Finally she brought her routine to an end and skipped up to the porch, gracefully sitting herself on the coffee table next to me, crossing her legs �...lotus-like’ with her short yellow skirt struggling delightfully to protect her decency. She leant backwards, supporting herself with her outstretched arms, and the skirt inched higher; far too high! She was breathing heavily and the smooth rounds of her breasts were topped with hard nipples clearly defined against the thin fabric of her sports. They were only things, things devoid of magic.Her parents tried being reasonable. That was a mistake, but a well-intentioned one. Her mum gave her the usual line, " Santa is real because he's the spirit of Christmas ... The embodiment of giving and sharing and loving and caring." She had read that somewhere in the Readers' Digest at the dentists office just last month. But it cut no ice on a nine-year old's heart turned cold.Dad took an even more tactless tact with his, " Well, it was about. More

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