Chapter 1

A girl and a twice older man run off into the night. She with his seed inside her. The girl's mother loved the man twenty years ago.

He smiles, and his charm is captivating. Embracing wickedness feels good. It's good to be bad.

If you dig a little deeper, you can see why the fugitive is happy. After all, the biological background is great: it's in the interest of evolution to cum in a young beautiful girl, which releases dopamine, serotonin, endorphin and oxytocin — the hormones of happiness.

Moreover, the younger/healthier and/or more sexually developed the girl/woman is, the more of these hormones are released. Instincts always trump morality at the right time. Scumbag.

The girl who ran off with the man her mum loved twenty years ago sighed and kissed me, the scumbag, on the neck.

The night took our fast Porsche into its arms, along with rock and roll from the speakers and half a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Five minutes ago, she was lying cheek to cheek on my chest, smiling into the dusk of the bedroom with bitten lips that had soaked up kisses and cum.

The skin on my fingers still glistened with the soft curls of her hair, I dove into the silky locks with my fingertips, and the scent of jasmine, after shampooing under a summer shower, tickled my nostrils.

We lay like junkies under something, the woman's long and tanned legs relaxed; entwined with mine.

Now those girlish model legs flashed ahead, flying barefoot on gravel and coastal sand.

It seems the whole resort town has come to our soul: sirens wailing, so much noise.

If while running away from law enforcers and guardians of morality you have to run into an obstacle, lift your companion by the butt, push her over the hedge, and the jeans zipped up in a hurry will slide down to the buttocks.

Exactly, still in bed, a couple of hours ago, in the pre-evening tenderness woke up the little girl with a savoury bite on her ass, firm and cool.

Now to swing over, pebbles crashing into our heels and idiots running after us.

In general, while the screaming hysterical burglar in the company of the blue ones with badges rattled the windows of the cottage, I managed to jump out through the emergency exit to the courtyard, past the pool, and decent slip away in the direction of the hotel.

There my driver was already sitting in the Porsche, swearing into the echoing handset, on speakerphone:

“Paul, where are you? Let's hurry up, darling, I haven't run away from the cops and fucking mum with you yet, you guys!”

Holding hands, we run away; she's disheveled, smiling and round-eyed. The laughter comes off her lips, and as she walks away i kiss a bottle's neck, filling myself up with fuel.

“Mum's going to kill me, God, Mum's going to kill us! The police are here; can you believe it?!”

“Yes! We're going to heaven, and we're going to be in heaven together! Forever! Or hell! Running there away from the devils and Mum.”

“I'm scared! I'm so sick of her! I want to go to heaven with you!”

“A-ha-ha”, another sip, “wait, take a drink, we're getting close.”

“This is fucked up," the little sinner replies, taking a swig from the neck that clattered against her chattering teeth.

Whiskey glistens on her lips and neck.

We run up to the Porsche, near the door itself I drive my heels on the gravel and flop on my ass, holding the drink higher, protecting the whisky glass like a baby:

“Fuck. Get in, quick, crazy baby!” I shout to the girl.

We're inside, the doors slam, the engine roars, and the driver broadcasts:

"Mr. Paul, you're making me so nervous, my bald head and potbelly can't take it, here you are," he smiles, and we drive out of the coastal area towards the motorway.

Oh, what a picture behind us, about a hundred meters away. Mum in the middle of the road, in the light of the police flashers, pictorially falling to her knees, stretching her arms bent at the elbows to the sky. She's always crazy. But even now she's graceful. A shadow of her former greatness. I felt sorry for her for a second.

“Shut up, child,” I tell her, “Mummy likes to be tickled, you know that. Everything will be okay, we'll travel and come back.”

The fugitive sips her whiskey, wrinkles her nose and leans back with her eyes closed on the back of the seat, leaning her head on my shoulder. My fingers stroke her cheek and neck, peeking through the unruly tresses of hair. The velvet of her lips tickles her skin with ripples of kisses. A soft, hot and magical girl.

The driver turns up the music, driving into the night.

“This is your favorite album, Mr. Paul, Scorpions 2004. I like to listen to Lonesome Crow, 1974, but now I started to a pretty 2004.”

The driver's ready to talk about Scorpions band forever.

Heels burning, chest heaving, sweating, we even out our breathing.

Why does a crazy mum called Tizzy do this? Taking care of her own blood? I don't think so. The daughter's not poorly experienced in sex, so I won't be the first and I'm unlikely to dramatically affect fate, just a colorful adventure.

Sounds like a desperate attempt to stop the stronger genes from reproducing, if they don't have a grandmother, they won't have anyone, as one fictional politician used to say.

Granny, when will you realize that the policing, shouting, spectacular hysteria and aggression on your part is perceived by the male subconscious as you being old and sick. For only old and sick women sometimes behave as you do. Because of such activity no one will want you, on the contrary, will want to run away, as from the stench from an open can of stale cutlets.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars a night in that cottage, cool, for a ridiculous price, and here Mummy brought the cops, banging, hysterical, we ran out through the loggia. It was a nice cottage.”

“The cops, a-ha-ha, in the only car in the village, they wouldn't catch us, they'd suck us off. Did she really call the police, her mum? What did you do? The girl's all grown up, she came with you, didn't she, little one? You and Mr. Paul came here on your own from the concert, didn't you? You came here of your own free will and without compulsion, I can confirm that," the cabbie pulls the car to the kerb and yells at the motorcyclist, eyes goggling out the side window, “WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING, DICKHEAD!”

A trickle of sweat drips down the driver's bald head.

“Oh, bitch, almost caught the mirror. Mr. Paul, what are we doing? Are we going to Gabe's?”, he spun the steering wheel and lit a cigarette out the window, twirling it back and forth with his thumb and forefinger.

The ash flew in jerky, fiery streaks across the interior of the car.

“Yeah, take us to Gabe's, hang out in his den, and then we'll leave tomorrow at lunchtime. We got a gig tomorrow.”

The girl with my seed inside her, who'd run off with the man her mum had loved twenty years ago, sighed and quietly nuzzled her lips into my neck. So meek and gentle.

The night took our fast Porsche into its arms, along with rock and roll from the speakers and half a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Her fingers reached for mine, her plump lips seeking a kiss. Sure, baby, your lips are beautiful, give them to me.

The runaway girl's name is Arina, she's cute and fidgety like a monkey.

A model's figure, and that cute, ridiculous hustle, echoes of being a teenager. Future model, I told Arina for the third time, graceful and moves with the dignity of a Frenchwoman. Be as slow as a cat.

The driver's name is Great, he's in his sixties, he was a gangster in his youth, a Scorpions fan, huge and bald like Rob Hallford.

We laugh together every time we have a cup of coffee, loud, humorous, so charismatic. We've known each other for fifteen years, we did business together, he's retired now and works for me as a driver and assistant.

New experiments with flesh and souls, shades and flavors of pleasure.

A continuation of a once favorite girl — in her daughter, like a reissue in new sound of classic music albums, and even with bonus tracks. Beautiful.

We drove through the night, and everything was wonderful.