An interesting book that reverses a lot of the notions about the "nymphet":

have any of you read Innocents by Cathy Coote? it's an interesting book that depicts the relationship between a teenaged student and her teacher. it's very different from what you would expect tho! the girl is actually very deceptive and more powerful like a man rather than the typical abused nymphet. here are some excerpts:

I drew our two ages, your above mine, in thickly inked figures. Hiding in the margin of my maths book, among a thousand innocent numerals, they did not shout their incompatibility to the world. Still, the rounded 6 of 16, below the acute angles of the 4 in 34, gave me an illicit, sensuous thrill.

***

You slept restlessly. You were dreaming intensely. You wriggled, whispering urgent nonsense aloud. The next morning, I picked up my wrinkled, musty school uniform up from off the bathroom floor, and put it on again. You went to the bakery for croissants, and came back restless with worry. "I can't give you a lift to school!" you told me. " 'S all right," I said, wiping crumbs from round my mouth. "I'll walk." "You won't get tired? Oh, I'm so sorry!" Leaning over the table, you flicked with your thumb at a large crumb I had purposely left untouched for you to wipe away. "Messy girl!...I just...we can't be seen...can we?" "It's okay," I said. "Where's my bag?" "Under the couch. Where you left it." You retrieved it for me. Swinging one leg up onto the table, I unrolled a white sock slowly upwards over my foot. You watched me surreptitiously from behind the pile of breakfast things you were clearing away. Clearing your throat, you seemed about to speak. But, instead, you disappeared into the kitched, the honey-jar rattling against the plates as your hand shook. I put my other sock on briskly and without ceremony. Without your watching eyes, there was no need for delicacy. "Here," you said, returning with a paper bag in your hands. "I've made you lunch.?

***

Objects were supremely important to me. I wasn't just charmingly untidy, for example. I was charmingly untidy with a draftsman's precision. I left dirty socks and half-eaten apples at almost mathematically determined locations. The way I left my books on the desk could shout volumes about my character, my moods, my preoccupations. Closed and neatly piled for tight-lipped irritation. Open, sprawling, chaotic, for childishness and distractability. Built up into intricate towers for creativity, a complex mind at play.

***

At night, you read to me. I chose the books. It was easy to react to them - little eyes wide open, eager, distracted, absorbed. I'd lie curled with my head on your knee; or you'd sit up in bed and I'd lean against you, looking up. For variation, I could put the tip of my thumb against my front teeth as though I'd been about to suck my thumb but had become so enthralled by the story that I'd left it there. Or I could pretend to fall asleep in uncomfortable positions, like a cat. This took patience and endurance. My body would scream with cramps while you ever-so-cautiously discovered that I was asleep - calling my name and stroking my hair gently. But it was a useful investment. Invariably, the next day, you'd say, "You fell alseep with your legs all twisted together and one arm behind your back, last night." Then I could nonchalantly say, "Did I?" and you could nod and say approvingly, "You must be made of rubber!" I must be young and pliant, was what you meant. One point to me, despite teh kink in my neck.

***

I had thought there could be no pleasure more exquisite than that of seducing a shy man. But this debauching of a decent one was more compelling than anything I had ever experienced. The expressions I used to catch on your face! The naked desire was always chased quickly away by your luscious, sensuous shame. I grew taut with desire when I saw you close your eyes, trying to draw on some inner strength that wasn't there. I imagined what you'd be thinking: She's only a girl. Be careful. Be gentle. Restrain yourself. But of course, when I desired it desperately enough, I could always overcome that resolve. I delighted in the weakling that lust made of you.

I made you conquer me, darling I set bait you could not refuse. "I need you so terribly," I'd make you confess, night after intimate night. I cultivated in you an addiction for me, a physical dependency. With the movements of my body, which you still assumed were spontaneous, uncontrived, I hypnotised you. I led you a slow, terrible dance. I became more dangerously passive, day by day. I retreated further and further, enticing you after me, into my personal inferno. And like the good, trusting man you are, you came always stumbling after.