Scent of a (child) woman

She leaned against him, her tiny frame cuddled in his youthful masculinity. He ran his rough fingers gently up and down her silken arms coaxing her to sleep. She keenly followed his every word as he spun yarns to keep her by his side. She broke into tiny bursts of laughter as his fingertips fondled the smooth inners of her warm armpits. She playfully pushed his strong hands away. They returned, this time resting on her naked thigh. He bided his time, stroking her slender girlish legs. She was in a tizzy. His stories amused her, but his roving hands titillated her no end. Even as she glided between sleep and wakefulness, little ants slowly inched their way up the soft insides of her thighs. She shuddered. His fingers gently stroked the cotton covering her soft mound. She pulled up her legs in protest. He quietly retreated and began anew another tale. She smiled. With every word, his hands firmly closed the distance between his desire and her innocence. She held back, not wanting the story to end. His fingers found home. Deftly, he slided his big hand under the thick band of her knickers. She sucked in. He slowly lowered his palm over her warmth. He touched, stroked, probed her. Not satisfied, he tried to finger his way in. She winced and shoved his hands aside with all the might her 7-year-old body could summon. She looked at him, her eyes filled with annoyance. He smiled at her and sniffed his fingers.