Date: Tue, 12 Aug 2003 01:10:19 -0600
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: POSTER BOYS - FILE II (CONC.)

       Wilma, cute thing, slipped back into the world of lullabies as if it
were the most natural ending possible.
       "Would you like to take a shower with me?" Will asked
       "Yes," Jens nodded, following the rangy athlete who was getting hard
just looking at the willowy boy and imagining being pressed against his wet
back and running soapy hands over the slim, smooth body of the now also
hard eleven year old.

       They held hands moving down the hall, enjoying the sensuous reality
of walking naked and hugely aroused together.  Past the bathroom, and a
full cook's tour, it being, after all, his new home, including the laundry
room in the cellar.  This was a comfortable, secluded, and informal place.
Will McFee {and introduced as Nat, sorry] launched his nephew onto the
drier and he hiked up on the adjoining washing machine.  "This is my mom's
house," he said, "I grew up here.  I don't know if you and Wilma talked
about things while you were alone together, but I assume you may have
because she loves telling me about her dates with Phil, Brandon, and Zye."

       "We talked quite a bit," the boy admitted, "and I really liked it,
especially about what happened after Aunt Marge left, but I didn't have
much to contribute."
       "That'll change as you grow up," the man assured the boy, "you're
extremely attractive, and have that excellent of quality of taking it hot
but not taking it too seriously, so all eyes will be on you, and you might
be embarrassed to know how little overstatement there is in that
observation, and, though it will vary from time to time, you have to sort
of decide if that part of your life is secret and private, or if you're
willing to share details of what may have happened in the past."
       "I think that way," the boy responded, "asking questions and
listening and answering questions and telling."
       "Well, it's kind of a novelty within a novelty," the young adult
noted, "but just be aware some people think it's creepy, even though
everything else is fine with them.  If you want, you could practice by
asking me some questions."
       "Okay," the boy whispered, and thought a moment.
       "Did something happen with you here in the laundry room?"
       "You're the right mate for your little cousin, and that's a fact,"
Will smiled.
       "Was it with a man?" the boy whispered, smiling shyly.
       "He was nineteen," the uncle said, "another branch of the family,
the Abbots, from Chesterfield.  I was your age.  I suppose it's not a total
coincidence he has Katharine, his nine year old sister with him, I mean in
the sense it gave me the idea of you being the first for Wilma."
       "I'm glad I asked," the boy quipped bashfully, his penis probing
high between his tender, preteen thighs.  Will reached slowly across with
his right hand and fingered the slim, six-inch shaft.  "Wilma must have
loved doing this so much," he whispered as he eased the already panting
boy's foreskin carefully as far as it would go.  "You're beautiful.  All
eyes."  The boy leaned against his powerful older lover and spread his
legs.
       "Did you get molested, you and Katharine, or was it rape?" he asked.
       "Only at the end, just like you and Wilma," the man replied, "but it
started the same way, too; with getting to know each other, which we did a
little anyhow, because of the family connection, and then being sure
Katharine was old enough to, you know, understand that there was more to
flirting than tickling, giggling, pinching, nipping, caressing, kissing,
and the all hands all over treatment than just a game for a rainy
afternoon.  Then Raym asked me a lot of questions starting with the one
about girlfriends and sleepovers which are easy to get out of if the older
male's voice gives you the creeps.  Katharine thought he was a Neanderthal
baboon, but it was easy to tell she loved the fact he was being as careful
as he could be and she could trust him like totally."

       "Had anything at all happened with you?" the boy asked.
       "There was algebra and there were the pleasures of the flesh and I
guess the fact I have two hundred employees at age twenty-two shows, except
for Raym, Katharine and Marge, which path I chose."
       "It's nice to know you don't have to place every dot inside the
lines," Jens said.
       "The challenge of not doing so," Will said, "sharpens you to other
challenges in life.  I know it probably sounds kind of sophomoric, but I
feel that unless you are full, you can't have edges, and how do you define
those edges, in business or anywhere else, unless you carefully test them,
not for the sake of testing, but to discover.  A few dots outside the lines
once in awhile add depth and character to the painting without turning it
into an abstract, murky mumbo-jumbo."
       "Like Kafka," Jens responded.
       "Bull's-eye," Will laughed, thought why on earth anyone would laugh
at the likes of Franz Kafka will always be a mystery to this humble
practitioner of the literary art.

       "Did Katharine want to get pregnant?" was the boy's next question.
It drew a low whistle from Will.  "What I said about edges," he replied,
"well, you're the proof.  You're a totally full human being, and you have
enough edges to go after the Gordian knot."
       "I just kept seeing it in Wilma's eyes," Jens said, "something mild
will this way come, and if she could pull it off tomorrow we'd be out
buying diapers."
       "Katharine was avid," the young father recalled, "she'd sashay by us
with a doll, asking us to guess where it came from and bemoaning the fact
it didn't have a little brother or sister to play with.  Half of it was
just cute, prancing around stuff, but when we got down here I guess the
washer and drier, with their domestic implications, sort of booted the
silly schoolgirl back upstairs, and her eyes got huge, and she didn't want
to hear any answers including the word No."

       "Sometimes freedom from choice is best," Jens deadpanned.
       "As long as my daughter is always your first choice, I agree."
       "That's what I meant."
       "That figures."
       "I guess having so many edges," the boy mused, "means you either
sharpen them on friends, or end up in prison."
       "Yes," Will agreed with his young partner, "but some handy advice is
to always remember how little difference there is between an altar and a
scaffold."
       "M'mm," the boy nodded, and they brought the conversation back to
eleven years before.

       "The machines were new then," Will explained, "so they were a great
attraction to us boys as well as Katharine.  That gave us enough to talk
about to let the girl work her tricks.  She left for awhile to scour the
house for so much as a dirty sock to run through the machines, and came
back empty handed, which was actually my fault, but I didn't want to appear
effeminate, so I didn't admit to washing anything.  That left one option.
I guess it's pretty obvious what that was."

       "One we don't have," the naked boy replied to his naked uncle.
       "Ah, accepting your own answers, are you?' his uncle quipped,
deliberately confusing the boy because it made him color, and was just what
they were talking about, an alternative.
       "So, was it as scary as meeting Wilma on the porch?" the boy said.
       "Katharine has us in fits," Will affirmed, "and what was really
scary was that nobody was home, We had hours alone together.  If it had
been different Raym and I could have taken on the roles of kindly older
curmudgeons and fended her off without upsetting her.  But for a whole day?
We looked at each other and sort of shrugged that we knew it would be
impossible without saying anything to each other.  That's when he sort of
changed as he asked me the girlfriend stuff.  That meant he agreed with his
sister, so he didn't even have to have a creepy voice to get both Katharine
and I totally excited.  She'd brought one of her dolls downstairs with her,
and hopped off the drier and put it down for a nap in the corner, then came
back, totally victorious.  Her time had come to be a woman, and no
infantile zombie, however related or beloved was going to interfere."

       "So much for dirty socks," Jens noted.

       "She was incredible," his future father-in-law agreed, "it took us
half an hour to get the laundry in the washer.  She became Queen of the
Suds, supervising all aspects of her domain, making most of them up as she
went along.  She pointed out it was her last time on earth to kid around as
a virgin, and she wanted to have at least one nice memory of that stage of
her life.  Said, wryly, by the way, because she had plenty to be happy
about without having anything to do with mature stuff.  On the other hand,
she was completely ready.  You know, you had to have been there."

       "...and done that," Jens said, his uncle laughing at himself for
forgetting the boy pretty well knew where he, the uncle, was coming from.

       For novelty, the children and their nineteen year old brother and
cousin let the washer fill, holding the safety switch as the tank gurgled
full of cold water.  Then the nine year old dumped in a small handful of
detergent and went in search of that, in her words, which wouldn't allow
the water and soap to go to waste.  In the name of the environment, she
domineered over the males, inspecting each garment before she removed it
and, should one be obviously spotless, rubbing a pinch of dust gathered
from under the old laundry room sink to condemn a garment to her bubble
pot.  Careless in her childish enthusiasm, the nine year old managed to
soil her own frock, almost imperceptibly, but first.  A teacher at heart
and here to teach, she had the boys huddled behind her practice with her
catch and zipper before finally giving permission to remove the dress so
they could inspect her bra and panties while she in turn inspected them,
using her fingers rapidly on even suspect clothing.  Her assumption that
outer clothing was always subject to laundering stopped at the underwear of
her male companions.  Because of the sensitive and possibly even
embarrassing nature of the intimate apparel, she deemed it necessary to be
absolutely sure none was removed gratuitously.  Neither boy had ever been
touched by a pretty schoolgirl in her silk under things, and her chest
bulged tantalizingly high and pert against her training bra, so all the
girl had to exercise was a modicum of patience, and, yes, the underpants of
both the nineteen year old and their eleven year old cousin were destined
for a tumble in the machine.

       At this point her spiel and prattle ended.  "Mine first," she
whispered to Raym, moving in front of him so he could fumble with the catch
on her bra.  No more games.  She held both Will's hands as her tall brother
bared her chest and dropped the bra into the washer.  Shy, she stood
hunched over, but the young adult behind her reached gently under her chin,
pulling up, then eased her shoulders back against his heaving chest, as
Will stared at what was happening, wondering, budding intellectual that he
was, why on earth anyone would want to waste such incredible beauty, much
less forbid it.

       Responding to the heavy breathing over her right shoulder, the girl
continued raising her hands, openly displaying for her eleven year old
cousin by lacing her finger's behind her brother's neck and arching her
back.  The welcome was as beautiful as she was and Will gently took his
cousin, his fingers tracing her chest and then over her distinct emerging
mounds and big, hard nipples.  Raym hissed ad the sight, he molested his
sister all over her heaving belly and chest, then let his cousin draw him
to his sister's budding tits.  The game was now so over that all three
pulled spontaneously apart and shucked their last garments, turning off the
washer which would wait mindlessly for a proper load.

       Naked, they stood apart, inspecting one another up and down.  Raym
was hugely built, thick and circumcised, nearly eight inches from his lower
belly, with a sexy curve to his left.  Will was a full two thirds the size
of the wholly mature teen, his beautiful six inch shaft looking perfectly
suited to the nine year old female. "Hi" they all said nervously, the
female trying not to giggle at the old advice about being careful of what
you wished for because you might get it.

       "Katharine," the teen whispered, "have any boys touched you yet?"
       "Mr. Hanks, my art teacher, wants to," the girl whispered.
       "He coaches little league," Raym said to Will, adding: "You're lucky
sis."
       "I know," the girl replied.  "I'm not using you boys or anything,
and I'd be here with you if Rob wasn't an issue, but the truth is I want to
be hot and absolutely perfect for him.  Think of the challenge.  Keeping a
man nine years until you're old enough to lead him by the nose, or, well,
just lead him through a wedding band."  Her companions nodded soberly.
Again Rob Hanks wasn't an issue; they were simply there as family.
       "Whose baby do you want?" Will asked.
       "Fraternal triplets," the girl giggled, "or we could be realistic
and reproduce in sequence.  I just want girls.  I want a hot, wild house
with a husband I can depend to be home whenever he can be."
       "An artist is a great choice," Raym said, "he can work at home, so,
you know, he doesn't pester the kids too much, and I'll bring you on at
Cyclone Labs as a consultant, so money won't be an issue."
       "That seems like a lot," the girl said, "on top of all the
babysitting we'll need."
       "Will can help out," the teen said, and the eleven year nodded
immediately.

       "Would you let Rob rape your daughters on the rug while you were
watching television?" Will asked.
       "If they were cuddling together I wouldn't ask any questions," the
girl replied thoughtfully, "but he and I feel the same.  An adult with a
child is fundamentally nature's most beautiful creation, give or take a
scenic view.  I think I'd want to watch them by candlelight on red silk,
not the fluorescent glare of the tube, is if we'd have one in our house, in
the first place."
       "If you have more than two daughters it would be a total waste of
money," young Will observed, adding: "We have candles upstairs."  He'd
never walked naked through his house and enjoyed the experience, especially
the stairs.  In addition to a pair of candle holders he retrieved half a
window treatment.  It wasn't red silk, more like purple velvet, but his
common sense told him his pretty little cousin with her high, pointed
breasts would look good on it, stretched and arched like a Playboy bunny
awaiting Daddy Warbucks.  He wondered if Raym had begun touching his naked
kid sister, really handling her the way she wanted, getting her ready to be
taken and left.  But no, they were still staring up and down at each other
as he returned and helped him with the candles and spreading the velvet
curtain over the back of a derelict armchair.

       "How do you think he'll pose you?" Raym said after thanking their
host, "on your back or on your tummy?"  Queen of Suds yielded to Satyr
artists posing nubile model.  Setting her this way or that, standing back
to look for a minute or two, then carefully rearranging a slim what leg or
elegant arm.  There was not much they could do when it came to adjusting
her pretty young breasts, but that doesn't mean they didn't try, willingly
sharing the task as they huddled, male bodies pressed together over the
beautiful schoolgirl.

       "Raym," the girl whispered at one point, "I'd like to – you know,
in the name of art – see what you and Will look like together, if that's
okay with both of you."  They didn't even bother to nod.  The nineteen year
old moved behind the naked preteen, circled the child's heaving chest with
his strong left arm, then, as the boy spread his legs wide in welcome,
found him and began masturbating, standing three or four feet from the
velvet-covered chair so his little sister could take in the entire image of
a man beginning to molest a boy.
       "If there's anything more beautiful than that," the girl announced,
"I sure hope I live to see it."
       "There are always mirrors," the panting Will said as he raised his
hands in back of him, linking his finger's behind the powerful athlete's
neck and arching to the wide-eyed girl.  She raised to her knees and
reached for her cousin, carefully noting the manner in which a young boy
was masturbated.  Raym eased Will forward slightly, guiding her hand for a
few strokes, then began molesting the panting, arching eleven year old as
the girl pumped his big penis fast and hard.  This went on until the
younger boy was half a quaking wreck, then Raym eased him from his female
cousin off of the fact they had hours together.  The children guided their
older relative into the old armchair and wriggled onto his lap, his penis
with it's intriguing bend jutting high between their tender, sweating
bodies.  For a long time they snuggled and cuddled in comfortable silence.

       "I'd love it if Rob could paint the two of you being together as
males," Katharine said.  "How can anyone think society shouldn't have the
flexibility to include something so beautiful as a young man teaching a
child?"
       "But what if there were billboard on every block for cologne, `Billy
learns best when I wear "Billy"? Billy being the brand name, you know, just
like they used to have thousands of them, billboards, featuring models
blowing out delicate puffs of tobacco smoke.  Don't you think there might
be overexposure?"
       "I don't know," the nine year old replied, "I mean I wouldn't want
to be watching Arnold and that kid in "The Last Action Hero", and suddenly
they disappear – significant music playing – into a men's room."
       "But how about if a whole film was devoted to a man teaching a boy?"
Will asked.  "If you knew, ahead of time, what was going to happen, and,
you know, the man was an artist like Rob and posed the boy in different
light and positions while he got him naked, then, at the end, did with him
what Raym just did with me.  I think a scenario like that would carry
almost any kind of story whether you tried to make up something funny or
just played it straight and leaned on beautiful sets, cast, and
photography."
       "Well," Raym said, "they crank out three hundred features a year,
and when March rolls around they can't even find anything good, so it's
hard to see how a well-made an unapologetic man/boy film could be worse
than what's out there."
       "Also," the girl responded, "there should be a sister or daughter of
one of the male leads.  Show those poor kids out there who are all hung up
on having been raped, a, that some young girls love it, and, b, that in
most cases it's not as big a deal as banging your thumb with a hammer.
It's just physical, unless you bring a lot of your own bewilderment to the
scene of the crime and let it grow inside you like some kind of baby from
hell."
       "I've got an idea," Will chipped in.
       "What." sister and brother said in unison.
       "Well, they say you can't heard cats in Shoah business, but how
about if you used baby food?"
       Both digested for a second.  The precocious girl was first with her
answer.  "H'mm," she mused, a little theatrically, "you could serve chopped
liver to make dem cats cum."
       "I know one sensationally lucky art teacher," Raym responded, giving
the kid a squeeze.
       "Imagine her," Will added, "not even twenty, cute as she is now,
with a daughter cute as she is now."  That was a tableau to keep them
happily cuddling for ten minutes, both males remaining the hardest they'd
ever been in their lives thanks to the child's wriggling and whispers of
endearment.

       "Have you had a frank talk with Rob?" Raym asked, "because there are
physical things, you know, with a male that can happen kind of suddenly and
unexpectedly.  Has he told you anything about that?  Warned you that it can
actually be messy for a schoolgirl to be alone with an adult?"
       "He thought it was best I have that talk with you," the pixie
replied, "because he taught Renee, his little sister, and he says a dad or
an older brother are the best, plus he was also frank about saying he only
wanted to cum inside me when we become lovers, because nothing else is
nearly as good."
       "I'd substitute `nearly' for `quite'," the teen observed, "but I
definitely agree, and I don't blame him, nothing against a male showering a
willing kid, or cumming off in his or her mouth, but being inside, in each
others arms, looking into each others eyes, so comfortable it can go on for
hours, that's impossible to beat, though I've read a boy my age being with
– inside – a boy Will's age is physically awesome, at least the first
few times it happens, or, I guess, allowing for everything I've read, it's
awesome after it stops hurting the boy, which might be the first few
times."

       "Don't believe everything you read," Will suggested, "because maybe
they're wrong about the hurting part.  If it happened very gently and the
boys really liked each other, it probably wouldn't hurt.  I mean why should
it.  I don't like to be gross or anything, but things have occurred in the
bathroom that were, well, pretty dramatic, and they didn't hurt.  They even
felt good.  So I think it's just a matter of being gentle and taking a lot
of time.  Maybe half an hour.  And if a boy's favorite cousin in the whole
world and future wife of a hot artist were on the scene, comforting the
boy, encouraging him, and masturbating him, well I know about Billy not
being a hero, but I still think it would be survivable."

       Katharine looked puzzled.  "If you did that," she said, "I couldn't
watch Raym cum."  There was nothing petulant in her voice, rather traces of
a disappointment she couldn't hide.
       "The feelings of it happening inside a boy," the teen said, "are
probably kinda exaggerated in the books I read.  I don't think Will would
giving up too much if I spermed on you, Katharine, rather than up inside
him."
       "I want to watch him against you, too," the boy added, settling the
issue.
       "I want you to share, too," the girl smiled shyly, "then rape me
fully while my chest is still wet so I can feel your bare skin against my
nipples."

       Ah, sounds good, but when?  They'd stumbled across a lazy niche and
seemed to want to grow it.  "I was thinking up more cologne ads," Katharine
whispered after a long silence.
       The child had done well with the subject, previously, so she
received responsive nods.

       "All of them would be art photos of you and Will," the girl began,
"but not naked, maybe in jeans and bare chested, you holding him from
behind, you know, with your left arm around his boyish chest and your right
hand down near his belt, holding a sculpted bottle of the product.  The
captions would read: `Why do you think our manly scent is aloe-based.'  `Is
he old enough?  Ask "Billy".'  "Until he's old enough, there's "Billy".'
`Champagne wishes and "Billy" creams.'  Oh, she seemed to have a dozen of
`em: `Should you tell her about "Billy".'  `If there's more to your life
than "Billy", purchase price cheerfully refunded.'  `"Billy" don't be a
zero.'  `"Billy" and the kid.'  `Boy or bottle.  Billy" `Try the half-once
size of "Billy".'  `If you're indecisive, be indecisive all the way.
"Billy".  `What's she got on "Billy"?.' `Warning! The adage: "a little
competition never hurt anyone!" does not apply to "Billy".'

       That's how well-read kids pass their time.  Silly, but it's part of
the bonding process and thoughtful adults overlook much and tolerate more.

       "What," Will mused aloud, "if you wrote it up?  If you took a good,
old-fashioned story, say about advertising, and some bold kids who were
doing okay and definitely knew what they were talking about, and sent in to
"The New Yorker".  Explicit.  Graphic.  The three of us experimenting naked
in the laundry room.  Fantasies about things we would like to happen in the
future, again, as graphic as the real thing, what really happens when a boy
gets excited and shows his little sister or his little cousin the first
sperms she's ever seen in her whole nine year life?  Do you think they'd
have the guts to publish it?  For everyone from the publisher to the press
foreman, specifically including every lawyer in the house, to sign off on
it, staking their careers and perhaps lives on the interpretation of
redeeming social or artistic merit, as against gratuitous sexual
exploitation.  Would they all go to prison, maybe twenty or thirty people?
Or would it be a huge gong drowning out the southern revivalist and their
militant rehashing of stale superstition and lifeless myth?"

       "They published a lot of Thurber," Will noted, "maybe if you could
think of some, you know, humorous side.  Make everybody think it was a
joke.  Funny, ha-ha, you know what I mean."
       If she was cute at all times, she was never more so than when
pensive or boyishly thoughtful.  "They wouldn't want to deal with someone
like Thurber again," the girl said, "he was a peckerhead and they won't be
in the mood for another clown for years.  We better think of something
else."  Her companions nodded, and so simply was New York both dismissed
and saved.

       "I'm trying to think," Katharine said after another restful pause,
"if it will be as exciting to cuddle with you later, you know, after it's
happened, because now when I touch you and feel you against my chest I know
you're potent.  Animals.  Almost dangerous Full of sperm.  That under other
circumstances you'd be tearing at each other that your seed might dominate
that of your rival.  That I might be a chattel of war, handed between you
and shared with others.  That's what your fullness represents to a
scatterbrained romantic like me.  And it makes me wonder about girls who do
get really raped.  How much of the trauma is circumstantial.  I mean, that
sounds dumb, but think about it.  First, eliminate the winos and drifters,
males who smell, are obese, are drunk, or for some reason so unappealing
even an orderly would cringe at dealing with them.  That's probably ten
percent of rapists.  Okay, next step.  Change the circumstances.  It
doesn't happen in the back seat of a car or a stairwell for five minutes,
but the male takes the girl to a reasonably comfortable environment, then
fully assaults her.  But he doesn't let her go.  He rapes her repeatedly
over two days, then lets her go unharmed.  Wouldn't simply getting used to
the same physical acts everyone indulges in frequently in their lives
negate the insidious invasion of contemporary psychology with it's `fate
worse than death' attitude?  Wouldn't getting to know the man as a guy on
the bus cancel out his monster vows?  Take another extreme.  In the
Victorian era, girls were traumatized to the point of misery and
dysfunction by the slightest inappropriate touch; deemed themselves from
that moment on as ravished, impure, and unwholesome, not fit for the
company of a gentleman.  Alice doesn't live, anymore."

       For nine, she knew how to hold an audience, and it was not just with
her nubile maturing body, perhaps the tiniest bit chubby – more sleek
than that – with her almost shockingly mature nipples jutting from her
beautifully formed chest.  She had an unquenchable mind and spirit of fire.
She was one unbelievable little girl, and all luck could be measured
against knowing her.

       She was right.  It was academic, of course, rapes happened as they
happened, but nonetheless useful; could guide sensitive therapists to a
common-sense ground where they'd be able to separate the circumstances –
how about it if it was just a mugging, without sexual overtones – from
the psychological aspects which a healthy mind would dismiss without a
shrug.  All were well enough aware of the obvious to not include truly
violent assaults, psychological or physical, and knew that plenty of fit,
adult men were walking around with assault phobias resulting from a
frightening experiences.  But the middle ground was so vast.  Where well
over half of events occurred.  No excessive violence, just a rough and
perhaps painful mating, like a single round of amateur boxing, and it was
over.  Yes, disease was an issue, but separate.  Yes, a shrouded figure
bursting from your closet would be upsetting, but how was it all that
different from the bogey man of childhood?
       Could you actually teach it in schools?  Resilience.  It's out
there, it may happen to you, be prepared to not let it bother you beyond
any normal physical reaction.  Don't even live your life as a paranoid to
avoid it, live freely and just hope the guy doesn't have a dose of
something, which you could easily get from a welcomed lover.  Perspective.
Forest as well as trees.  Reason over emotion as we are human over animal.

       Had they actually dozed off for a moment?  There was a mutual start
and some giggling.  Katharine was embarrassed, here she'd been daydreaming
about her huge male animals hung low with hot seed and she'd wandered off
into the labyrinth of cultural mores and institutional attitudes.  That
wasn't much fun.  So what would plan B be?  Her agile mind came up with an
answer very quickly.  It came off a thought she was having about how it
would be impossible to gild this lily – cuddling in the laps of two
mature and highly aroused young males – and gild led to `geld'.  That
was a momentary stumbling block, and the last thing she wanted, but then
science intruded and she realized that she could, at least partially and
temporarily, geld both males and lie where she was knowing which
male/female option was the most enticing, potency or post-entry; and
whether their hot cum was more intellectually exciting in their hard,
athletic bodies, or slicked on her budding nipples and high between her own
young legs.  Yes, intellectually, it was a poser, but while there may not
be common sense to gravity or air brakes, there can be elsewhere, and in
its name complex issues may sometimes be reduced to common expressions
like: it's time to find out.

       Power and command.  Picture a flaming tank charging out of control
down a steep incline.  A human wall is needed to stop it before it crashes
into a schoolyard.  Who could give such an order?  "I think it's time," the
pixie whispered to her brother.  Time to build the human wall?  Time to get
dressed and go upstairs?  Time to feed the dogs.  It mattered utterly not
at all, completely irrelevant, and, if not frivolous, still something of a
turned around joke.  It could have been time for execution, and it would
have mattered to neither Raym or Will.  Whatever it was time for, they were
her men.  Command and control.  And she used with such delicacy and grace,
a nod here and shy smile of approval there, and the tableau came to life,
the girl lying back over the top of the sagging old chair, Raym, legs
spread, in full display, at her right flank at the eleven year old stood at
his right hip, left arm around the powerful waist, masturbating the
nineteen year old with firm, full strokes.

       Perching and huddling, they balanced and trussed their naked bodies
together and quickly became comfortable, Raym's left arm cradling his
little sister and his right hand fondling the boy who was jerking him off.
The tip of his huge penis was against the nine year old's slightly chubby
belly, both males realizing she'd be able to focus clearly at the distant,
something she couldn't do if Will was massaging her right nipple with the
flaring, hot glans of the adult's fully erect cock.

       "'You thought "Billy" would lead elsewhere?'" the girl murmured,
eyes wide and trained on Will's moving right hand.  She was going to be
hardball competition if she could do homework at a time like this, even
play homework for some advertising fantasy.  And no, she wouldn't have been
thinking up clever copy on the bus.  If it would be good for the average
rape victim to get to know her assailant, wouldn't that mean spending a lot
of lot of time with rapists might lead to not only affection but an
attachment so close and complete one could actually experience her first
complete acts as a female and feel so comfortable she'd be able to let her
mind wander, even to the prosaics of making a future living.  Of curse she
was helped in her musing by the images of two live models acting out her
fantasies virtually in her lap.  They were so conclusive; would bring an ad
campaign full circle; hint, tease, and titillate for six months, then
"Billy Billy Billy", perhaps no expensive, clever copy needed.

       "I'm going to cum on you darling," Raym whispered softly, his
panting suddenly quieting, his whole body relaxing, Will's hand rigid at
his base as the boy held the adult firmly against his sister's heaving
belly button.  "Billy for president," she almost murmured out loud as her
huge eyes took in the raw data of male and female.  It certainly looked
like a process that couldn't fail, and even, after a half minute of his
heavy, white spilling, perhaps one that could be categorized as overkill.
That it went on longer yet, slicking her buddy breasts, and finally ebbing
almost a minute after the first hot streams jetted across her bare tummy,
left the girl in a state of near shock.  No wonder they didn't advertise
it.  Kids could get hooked.  How could any little girl want anything in
life more than a friendly, quiet older brother who'd treat her like a
kitten while teaching what every cat knows from birth?

       But it would have to be absolutely forbidden.  That was a major
factor.  Parents would have to scare the broadly defined and inclusive
living bejesus out of their toddlers, severely punishing the slightest
contact, suggestion, or display, sibling to sibling.  Make them actively
fear it, dread it, curse it, and avoid it pathologically.  Avoid this?
Avoid Raym gently positioning Will between her widely spread legs and his
gentle rocking of the children in his strong arms as they found each other
and married?  Avoid the boy's smooth, confident rhythm with her, his eyes
smiling shyly into hers when he pushed up on his corded arms as well as the
incredible heat of his panting, athletic chest against her slick, big-girl
nipples?  Avoid the whispers of both males as the boy began to quickly
tense?  Avoid the deep pulsing high between her legs that made her want to
just mew Thank you in Will's ear again and again?  Avoid Raym, now more
urgent and palpably feral in his masculine need to have his seed dominate
that of the panting boy now riding his back as he took her with advancing
fire?  Avoid the sudden rush and sweep of her own feelings, belly to knees,
as he penetrated her to his hot balls and began plain using her?  Avoid the
serene knowledge that it was about to happen, the firestorm that then
crashed from the base of her spine at the first sense he was fully having
his will with her, and her clawing, shrieking response?  Well,
something... at all costs, but `avoid' didn't make much sense.




       In the cell, things were much the same as when Jens had begun his
story.  He and Dana interspersed languid moments engaging in tentative
homosexual activates with just lying quietly feeling each other's breathing
with the boy losing himself in his friend's soft and compelling voice as
the story of his youthful experiences continued.

       Pete and Chet agreed they especially liked the musing of the girl,
Katharine, on whether a male was more alluring filled with sperm or after
he'd sprayed it onto or inside his lover.

       "With her ads," Dana said, "it almost sounds like a little
predestination at work, us coming together.  Like we're birds of a feather
when it comes to what the poster implied; that there should be
substantially more freedom for children to pick reasonably appropriate
partners when and as it suits them to do so."
       "There's actually more," Pete said, "along the same line.  In fact,
it rekindled Jens' and my friendship, and was directly responsible for our
first homosexual experiences, almost two years ago."
       "He's right," Jens said to both children, "we were both rookies and
do to flukes we got teamed up for a months.  Since we were both high in our
class at the academy our supervisor let it ride, so we rode."
       "And there was a poster or an ad?" Chet asked.
       "No," Pete replied to the naked boy in his lap, "her name was Sarah
Bentley.  She was just Katherine's age, nine years old."

       "M'mm," both boys hummed, might as one might to the familiar opening
sketch of "Law & Order" or any stable and enjoyable entertainment.  Both
officer's must have looked like boys, tweedle-cute and tweedle-cuter; and
it was hard to imagine a damsel in their hands remaining long in distress.

       "One Adam-12, see the woman, Bronson, one block west of Vermont."
Neither could get over the thrill of hearing the famous call sign coming
over their very own radio.  Sure, they'd humped it in school, teaming up as
they had in high school until their eyes were bleary with flash cards,
working out together, but to, six months after going on duty, be assigned
the most prestigious call sign in the world, well, it was something to
write a book about (though, of course, in more reflective moments they both
realized it had "been done" "But you're cuter."  How many young ladies had
let that slip when comparing Pete and Jens to their television
counterparts.  They'd flush and keep writing, anticipating the feminine
index finger that would tap on the phone number on the form and remind both
officers that it was to be used at any time for any reason they could
possibly think of in their wildest imaginations.  Their wild imaginations
included a host of diseases and entanglements so the numbers went onto the
computers, untested.

       They rolled on the call, making the trip in two minutes.  The lady
waved quietly from behind a hedge, putting her finger to her lips to
indicate they should approach quietly.  One look at her intelligent face
and they forgot their guns and proceeded across the lawn.

       "I thought it was a cat," she whispered, introducing herself as
Maxine Sellers.  "She's pretty okay, I'm a nurse, so that's probably
accurate.  Somebody dumped her.  It's been warm, no rain, so I think
dispensing with emergency personnel might get things off to a better start.
I left one set of prints to check her pulse and temperature, and otherwise
touched nothing.  I have been singing lullabies, and she's tried to speak
several times, each a little stronger."

       The officers looked at the bundle in question, a bundle with a slim
leg sticking out.  In a moment they'd separated the expensive trench coat
from the county print dress the child was wearing."

       The police needed to buy a little time.  Pete grabbed the nurses arm
to get her attention.  "What I'd like you to do," he said softly, "is go
and find any neighbors you can, you'll probably see shades and curtains
moving as you look at any given house, so that can be a starting point.
Invite them over.  Tell them we need help with identification as well as
witnesses to what's happened here.  As soon as you've done that, say five
or six minutes, we'll suggest they spread the news down the block."

       "You're devious enough to be highly likeable," the thirty five year
old said, and headed, eyes on a swivel, for the first likely neighbor.
Listening carefully to the girl from the far side of the hedge, they talked
quietly to her, telling her she was safe and go back to sleep if she wanted
to.  With a hum, the girl apparently did so, in three minutes eight
neighbors had materialized, looked from as close as they could get without
interfering with the scene, answered a question or two, and were reversed
and dispatched.

       Jens handed Maxine the keys to One Adam-12.  "Drive it to the gas
station on Western, he said, "then walk back and tell your neighbors we've
taken the kid in for a medical checkup."
       "Are you planning to stay here?" she asked.  Both officers nodded.
"Then, here," she said, handing over her house key, "smuggle her inside."
They made eye contact and she went to the open door of the cruiser.

       Pete and Jens unlocked the front door of the house and moved behind
the hedge.  The trench coat worked as an impromptu litter and without a
nervous glance in any direction, the whisked the stirring child into the
strange house.  As they were about to set her on the sofa, the phone rang.
Jens snatched it up, listened for some moments, flushed, then quietly said:
"Yes, miss, yes Miss Maxine, I think I understand, but be sure to call
again."  Pete gave him a questioning look.  "You'd better sit down," was
the cryptic response as they turned their attention to the girl on the
sofa, sitting at her head and feet, Jens explaining in a soft voice.  "That
was Maxine Sellers of our recent acquaintance," he began, "calling on her
cell phone with the following message: she thinks we should take the girl
upstairs to her spare bedroom, and both of us should stay there for an
indefinite period of time, several hours at least.  She said she'd been
raped at the same age by a transient, and the only thing that saved her was
her brother getting mad at her withdrawn state and using her physically.
In two days she not only had put the instance behind her, but fallen in
love with her handsome older brother, to boot.  She says we are the right
age, and the best thing we can do is take her up to the bedroom, cross our
fingers she doesn't have any serious medical problems, and, not to put too
fine a point on it, use her until she comes to accept it, hoping we don't
turn her into a predatory minx in the process, but adding if we did, we
could probably handle the results.  She said we should talk openly and
frankly in front of her, not as if she were some kind of decrepit kitten or
moron."

       "Did she say any more?" Pete asked after a short pause.
       "She said she knows some people in town, scary names, and we're
detached from regular duty until such time as...  She said she's been –
seriously – meaning to visit her sister in Tarzana, that the kitchen's
stocked, that there's a pistol range in the basement, and that we're to
make ourselves at home, meantime, when she calls back in an hour, giving
her any identity information on the girl so she can get in touch with the
child's parents and get a medical update, which she bets us two steak
dinners, we'll laugh at by the time she calls."

       They'd dealt, and dealt with stories.  Victims going in rag dolls
and coming out alienated monsters.  This made no difference to anybody.
Credentialed experts were called in.  They never failed to make the
situation worse, and they billed.  The bills were paid and the cycle
repeated itself.  Maxine had suggested in a voice a little scary itself it
would not repeat itself with a girl found on her property.

       "She said don't be bashful," the recipient of the message said,
"just take her upstairs, like her brother did the day he got mad, and
pretend she's a drunken slut at a stag party."
       "But how do you feel?" Pete asked, "about us being together for that
kind of thing."
       "I know what you mean," his long-time friend said.  "I guess we were
to busy ever to even talk about this kind of stuff.  How do you feel?"
       "Are we talking about the same thing?" Pete whispered, "staying
together while we're with her?"
       "Yes," the younger officer whispered.
       "Jesus," Pete whispered, "five years of gym and swimming together,
and I don't even know if you're circumcised or not."
       "I happen to know you are," Jens said, "but that was an accident
with a swinging mirror on a locker door."
       Both sat staring at each other while the girl breathed fitfully
between them.  "Have you ever done anything..." they both began
simultaneously, and each understood the end of the sentence: "with
anybody?"  As Pete shook his head, his partner murmured in the affirmative,
adding it might be something they could share later.  For another minute
they sat reviewing, seeking confirmation, and giving themselves and their
partners ample time to reconsider.  Then Pete lifted the girl onto Jens'
back and they carried her up the stairs and to the guest bedroom of the
small house.  They may have changed back-to-back hundreds of times in
various locker rooms, but they'd outgrown that.  In a minute their shoes
and uniforms were neatly stowed and they faced each other in their boxers.
The girl stirred more deliberately and they slipped out of their shorts and
went and lay naked on either side of her, slowly unwrapping her from the
trench coat while speaking softly.  She was a ten year old Chinese beauty,
delicate as a flower with raven black hair spilling as far as they eye
could see.

       They handled the coat as little as possible, spreading it on the
unused portion of the bed, then stripping the girl to her tiny silk
panties, placing her shoes and school uniform in the coat, then carefully
placing the bundle at the back of the closet.  The girl's hands covered her
budding nipples as she looked wildly between the two males cradling her
between their tall, athletic bodies.  Maxine hadn't said anything specific
to Jens about establishing total defeat, but implied her brother had taken
no nonsense from her after the door to her bedroom was locked, and, it
being all they had to go on in behalf of the beautiful eighty pound child
between them, they began running their hands gently over her belly and
chest.

       "Were you raped, sweetheart?" Pete asked.
       "It was a nice car," the girl whispered back.  "They had a note.  It
must have been pretend, and the Jaguar.  I don't think I even thought
twice, I was just worried about the accident that was meant to be the
reason for the note."
       "That happens a lot," Jens said, "but usually without the jazzy
wheels.  That's a twist."
       "Well it worked on this kid," the girl said with a frown.

       "Sweetheart," Pete said, "can you tell us your name so we can send
word you seem to be okay?"
       "That's okay," the girl said, "until seven.  Dad's on a business
trip, and Mom run's the office until then.  My life is like a totally
boring routine of domestic perfection, so she won't even check until at
least then, and if there's money on the line, it might not be until eight
or nine."
       :"Well girls who ride in Jaguars can't live on food stamps," Pete
observed.
       "Oh, I know," the girl sighed, "and I read so I don't waste much of
the time.  Footloose and fancy free, but when Dad's home Mom's home when I
get in from school, so maybe it's the best of both worlds, except, that is,
if Dad would be with me until Mom got home from the office.  That would be
the best."

       "Well," Pete persisted, "we'd like your name, even if it's okay to
withhold notification."
       "Sarah Bentley," the girl responded, giving the officers her address
and other data.
       They shook hands, and Pete struggled for words, gaining the
admiration of his partner who couldn't thing of a single thing to say.

       "What happened is," he began, "we thought you might have been
really, well, done over.  Not be in good shape to be processed by the
system.  An expert suggested we molest and rape you repeatedly for the next
few hours because that settles the event in a child's mind, that it's
something real and natural, not something from a slime pit or devil's
cauldron."
       "Your expert's right," Sarah said, "it happened fast in the back of
the car, and it was rough, and it went on until they'd each done it twice,
then they made me take drugs and wrapped me in a coat they'd found in the
trunk of the car, and then I passed out.  If I hadn't woken up sort of in
heaven, with soft, men's voices around me, and now two naked beauties in
bed with me, I might have tried to hide it away and pitched a fit if anyone
bugged me."
       "Well, you've been through a lot Sarah," Jens said, "so it would be
best if Officer Trent and I slipped back into our uniforms."
       "Have you ever heard a full-blown fit in fluent Cantonese?" the girl
asked.
       "No," they said.
       "You'll want to keep it that way," the child assured them.  "I heard
Jens summarizing the phone call, Pete," she said, "and I said to myself, on
the other end of that line is the smartest person in the world, and I
prayed to Confucius you'd figure that out and comply with the instructions
you received.  I don't want to remember those creeps for ten minutes more
than I have to, and if we spend the night here, they'll be gone, forever."

       So many dramas had used the phrase: "it's highly irregular" the
young officers didn't bother.

       "Okay," Pete said, instead, "we'll take a time out.  Just lie here
and talk the way we are.  Then, if you think, on reflection, it's the best
option, we'll take you gently and carefully."
       "Without using condoms," Sarah asked, her beautiful brown eyes
showing their first real sign of life and engagement.  "They did.  Both of
them.  Both times.  So I still haven't been with a man yet, in the way it
matters most to a romantic kid like me."
       "Maxine said our experiences with you should be as full as
possible," Jens said, "so it's okay with us if it happens naturally."
       "I can see one problem," the girl noted.
       "What?" the men asked.
       "The two of you," the slim ten year old replied, "who's the first
with me, the first male to leave me so I could get pregnant if I was a
couple of years older.  I'm not vain or anything, but you guys are really
close, and you're males first, men second, and officers and gentlemen,
third, at least when you're in bed with a naked girl.  So I thought of a
solution."

       "What?"

       "When Maxine was talking to Jens," the girl explained, "she told him
there's a pistol range in the cellar of this house.  That would probably be
dark if the lights were off.  So the idea is we build two beds at either
end of the range.  Then we turn out the lights and I spin around and around
on my hands and knees in the middle of the floor, until I don't know which
way is which.  I crawl forward until I come to one of the beds.  The male
in it takes me in absolute silence, using pillows and towels and even tape
over his mouth to muffle any noise.  You shower first so I won't get any
hint from aftershave.  You both take me in the conventional missionary
position, without foreplay, and pact not to try anything that might
identify you.  I then crawl to the next bed, where I'm raped again in the
same manner.  After a set interval, maybe forty minutes, the alarm goes off
and we turn the lights back on.  I'm in the middle of the floor, I've been
with you both, and there's no way for me or either of you to tell which of
you made me a woman the most romantic way it can happen."

       Both officers stared down at the golden-skinned sprite lying on her
back between them.  She raised her tiny bottom and they stripped her
panties off.  But even seeing her completely naked and looking nearly
identical to the girl in the famous Vietnam picture didn't completely stun
their official minds and they searched their academy careers looking for
the vaguest tendril of training they could relate to their present
situation.  To Serve.  It was on every black and white on the force.

       They caught a break at the bottom of the stairs finding the cellar
was heavily carpeted and insulated.  It might even be fun to let off a few
rounds without the cumbersome ear protectors they usually wore on the
range.  The room was thirty feet long, that was a plus.  The couldn't see
how it wouldn't work and so returned with two heaps of bedding with which
to construct two nearly identical beds.  This all took ten minutes or so,
plus another five to call Maxine back, relaying the information the girl
had provided, and finally it was done and the returned to get Sarah.  Each
held her by the hand as they took her down two flights of stairs and showed
off the arrangement.  Since they were all three naked, it was left merely
to douse the lights at the door, which the girl did, casting an appraising
glance to the middle of the room before plunging it into pitch darkness.

       For a moment or two they could sense the tiny Asian beauty circling
in the center of the floor, then all was silent.  Silently, the men applied
the strong tape to their mouths, then settled down to wait.  Part of the
plan was an open ten minutes at the beginning of the game, Sarah finding a
male at the time of her choosing so reviewing the chronology would be
useless even to a fevered and agitated mind.  Ten random minutes, twenty
focused minutes, and ten more random minutes, all for something they knew
was of not the least importance in the first place. Who would be the last
to spill in her beautiful body, that would be the prize.

       The pixie waited as long as she could, pondering the uselessness of
the human.  Hummingbirds migrated flawlessly across the Gulf of Mexico, but
humans with a brain thousands of times bigger were disoriented ten seconds
after the lights wend out, their sense of passing time as distorted as
their internal compasses.  A dog could smell out each male in two seconds
flat, and run wagging to its master.  She could smell nothing but clean
house.  Most of the animals running around loose could hear the breathing,
however muffled, and even reptiles could sense body heat and the thudding
beat of a two-pound heart.  A bat had radar, she had her hands and knees.
She began moving forward, totally lost and excited by the fact she really
didn't know.  Would she be able to tell, later, if her grateful parents
allowed her to date the two beauties, would one day a move or gesture or
sound tell the secret?  That would be way cool.  And how about after the
game?  Would they do as it appeared they were planning, take her back
upstairs and use her repeatedly, watching each other, perhaps even touching
each other?  Was this an incredible day for a ten year old, or what?  And
she moved on.

       It had to have been ten minutes or more when she found him.  Her
fingers thrilled to the touch of a mat on the carpeted floor and she almost
hissed with excitement.  The man on the bed was gentle but firm with her.
He lay her on her back, coaxed her legs gently wide apart with his knees,
then pressed against her.  The boys in the van had promised her gel – so
it won't hurt – if she used her hands to guide them, and she'd complied.
The first had slowed his efforts, whispering, "sorry baby, I thought a girl
as pretty as you would have had her dad inside her," when he discovered her
hymen.  He was raping her, his buddy panting at his shoulder, so with
another quick, "sorry," he'd powered heavily fully inside her, pounding
hard and fast as the other male had struggled to pull him free for his
turn.  This was so different.  Tender, sensitive, letting her lead with
experimental thrusts of her slim thighs until she fully sensed her safety
and used her arms and legs to pull the handsome young officer fully to her,
his hard, athletic belly flat against her childish tummy.  Quickly he took
the familiar rhythm, thrusting quickly, fully, and soundlessly as her
romantic head spun with visions of his naked penis swelling inside her.
For five minutes they could have been any happy husband with a cute, young
wife, then the male tensed, nuzzled her neck meaningfully, and she went
rigid in response.  She'd felt nothing with the trade in the van, with him
she felt everything.  His swelling, his rumbling, almost inaudible groan,
and then the hot fire of his full release almost impossibly high between
her long, golden legs.  A pillow smashed over her face, she'd joined his
cum, soundless though her fingers pinched and pulled at his flanks in
welcome, hee legs like leather straps, also pulling him to her.  Dazed, she
rested briefly, then with an affectionate squeeze of good-bye, she crawled
on and twelve minutes later the alarm went off.  Pete flicked his lighter,
they found the light switch, then went to examine the panting child lying,
legs splayed on her back in the middle of the floor, a heavy pool of semen
puddled beneath her thighs. They cleaned up carefully and carried her back
up to the comfortable bed where they took turns fucking her for another
full hour before assuring themselves she was completely cured of anything
that could possibly come back to haunt a bright, pretty fourth grader.

       The phone at the desk rang and Jens picked it up.  "Figures," was
all he said before returning the receiver to the cradle.  He returned to
his place on the bunk, Dana once again settling in his lap.  "Some reporter
who actually knows what he's doing traced my van.  He owes some of his
colleagues, so there will be eight of them, two cameras, one tape, on
still.  If we give them access for half an hour, they'll keep mum for
twenty four."

       Each looked at the others.  All nodded and Chet kept nodding.  "This
is it," he said.  "Your turn to make a stand."
       Dana picked up on his friend's train of thought, immediately.
"Yes," he hissed, "it's perfect.  You come out of the closet, both of you."
       "It could even be artistic," the first boy said, "we can be outside
the door when they enter the block, you two inside the cells, heads clearly
visible over our shoulders, as you hold us in your left arms and jerk us
off with your right hands, just like in Jens' story.  You must have spent a
lot of time masturbating each other on Sarah, so you're experienced in
knowing how it feels just before it happens, so you can get the timing
right – I don't think it has to be to the split second exactly – so
there'll be some stills and video to go along with what they've got of the
poster.  That, with the confusion in the restaurant and everything else
means in an hour nobody will have the slightest idea of exactly what
happened, hell, they'll probably even confuse us in two hours, but there
will be heaps of innuendo and enough salacious rumors and whispered
innuendo to keep the story alive for a long time, with annual reviews, and
that's all we wanted in the first place.  A chance to show we're healthy
young animals, fine young cannibals, even, not something you need to hide
at the bottom of the well."

       "So let it be written, so let it be done."  A phrase we don't hear
often enough in these subliterate days, but it applied at least once.  The
press took the rich, heavy bait.  Chet's hard spray began less than a
minute after the first camera was tightly focused, Dana's beginning as his
friend began to ebb and filling out a second minute.  The reporters and
photographers looked a little abashed and, with extreme rarity for media
personnel, confused.  Nonetheless they filed from the block, shaking their
heads in wonder, to file their stories and transmit their video to the
breathless masses.

       They'd done it.  Now exhausted, the boys high-fived one last time
and led their adult partners into separate cells and locked themselves in,
blowing out the candles.  "There's someone we'd like you to meet tomorrow,"
a voice murmured.

THE END...


       Where have all the essay gone?
       Gone to graveyards every one, (gone to graveyards, every one).
       And for the best reason.  I've simply said all I have to say.  It's
all on Nifty.  Credentials and provenance: obesity to socialism to the
perfect cup of coffee and the advantages of plastic forks, issues and
answers, served up free of gloss and stated without flummery: repeated,
reviewed, published and done.  As a monarch gets to leave everything up to
his subjects a writer so empowers his audience.  He need not even bother
himself, king or novelist, with the old classic's most poignant line: "When
will they ever learn?"  Even a god can only try, a handy phrase serving
double duty in that it answers any questions concerning ego and unresolved
by Samantha..

xxx