The story is set in the south of France. Part I has already been published on this site as "Vineyard Adventures".
My father and I were turning bottles of wine in their racks in the vineyard's cellar. He said to me, "I'm glad Martine is becoming more at ease around you, Pierre."
I glanced at him, wondering if there was any hidden meaning in his statement, but there did not seem to be. I felt guiltier than ever - my father and mother had been treating Martine like an adopted daughter and, unbeknown to them, I had been letting her come to my bed.
"She's still rather shy in many ways," I said.
"That's understandable after all she went through before she came to us."
I, on the other hand, had been thinking about her apparent lack of expertise in giving a hand-job, and asked, "Does she ... has she had a boyfriend since she came to live here?"
"Not that we know of, Pierre. She is shy around males in general, not just you."
'But bold enough to touch me intimately', I thought, and then enquired, "Do you think she could have a normal relationship with a man one day?"
"Time heals," my father said. Then, unexpectedly, "Why do you ask?"
I tried not to blush. "I just think it would be such a tragedy if what happened to her spoilt her whole life."
"You're growing fond of her, then, Pierre?"
"I simply wish her well for her future," I evaded.
Un-fooled, my father said, "Treat her properly, won't you." It was not just a statement of expectation of my behaviour but the giving of his blessing to whatever might be going on between Martine and myself.
"I will," I said, and felt weighed down by responsibility.
What with Martine having abandoned my bed before I woke that morning, I was half expecting she would not come to my room again. Around midnight, however, while I was lying awake and wanting to hold her naked in my arms again, she tiptoed in.
When conscience made me turn on the bedside lamp rather than let her sneak into the bed, as on previous nights, she looked like a startled fawn in sudden brightness,her dark eyes showing her alarm at my unexpected action.
"Come and sit beside me," I said, as if encouraging a dear friend and speaking softly in our native tongue. She did as invited, staring at me shyly, uncertain of what it was I wanted. The hem of her cotton nightie came to rest half way up her bare thighs as she sat and, when I noticed, I had to tear my eyes away.
"I want to talk to you," I said, sounding paternal but not feeling it, remembering the closeness we had already shared, though it had not gone as far as intercourse.
Fearful about what I might want, she asked, "Have you stopped loving me? Is that what you want to say?"
"Never!" I declared. "I love you like..." I could not find the words to describe it. A lot of how I felt about her was protective; she seemed so innocent, and yet not. I managed to add, so as not to disappoint her, "...I love you like my heart is bursting."
She gave me a shy, happy smile. "Then do we really need to talk?" Her hands moved to the hem of what I just knew would turn out to be her only garment, and started to lift it.
"Wait," I said, and she stopped.
"What's wrong?"
"Even though you're eighteen you're so much younger than I am."
"I don't mind that you're older."
I said firmly, "I don't want to take advantage of you, Martine."
"You aren't, Pierre." She gazed into my eyes.
I blurted then, because it had been playing on my mind all day, "How did you know about bringing a guy off?"
Her expression turned haunted, and vulnerable. I had seen it so often that way since I came home from New Caledonia.
She whispered, "Why do you ask?"
"You seem so innocent, and yet you knew what to do."
Though I meant it as a compliment, her eyes filled with tears. I thought she was going to confess about having been molested by her uncle. Instead, she asked, "Would you love me any less if I wasn't really innocent?"
"Then you've had a boyfriend? Or did you learn about hand-jobs from other girls?" It seemed the only explanation. "I won't love you any less if you tell me."
I knew my guesses were wrong because tears trickled down her cheeks. She begged, "Don't make me tell, Pierre."
I felt guilty, but her reluctance made me want to know even more. I said unjustly, "If you love me, you'd tell me."
Obediently, as if she could not now refuse, she let her story start to tumble out, "I learnt ... it happened at the village school after I came to live with your parents..."
Suddenly, half of me no longer wanted to hear her admission.
"...I had a detention and was at the school late. There were no other teachers about when I went into the corridor afterwards. Some boys grabbed me and pushed me into their locker room..."
I felt appalled.
Martine's eyes stayed downcast, and her words kept coming, "They formed a circle around me and undid their flies. They made me look at their ... at their things while they stroked them until they became stiff..." Her voice caught in anguish, "I didn't think the boys at my school would do something like that... One stayed by the door to stop anyone else coming in and I was told to watch another boy jerk off in front of me..." Her voice quavered. "I didn't know what that meant then. He played with himself until fluid spat out of the end of his ... erection. It splattered on the tiled floor near my feet...
"Then I was told I had to do the same thing to each of the boys in turn – bring them off that is." Remembered indignation and outrage showed on her face. "There were six of them – all a year older than I was."
"Did you do it?"
"I had no choice." Her sad eyes lifted to mine for a moment then fell again. "The boys said ... they said they'd strip off my clothes if I didn't, and do things to me..."
"So you brought all six off that way," I concluded, trying to short-cut her account and lessen her ordeal from telling it.
"I did two boys – letting them come on the tiles like the other one..." Her voice dropped to an even more reluctant and softer whisper, "Then I was told to kneel down and open my mouth. A boy put the head of his ... the head of his cock..." She broke down.
