Veronica had pinched her rounded, feminine hips into a high waisted bikini bottom, heavy breasts thrust upward by a black haltered bikini top to beget ridiculous cleavage. She looked uncomfortable in the constrictive get up, but nonetheless proud, peacocking herself before me with honeyed thighs. I knew I was meant to look impressed at her fashionable ensemble, but I was rather distracted by her child's simpler fancy. He wore only tight-fitting blue cotton briefs that did not extend much past the small, enticing bulge between his legs. Long, fine-boned thighs met ruddy, scuffed knees, which gave way to calves that I could have encircled easily with one hand.

He lay upon the grass as Veronica lingered beside me to talk of a neoteric work on the bastings of hams, or some other such feminine nonsense, and I nodded periodically to suggest that her dull gab had my full attention. James held his book before him, the same one that I had encountered him reading the first time I saw him—in fact, he looked unmistakably similar, his dear sweet ankles twitching under the stippled light from a nearby maple tree. The taught skin across his spine, so serpentine in its sinuous curve, was mottled with a kaleidoscopic array of colors from Veronica's heat-wilted dahlias. I watched, and watched, the ache in my groin threatening to make itself known. Bashfully, but with as much innocent contingency as I could muster, I covered my lap with the newspaper and folded my hands upon it. Veronica settled herself upon the ground with a bottle of sun-tan lotion, oiling her legs lasciviously as she remarked on politics; keeping her opinion guarded, of course, as one does in conversation. I found her dreadfully pathetic. Rocking my hips gently forward, I gave the child my intermittent study, allowing the stolen ecstasy to pool in my loins. I was firm in my trousers, now, and leaking persistently. In an unwise moment of eager impulse, I pressed my palm hard upon the erection shielded by the flimsy paper and rolled my hips into the touch. To my luck Veronica was deeply focused on slathering her toes with oil to bake in the sun, and James was apparently absorbed in his reading. Barely able to contain desperate whimpers, I watched the boy slide his smooth legs together, occasionally stretching a pale arm out to fiddle with a blade of grass. Still trembling with desire as my wayward hand continuing its perilous ministrations, James looked up quite suddenly, a hideous smirk twisting an unrepentant mouth. Those aphotic eyes narrowed loosely as though caught in the throes of lust, lips falling open to cry out silently, his body jerking forward in an impish charade of orgasm. Such a wicked pantomime burned within me, and I knew at once that this nymph was of the most terrifying breed—but it was too late. I lifted my hand away from the solidness below in an attempt to stave the impending climax, but he only continued to mock me, slender shoulders rolling back in feigned abandon. My body was paralyzed with pleasure, hot and sudden, spurting my pleasure beneath the shield of grey newsprint. Veronica turned to me with a bimbo's plastic smile, and for once I relished her asininity; she had not a clue that I had just ejaculated beside her. I was deliciously warm, more from my satisfaction than the blistering summer heat, but I could not enjoy my rapture for long.

The little nymph was not simply demonic, he was a succubus. And he had selected me.