After many years of trying as an amateur writer, I finally had found a publisher who was interested in publishing a mystery novel I had written. The "gimmick" of the novel was that the detective who solved the mystery was a woman named Sherri Holmes, who used the methods of the venerable Sherlock Holmes.
The publisher invited me to his New York office for lunch, and we ate at a small French restaurant on 52nd Street.
"I like this idea so much that I want you to start thinking about a series starring this detective," he said, "That's where the money is—in series. Think of A is for Apple—or whatever the first one in that series was called."
"Sounds like a good idea."
"I want to talk to you at length about it, don't have that much time now. What are you doing this weekend?"
"Nothing."
"Good. I like to get out of the city every weekend and go up to my cabin on Lake George. Why don't you drive up and spend the weekend with my daughter and me? She's a student at NYU but also likes to get away on the weekend."
"I'd love to."
"I'll give you directions. It's in a remote area of the lake, not easy to find."
"I used to be a Boy Scout."
"Good. Page, my daughter, doesn't have classes on Friday, so she usually goes up there Friday morning. If you want to go up on Friday, she'll be there. I'm sure she could entertain you until I get there Friday evening."
"Sounds wonderful."
Little did either one of us realize what that "entertainment" would consist of.
He was right about the remoteness of the cabin. Most of the cabins around the lake did not have numbers, many of them did not have mailboxes or names outside, and his map truly led me to a remote area.
But according to the map, this dirt roar and cabin looked right. As a "cabin," it had been misnamed, since it was large enough to be a small lodge. A gray Toyota sportscar was parked in the driveway, and I assumed it belonged to his daughter. But still unsure that I was the right place, I left the car door open, walked up to the front door, and knocked. Nothing. But someone must be home. I walked around to the back, and there was that big beautiful lake. A wooden walkway led from the backyard out to a dock that was about fifteen foot square. On the far side of the dock was a small round wooden table and two wooden chairs. But my eyes were drawn to the near side of the dock.
A naked girl was lying on her back. Beside her appeared to be a white robe. At first I thought she was having some kind of seizure, since she seemed to be trembling. But then when I saw where her hands were, I realized what was going on. She was masturbating.
I had never seen a girl masturbate before, so I watched in fascination for about a minute. Then I crept back to the car, slammed the door loudly and slowly returned to the backyard. When I got there, she was standing on the dock and fastening the tie on the white robe. She was about five foot seven with short and curly reddish-brown hair and what looked to be, even with the robe on, a beautiful figure.
"Hi! You must be Don Baxter," she said.
"Yes, and you must be—sorry, I forgot your name."
"Page—just like in a book—Palmer."
I walked up on the dock and shook her hand. In addition to having a beautiful engaging smile, she also had a lovely face full of freckles. Despite the freckles, she looked to be about 22. I looked around. "I didn't disturb anything, did I?"
"Ah...no. Actually, you did a little. This place is so remote that I like to sunbathe in the nude when I'm here so I can get an all-over tan. So that's what I was doing."
"Gee, I'm sorry I missed that."
She laughed. "Better luck next time."
I liked her friendly attitude.
"That's why I keep a robe handy. I fell asleep while I was sunbathing one day, and when I woke up, two 15-year-olds in a canoe were parked about three feet away and enjoying the view."
"Lucky them."
"Yes. Did you bring a bathing suit?"
"No, I didn't think about it."
"There's some extra ones hanging up in the changing room at the back of the house. One of them should fit you. Or you can go skinny-dipping if you want. That's what I usually do."
"Don't tell me I missed that too?"
She laughed again. "Not yet," she said, with a hint of promise. "But if you turn around, I would like to go back to my tan, suitably covered. We can still talk."
"Better still, why don't I get a bathing suit on?"
"Okay."
When I returned wearing a tan pair of trunks, I saw that she had taken off her robe, spread it on the deck, laid face down on it, and draped a white towel over her bottom.
"Daddy loves your book," she said.
"Yes, I'm really going to enjoy working with him."
"We have a library in the cabin in case you want to find something to read."
"Maybe later, but right now, I just want to look at this beautiful lake. And you. You're a very pretty young lady."
"Thank you."
She looked like she didn't have an ounce of fat on her. But she did have a lot of freckles. I thought how much fun it would be to count them all. "Are you an athlete?" I asked.
"Just tennis," she said. "But I play a lot of it."
I noticed a tube of suntan lotion on the table. "Would you like me to put oil on you?" I asked.
She turned her head. "Would you? I'm about due for it."
"Sure." I took the tube and straddled her nearly naked body. She had beautiful tanned skin. I poured some oil on her back and arms and rubbed it in. Then I got down to her lower back. "You said you like to tan all over. Do you want me to put oil anywhere else?"
She half turned again. "You wouldn't be offended by my naked butt?"
"On the contrary."
"Okay." And with no embarrassment at all, she pulled the towel off. I took a lot of time with her butt, which was only a little lighter than the rest of her. Then I did her thighs and finally, her calves and the soles of her feet. Boy, this was a job I could do all day.
"Thanks," she said, and I went back to my chair and continued to enjoy the "view."
About 20 minutes later, she reached over for the towel again. "Time to turn over," she said. "Close your eyes." I did. "Okay." I opened them. She had turned over, and now the towel was draped across her middle just below her belly button, and she was covering her breasts with her hands.
"Want me to oil you up?" I asked.
"Would you?"
I was starting to get the feeling now that she was asking for attention, and I was not going to disappoint her. I got the tube of suntan oil, straddled her body again, and gently applied the oil to the contours of her lovely face, as she closed her eyes. Then to her tanned shoulders.
"I can't very well put it on your bosoms with you covering them," I said.
Smiling, she lowered her hands to her sides. She had beautiful breasts, small but lovely, with copper-colored nipples.
"Sorry they're so small," she said.
"They're beautiful, just right for a person your size."
She laughed. "You're the first man who has ever said that."
"I guess some people prefer quantity over quality." Gently, I applied the oil to her breasts, caressing them at the same time.
"That feels nice," she murmured.
I spent a lot of time with them, then moved my hands down over her torso until I reached her belly button. "All over?" I muttered.
"I guess." And she gently pulled the towel away. Her little muff was the same color as her hair: reddish brown. It was only about two inches wide, apparently trimmed for a bikini, and the hair was about an inch long.
"You're unbelievably beautiful," I said.
She laughed. "I would accuse you of trying to get into my pants—except I'm not wearing any."
"I love the way you're dressed." I rubbed the oil onto her belly...and then lowered my fingers into her hair. "I've read that the skin under an animal's fur is very fair and delicate, so I think you should have oil there too."
"You're the expert."
I did a really good job of rubbing the oil into her bush, tenderly but with increasing attention, until finally I took the chance of slipping my middle finger inside of her. She gave a little gasp. But as I had expected, she was warm and wet inside. Slowly, I slid it in and out.
"I'll give you a half hour to stop that," she muttered.
I fingered her some more until she was nice and juicy, then I got down between her lovely thighs and stuck my tongue in her.
"Oh God!" she cried.
And she came—almost right away. She tasted like peaches.
"I can't believe we just did this," she said.
"Neither can I."
"You may be a good writer," she said, "But you're and even better seducer of young girls. You've only been here an hour."
"I type fast too," I said with a smile.
"I think I owe you one."
