Date: Thu, 9 May 2002 12:13:43 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: STONINGTON STORIES - TIP A
STONINGTON STORIES -- TIP
by R. Forbes Emerson
(m/m, m/f, inc., anal, rom.)
Stonington, land of drama, island of dreams, subdivision of
fantasy. Drama. A simple bath, and how had it ended up? With splashing
and rubber duckies? You know better. Certainly we did after spending half
an hour restoring order and cleaning at least up to the household standard.
I'll start this little patch of foreshadowing by admitting
that my young writer's brain was half asleep. Not to put too fine a point
on it, I was a typical teen, not at my best at four o'clock in the morning.
Whether that made a difference or not, I don't know. Personally, I'd
challenge anyone to do better, under the circumstances, than I did.
Drama? Look at all the pages before this, starting with
Audrey, then Susan, Larry and Kelsey. Aren't they a bit of a drama?
Didn't interesting things happen to interesting people in more-or-less
rapid fire order? Cripes, I sure tried, then, as a boy to observe and
remember, now, as an adult, to commit the memories to paper in a lively and
extensive fashion. How have I failed? you might understandably ask.
That's not the issue. The issue is for all my efforts, then and now, what
so far constitutes my adventures on the coast of Maine amount to a prequel.
An introduction. A few background sketches. Point of fact? I might as
well not have bothered; as the good sergeant said, "I knew nuffing!"
I knew I never wanted to do it again; I was not then, nor
am I now, a homosexual, but, just that one night, it had been delicious
kissing Larry asleep with the boys, still smelling of bubbles, sleeping in
the bed with us. Even now, I'm still mildly surprised I actually enjoyed
necking with and petting a male, even a boy as slim, fair skinned, and long
legged as my friend.
These thoughts were about to lead to action, to waking
Larry and gently disengaging, when I became aware of the fact that everyone
was awake. Larry whispered Hi, easy to hear because his lips were an inch
from mine, but not very intimate because the three boys all echoed the
greeting in their own whispers.
In a way, this answered my embryonic dilemma, for, lo and
behold, I was no longer actually sleeping with a male, in the clinical
sense of the word. As it happened, me dilemma was stillborn, in any event,
because no sooner had we affirmed to each other that we were awake, than a
shuffling began under the covers. Two naked fourteen year olds; Larry and
I, plus Roger Weed, thirteen, Roger Greenlaw, eleven, and Kelsey Blastow,
nine, all gently touching and maneuvering, with, apparently, the elder
Roger guiding his two young friends.
More drama. More prequel. That's just how it was.
When everyone was settled Larry and I remained as we had
awoken, arms around each other, kissing any time we felt like it; perhaps
even half-dozing ourselves awake since Roger Weed left for a moment and
returned with lighted candles for the headboard of the bed and otherwise
seemed to know what he was about. While I don't like sleeping with males,
the feeling of a naked eleven year old gently wrapping his arms low around
you waist isn't the same as sleeping with freaking anybody. Larry's eyes
lost focus, too, so I knew little Kelsey was close behind him.
My boy, Roger G., was avid, licking and kissing wherever he
pleased, nibbling, blowing in my right ear, since the left was against the
pillow; finding places on my shoulder blades where he could get his teeth
gently against bone and the while gently exploring me with his slim,
bone-hard, five-inch penis while molesting me all over my chest and belly
with his eager/gentle hands. I could feel Kelsey's hands as he molested my
fourteen-year-old friend, and was glad -- so glad I even mistook it for the
beginning of real drama -- when Larry and I and the two younger boys found
out that Roger W. had brought a warm, soapy wash cloth as well as the
candles.
Bending over us, he helped Kelsey and Larry first, then he
helped Roger Greenlaw with me. We kissed ardently, sharing the pain, but
then the little boys reached over out hips and began masturbating us, so
there was no pain, nor were we able to kiss because we were panting too
hard; needed the air.
Believe me, as I write this I have a hard time believing
it's a prologue, myself. Roger Greenlaw felt amazing as he ran his hands
over my young teen body and experimented with being inside me. Kelsey had
made Larry's face go slack, and I had no trouble remembering how it had
felt having him standing on his piles of books behind me as Larry and I
made out in the bathroom. It had been charming and novel. Roger Greenlaw,
on the other hand, was not only an inch longer and much thicker, but more
mature and focused than his prepubescent friend. He held me tighter,
kissed my back incessantly, licking and whispering; grabbed me hard by my
hips with a bucking thrust at each full entry, and grunting with a
passionate whoof-whoof.
Even in a prequel there can be enigma, paradox and trifling
little substories. For example, Larry and I lay panting into each others'
mouths, knowing we were both being torn by a confusion of emotions. Yes,
we both wanted to roll onto our bellies, then rise on all fours, so out
boys could take us as they had in the bathroom, but more, we wanted to gaze
into each other eyes and run our hands all over each other in an extreme
form of voyeurism in which the most intimate secrets were revealed through
our softly exploring fingers at each others' waists.
It seemed high drama at the time, now even with a hint of
conflict in the dichotomy of yearning to please two lovers, Larry and I, or
another two, Roger G., and Kelsey... how dare it be prologue?
Stonington dramas are not Rambo in a field of fire, they go
on and on. At one time, in fact just yesterday, Larry and I had half
kissed for over an hour as he told me about Jack and Adam; even the drama
of a simple bath had covered more time than all the action scenes in all
the Stallone films. Imagine it from the point of view of a nascent writer:
durable drama; even a chance to play on words, because it was, at one and
the same time, a hard drama. Durable and hard; often synonyms; here,
literary and physical, unassociated, yet brought together so neatly I
probably wasted time explaining it.
[I should mention that I'm suffering under the worst burden
of my literary career, to date. This story was cute as a bug and all but
finished, and the virus, which previously ate it's way through five
thousand pages of this and that, ate seven thousand words. Now let me be
more than fair and acknowledge, as I have several times in the past, that
without the modern word processor I would not -- NOT -- be a writer. There
are a number of obvious reasons for this, but one that may not be so
readily apparent, and that is the capacity a computer gives a writer to
practice incessantly, at no cost above and beyond the machine. When I
wrote "The Pirates of Rickety Pier," in 1984, the office-supplies cost of
working ran to well over one hundred dollars a month, mostly for typewriter
ribbons. As I said, I lost five thousand pages to the virus; they cost me
the odd few hundred dollars for electricity, over three years.
So, yes, I'm a fan of the machine, but how an appliance
designed to be used by amateurs can totally destroy itself, hour after
hour, is beyond my understanding. Yes, I know the `industry down'
background; machines designed by engineers for, at least, technicians, but
still. It's probably legitimately too late now, but a home-use computer
should come with a button on the box, and files can only be erased or
modified, outside the conventions of normal usage, by tripping a safety
toggle switch, then pushing a button on the CPU. Even as I type, the hard
drive is grinding, grinding, grinding, doing god knows what to itself.
How can a consumer computer run so entirely amuck? What
home operator would ever run long chains of destructive data through his or
her machine? Not one in a hundred thousand. Yet a tiny packet of data
over the wire and its as if the microwave oven is burning down the house to
heat the coffee. Anyhow, there went my cute little story. The bright side
is that this has happened five or six times in the past, and the re-written
version always exceeded the lost copy. This time, I have my doubts, but
we're off to a good start, so who knows. I'm rambling on, because there
are lessons here. Obviously, to back up crucial stuff, but more
importantly, to you writers... love it if you lose twenty or thirty pages.
I mean, god forbid, you're working for money and under a deadline, but if
you're sketching fiction, there's no better practice than re-working
something you've just completed. You know the path, so you can go out in
the snow and play.]
Perhaps `durable' was strategic and `hard' was tactical. I
was trying to think of something, anything, because of how Roger G.'s hand
felt on me, because of Larry's hot breath in my mouth, because of so much I
finally tripped out and sought refuge in my ever-lovin' words. Audrey and
I would be durable, that was first on the list; Susan, probably more an
occasional friend; but Larry, definitely durable. Only room for a few, if
each was to mean much, so three guesses how that left Roger Greenlaw.
Tactical, and, yes, since we were just on the subject, incredibly hard.
Last night had been a novelty; experimenting; Kelsey had
had his dry orgasm after just a few minutes, most of which were spent fully
joined as he jerked me off on Larry. With Roger it was different; more,
partly because his penis was the size of a large frank, but more because he
was having sex with me, and even if an observer had thought it was bad,
what with the boy shaking, gasping, hissing and panting, it felt half over
the moon; the power and urgency rapidly becoming feral and wanton; his hot
surge deep in me a wondrous thousand-volt spark, just his hands on me, if
he'd been lolling, half asleep, and... then Roger Weed was on top of his,
stretched over both Larry and me, helping our boys part of the time, and
masturbating himself between our sweating bodies, even while maintaining a
viselike grip with his left arm.
The feeling of three boys' hands, and Larry hard against
me, really seemed pretty close to drama -- okay, erotic drama -- at the
time. Add the feelings Larry and I gave and received from fondling each
other while our young boys panted on our shoulders and it... had to be the
real thing. It just had to be. As a writer I could not hope for more,
because there could not be more. Okay, for you purists, yes, if it had
been Audrey, and I was inside her, that might have been better, but Roger
Greenlaw had masturbated mature males before, so if he was in second place
at all, it was by a nose. Fat lot I knew, for the drama, erotic and
otherwise, had not yet begun; the orchestra was still on the overture. It
couldn't be. Roger Greenlaw was cumming-off in me; hotly, wetly,
slobbering and moaning against my sweating back; cumming.
And that wasn't drama. Roger Weed cumming, spurting one
hot streak after another over the hands of the little boys, making Larry
look at me wildly, I guess because I was the newcomer, and, seeing my nod
of permission, cumming hotly far up my belly, again and again. I'd handled
Roger's sperm in Roger's hand, but Larry's torrent was not to be endured,
and I whispered my thanks to him and soaked him just as his pulsing
subsided.
Anywhere else, and drama it would be, no questions, no
confusion, but this was not anywhere else.
Roger Weed gently moved Roger Greenlaw on top of
me, and took his place. He'd just cum all over Larry and me while the
little boys jerked us off, but that seemed not to have registered. He was
hot, he was hard, and he was six inches -- big. Four inches, five inches
with copious semen, now six inches. In the words of the Eddie Cochran
classic, "three steps to heaven." As drama? Admittedly close, but still
no cigar.
Roger Weed went right to the edge of rough with me. For
him, I did roll on my stomach, did rise groggily on all fours, was vaguely
conscious of Kelsey and the younger Roger at my flanks, steadying me as
well as staring down at their thirteen-year-old friend's man-size penis as
the boy arched his back, steadied by the boys' arms, and had intercourse
with me as fast and hard as his lithe young body allowed....^^^^^!
Drama enough? Lord, you'd think so. Roger W. was gasping,
panting and rising like the mercury in a candy thermometer. This couldn't
last, and it didn't. Gasping, the breath tearing from him, he jammed with
a final desperate lunge.
Sure, I have a well developed imagination -- had one, even
back in 1960 when we moved to little Stonington, but so what? It didn't
take any imagination at all to know what was happening inside me. First,
there was the kitten; a gentle pulsing as tentative and feeble as could be
sensed at all. In my fantasy world -- what else was there? -- the kitten
was consumed by a cat, by a more mature and directed animal presence, its
pulsing deliberate, almost methodical. It's wondrous performance did not
preserve its life, for a dog ate it. The dog was strong and active; the
maturity and focus of the cat, but stronger, more atavistic. What ate the
dog, I'll never know. It couldn't have been an elephant, for they're
herbivores. Whatever it was, it was wild and out of control; grunting and
cumming with a guttural intensity matched only by the scalding breath
blowing hard in my right ear.
Brainy people write, morons write, guys who cant' get a
grip write. There I was, thinking drama, as we know; thinking it would not
be credible to even imagine beyond what was happening, yet we, as it turned
out, still had not begun.
Roger fell from me, stupefied, half-dead. Did I faint?
Did I fall? It wasn't far, mere inches to the mattress. It would have
been so easy, so complete, such a prequel, itself, to another few hours of
sleep. But none of it. Larry just whispered, and I managed to gasp Yes in
response. He was so gentle I thought for a moment he might grow up to be,
you know, a fairy. The three boys helped us, apparently little diminished.
They cooed, they whispered, they molested both of us fourteen year olds
like hall-of-fame scout leaders. Larry was a giant, seven inches standing
from his almost child-like loins, mercifully, slim.
His arms around me were out of this world, his breath
gently panting in my right ear, closer to Mars than Earth; they say you can
not hear a scream in outer space, possibly because you can't think at all.
Certainly nothing was sundering my psychic veil other than how far he was
inside me, how gentle he was even though I was so wet from being mounted
twice by the colts he could have been as adamant as Roger W. without
hurting me.
This time I was ready. I would have bet an arm, a first
born, a decade off my life. When he whispered "I'm cumming" there could be
no higher plane, get real, get surreal, no higher plane was possible. If it
was, who cared? He wasn't as wild-animal as Roger Weed, but gentle,
consistent, and wonderfully sure of himself. I might not want to sleep
with him all night long, but I'd sure hate to go more than a couple of
weeks without some shared time.
Everybody ready?
Let the drama begin.
Roger Weed started it with, believe it or not, four words.
"Margaret got a spot."
Drama? This was freaking legend. We all stopped
breathing, not smart because 911 services were years over the horizon.
Even as a rank newcomer to Deer Isle, I'd been briefed and re-briefed on
the Charles Bronson mailman with the Stone-Cold Steve Austin body; the huge
man, so bestial his eight cylinder Ford listed to the right as he drove his
route, the right side because, as a mailman, he drove from the right side
of the vehicle.
Tip McCorison. Dum-de-dum-dum.
"You are kidding, aren't you?" Kelsey asked Roger Weed.
"The letter's in my pocket," Roger replied.
They didn't have lotteries then, but if they had, and it
had been a million-dollar winning ticket in the boy's pocket, we would have
waited until dawn. Now we might never sleep again and or our instant
stone-hard erections, the alternatives were surgery or permanence.
With Roger Weed's four words we had moved from drama to
sophistication; writing of it makes me a sophisticate, which is a good
thing and I'll tell you why. Look at France. Sixteen candidates for
president; the two most despised, winning playoff status. If that's the
fate of the republique, doesn't it leave me the last class act in town? As
for Tip McCorison and Margaret Weed; his muscley three hundred pounds, to
her birdlike sixty pounds, even thoughts of his heaving thighs over her
tiny legs, so short they'd likely not go half way up his surging flanks and
her little heels would be unable to grip him properly, no matter how
desperate she became. That was sophisticated thinking, and, for the early
Sixties, it has to rank right up there.
Roger left us for a moment, returning, thoughtful friend
that he was, with a towel or two as well as his shorts. He handed them to
Kelsey, who rummaged until he pulled out an envelope. Since I was the new
kid, Kelsey handed the thing to me, perhaps feeling I would be able to
tolerate, due to ignorance, any mystic properties better than Larry or the
other boys.
Roger's candles were still burning, so there was enough
light, plus just the right ambience to dramatize pretty much anything. The
envelope was parchment, adding some tactile and crackling theatrics. It
bore the inscription: "Please get this right." The top of the envelope had
been neatly slit, so I blew into it like I'd seen on television; and sure
enough, it opened.
"'pon my soul!" I believe that's an expression Jim Hawkins
uses repeatedly in "Treasure Island". `pon all souls as far as the five of
us were concerned, even me, the newcomer. Sure enough, it was a black
spot, an inch or so in diameter, rendered in common pencil. Flipping it
over and using as much detectiveness as I could muster, I noted the
embossed logotype of a greeting-card company. It was symbolic. The
scratchy, edgy side of romance and passion; the cheap side; the side
implemented on half a Christmas card, likely stolen from the mail months
earlier.
As a detective I'd missed something pretty obvious, but, as
I turned the envelope in the candle light, the other boys caught it
immediately. "What's that?" they asked Roger Weed, baffling me a bit,
though the line of script was on the strange side.
This letter may be seen today; in fact, it has pride of
place in the Black Dot Collection on display in the foyer of Stonington
Town Hall. It's stature as a relic is due entirely to those few words
neatly penned on the parchment. At the time Roger Weed guessed the wording
was to make sure his attractive mother didn't show up at the dump, instead
of his pixie kid sister.
Sophisticated venues have urbane values, and Mrs. Weed, Joan,
was queen bee, not a very apt description, she was a lovely lady and
probably still is, of the greater Stonington area based on the significant
credential she earned at the very idea she might be confused with her elfin
daughter. If ever a lady of Paris walks abroad under such an impromptu
aura someone should write a book about her, quick. In the meantime, lets
hang with the so-called rubes.
There was a next day. In modern times, there was a next day
after Napster died; for us, also, the world kept turning and the clock kept
ticking. Since sleep was out of the question, we joined Kelsey on the
flats for the low tide at dawn, most of us digging with our bare paws in
subconscious compliance with the adage holding that busy hands are happy
hands. Happy heads, happy hands, why weren't we just happy, all -- over?
Yes, the town went nuts, but it needn't have bothered. Wet
behind the ears as I was concerning Tip and the local ladies, the power of
black dots, culminating in the spot delivered to Margaret, tripped my
little rookie scribble brain into what is known today as the first modern
business model. I blush to tell you that the first hand-written sketch of
my enterprise it displayed next to Tip's memorabilia at the Stonington Town
Hall. This is appropriate because the two exhibits dovetail almost
perfectly.
It's called "Flexipline". That's the great idea that came of
that night with Larry, the two Rogers, and little Kelsey for whom we were
all babysitting. The word stands for Flexible Discipline, as most
Americans know. Since the Nifty audience his highly international, I'll
take a few moments if my American audience will bear with me.
Flexipline, at its crudest, says you can have your cake and eat
it. You can have your solid, stable, faithful marriage, and cheat. How is
this possible? Well, let's paraphrase the brochure, as this is not the
place for an exhaustive perusal of my concept.
Flexipline centers are the physical heart of the institution;
they are much like other resorts or cruise ships, except they cost less
than half as much per day and per meal. The reason for this is a bit odd,
and, I suppose, kinda funny. Since the Centers are devoted to sex, the
guests have some free time so they tend to pitch in and help the regular
staff, a, for something to do, and, b, as a way to mingle with other
guests. Even as a relative whipper-snapper I knew men and women were often
at their sexiest when working, and I suppose this precociousness is one of
the reasons for my runaway ego as an adult.
Very cheap, very simple, reasonably clean most of the time.
That's the typical Flexipline resort or ship. Here's an example. Our
first significant overseas venture is a fleet of dogged out old Chinese
tramp steamers. We rework the safety and navigations systems with the
latest stuff, and do the cargo holds over in a rustic motif. Instead of
staterooms, which go to waste much of the time, we offer sleeping coffins,
much like those found in Japanese airports; also, a locker for each
passenger. Most of the space is free-form, with double-thick curtains
separating entertainment centers from a general ambience of half-lounge,
half-library.
In recent years, thanks to the super polygraph developed in
Germany, a model which is one hundred percent accurate not only in
detecting deception, but in evaluating character and mode of living, we
have achieved success rates nearing one hundred percent, but even in the
early seventies, when the business model first went into its execution
phase, all surveys showed we were hugely successful, not in numbers,
they've come later, but couple by couple. In what we did for each couple.
The concept is based on the ludicrously obvious notion that
people -- fully developed, well-rounded, die-happy people -- have a wild
side and need to exercise it. This we allow; call it the flexible part.
But if there isn't the discipline, women tend to dump men more-or-less at
will, and few men recover from the experience. I've dealt with, and
probably dwelt on, this before. Here is the answer.
To join the Flexipline club, a couple must re-affirm its
wedding vows. The term `obey' is reinstated, simply because someone must
be in charge of a group even as small as two. In some relatively rare
cases, the male vows to obey; usually it is the female, as was customary
for centuries. (If Anne had vowed to obey me, she'd be in the next room
painting now, kids in school, money in the bank, and life as sweet as is
possible). Of course I didn't know the finer points back in 1960, I was
just a smart kid.
So, the couple renews their vows. Further, they agree, on
penalty, and Americans know I'm not kidding here, to be caned by a
professional imported from Singapore if they have any kind of outside
interest during the fifty weeks of the year they are meant to be tending to
home and hearth. All applicants are checked for relevant medical problems,
lifestyle issues, and, most of all, personality. They are grouped like
cattle into various herds, the makeup of which has to do with weight and
overall appearance, then packed off, kids in tow, to a Center where they
mosey their days away helping the staff in keeping things running. While
much of this is kitchen work, it should be noted that the extreme
motivation of attending semi-annual weeks at a Center is the most effective
dietary aid yet devised. Since all Centers are largely alcohol and tobacco
free, with pot and limited cigarette smoking tolerated, there are
motivational aspects to the scheme which pay solid dividends in these
complex fields.
So far what I've described to my overseas audience seems rather
prosaic; sure, cool and all -- but where's the beef? Wanna know? It's all
in the marketing; attention to detail. The way it was and the way it is,
most resorts advertise a carefree holiday. Not Flexipline. Women come to
our centers to get pregnant. If this happens, the biological father is
notified on birth of the child, so he can play any role in the child's
future the two families are comfortable with, with the home father acting
as final authority. It is pointed out to all males that they'd undoubtedly
have married their wives, had their wives been widows or divorcees; had
they several former lovers in their past. Women are given a similar
indoctrination. The elevator principle is invoked, which says that one
person in an elevator is pretty much like the person beside him; that
changing is pointless, while causing pain for the dumped spouse that, in
many cases, simply ripens with the passing decades. Bad way to run a
society: causes stress, especially to children, dysfunction, and rampant
obesity -- guilt, guilt, guilt.
Fifty million couples. Divorce rate amongst our clientele of
three percent, not per year, but of all couples ever associated with the
program. It is sometimes said in our day that Attorney General Ashcroft is
the only American thoroughly disapproving of everything we stand for, a
back-handed compliment exceeded only by millions of smiling faces.
And our proudest statistic? Seventy percent of our couples
remain faithful during their week-long stay; the DNA of any child
unmistakably that of the home father.
The rustic, the crude, the half-feral and semi-wild; that was
the secret of Tip McCorison; far better than alcohol at scratching
atavistic itches.
I don't know what `formic' is. There's a line from a Frost
poem: "Then word went out in formic / death's come to Jerry McCormick..."
Well, word went out in formic. No, no one ran to the town hall to reserve
space for a future museum, but a few may have been sophisticated enough to
have the idea, and just lacked the focus to act on their instincts. I
wonder why.
The tradition of the spot was that it was delivered with
Friday's mail, for a date the following Saturday. In an average year,
three spots were delivered, three dates consummated. Approximately two
percent of Stonington women and girls had been spotted, this statistic
emblematic of the rarity of special events adding to their luster.
While "Flexipline" developed over many years, there was a more
immediate, and, frankly, more interesting reaction to Margaret's spot.
Adam arrived. Larry's tall, Norwegian friend of two years
previous; half-way through a two-week drive, and he was in Stonington fifty
hours after the news reached him in Montana. See why I went to work on a
business plan?
Working cattlemen wear ten-gallon hats and long sleeved shirts;
gloves and bandanas if they have more brains that the steers, so he was
pale. There's a thing about this. For normal and romantic relationships,
tans are fine; brown is beautiful, but, alone with a friend in private
circumstances, the opposite is true; milk white skin is slightly more
erotic than any coloring, save that of the octoroon. No blacks of any
shade in Stonington; we thought Italians were exotic, so we'd make due with
our strikingly fair and boyish Norwegian athlete.
The annals of Flexipline include some controversy over age;
specifically, in allowing couples to bring children, their own, and those
close to them, as they saw fit. The publicity drove our shares up sixty
percent, and, as does the Catholic church, we found, lo and behold, a
pedophile had penetrated our ranks, and sacrificed him to the greater good.
Now you'll undoubtedly be asking yourself how, at age fourteen, I made such
a mature decision effecting the stonework at the foundation of my embryonic
enterprise. It was simple.
Adam was visiting. He had the answer. It goes to the winter
he turned seventeen, 1958. He was visiting his family, and that in turn
led to a visit to his uncle and aunt in Sweden. Rolf and Ingrid
Verthadden, their son Robbie, eleven, and Adam's niece, Trikka, just turned
two. Much of the activity centered on Robbie's hockey, and a few days into
Adam's visit, the boy had to go to the city for playoffs. Adam had the
ranch hand's natural disdain for gratuitous risk, and decided not to go;
Ingrid was delighted because it meant she could, leaving Trikka with her
uncle, and not only Trikka, but her friend Vanessa, also two, whose family
was lost to the same icy delirium as the Verthaddens.
Before the calm of the ice came the chaos of departure. As
Robbie left he found a second to whisper to his cousin. Nodding toward the
second floor, he said, "Dry them off thoroughly or they might catch cold."
Come to think of it, what had the toddlers been up to? They'd
missed out on the hoopla of departure... hmm... better check.
The mystery was by a moppet chorale:
"We're two little girls, wet as rain, baa, baa, baa.
We're standing much to close to the drain, baa, baa, baa."
Cute. Bad thought. Ten year olds could be cute. Adorable?
That was worse. Not think at all? He had to climb the stairs, make his
way down the hall and into the bathroom, hardly a mindless task. The girls
repeated their duet, and the teen girded his loins -- yeah, the Dane from
the plains, veteran of a buckaroo or two, now he was getting along like a
foal with a wolf hanging from each forequarter.
"We're just playing," Trikka said. Adam had crawled up the
stairs, down the hall, and hoisted himself onto his legs before knocking at
the verge of the open door. The girls had bid him come in. For some
reason, he'd responded.
"Yeah," said Vanessa, "we shouldn't be wearing white, because
we aren't really virgins."
"It's just pretend," Trikka added.
He'd been prepared for a glimpse, then into the towel,
rub-a-dub-dub, next girl out of the tub, safely in their little sleep suits
and ready for bed time, due in an hour. Instead, the tykes were dressed as
brides, their hair plaited with daisies. They'd touched each other lightly
with lipstick and makeup. Why? As he fell to his knees, Adam couldn't
help thinking it overkill; their immaculately brushed blond hair framing
almost matching pairs of big blue eyes was gargantuan; the wedding gowns,
modified as bikinis, would have been the last clothes ever worn in Eden,
and yet the slight touches of color still stood out, especially the big
girl baby lips, just hinting of tangerine.
"You're embarrassed, too," Trikka stated solemnly.
What she was talking about was Adam kneeling on the tile floor
of the bathroom.
Vanessa looked down at Adam. "That makes Sam, Robbie, and your
uncle," she said, "so I guess it must be normal, like they said."
"But it happens so fast," Trikka observed.
"That's because of our ages," Vanessa responded, wisely. "It
can't be the costumes, because we weren't wearing any the first time,
remember, and your brother still dropped the minute he came in to get us
out of the tub.
"So you're right, it must be our ages."
The girls would grow to liquefy antidotes to hypocrisy,
research oriented as they were, but this was how they started.
"You have to carry us both over the threshold," Trikka said,
"but you get to pick any room in the house."
Nice touch. Testing to see if he was still alive.
Vanessa spoke up, reminding her friend that on the way to
what4ver room Adam they needed to pass by the telephone. Half dead already
from carrying forty pounds of strawberry smelling girl, he was decimated --
should have seen it coming -- that Trikka's little friend wanted to call
her nine-year-old brother.
Crashing to his knees did not good, for he had not the strength
to remain upright, and the instant he toppled forward onto his arms, both
girls yelped in satisfaction and mounted him, no bridle, no saddle, just
cute little heels trying to dig into his flanks, but not having much luck.
He got the message, and began walking, trying, consciously, not to feel
like the world's luckiest stallion -- or at least one of them. In a recess
of Adam's mind glimmered the oddity that he'd had to leave Montana to
experience the ultimate equestrian event.
The door opened and the also blond Sam arrived. "See you roped
yourself some breeding stock, young ladies," the kid drawled in English
rich in the cadences of John Wayne. The girls cooed and giggled in
delight, and, since there was nothing more delightFUL than the average
slim, friendly nine-year-old boy, Adam let them react without snorting or
pawing the ground. His goodwill was unfairly rewarded.
"Seems why the two of you young ladies have been out and
about," the pseudo J.W. went on, "you've gone and run yourselves into some
mud, and I'll be damned if you haven't."
It was easy for Adam to see why his passengers adored the slim
twist of a boy, because he fell to his knees and began pulling at the
soccer suit the seventeen-year-old athlete was wearing.
"Yes," he drawled, "by god, it's mud from the flats along the
south bank of the south branch of the Powder River; why, I'd know the stuff
anywhere.
"Fact of the matter is, lassies, you've gone and done what no
right-minded range hand, even a greenhorn, should ever do, and that is to
go on about your business with an animal covered with the mud of the south
bank of the south fork of the Powder River.
"Now, if you'll take my hand, we'll get you down from there,
we'll clean up old dobbin here, then you'll be good as new."
Adam swayed his head from side to side. He wasn't playing
horsey, he was taking in the living room of the house, feeling it might be
the last temporal view of his life. It was nice not to have to think; to
just stand there, on his palms and knees, shaking, while Trikka and Vanessa
giggled adoringly and threw their arms up to be rescued by Mr. Wayne.
"Looks like your four-legged friend here has already taken on a
bit of a chill," the duke said, "come, feel along his sides, and while
you're at it, let's clean the cayuse so we don't end up with a hobbled nag
along with a heap of veterinary bills."
"Oh, we're sorry, Sam," Vanessa said, looking at her brother,
"we were on our way to a wedding, we tried the shortcut; isn't it awful
what we've done?"
"No time for that sort of thing," Sam intoned, "the longer we
wait, the harder he shakes, so it's not the time to be talking on at
length."
With that, Vanessa positioned herself at Adam's left flank
while Trikka and Sam worked from the teen's right side.
"Such a beautiful animal," Trikka whispered, running tiny
fingers gently along the heaving flanks directly behind the disappearing
football jersey. Sam dropped the John Wayne act, whispering with the same
excitement as the little girls.
Much of their byplay was lost on Adam. Removing the `mud' only
made the shaking worse, nor was the seventeen year old's demeanor helped by
Trikka's suggestion he might be suffering from the cold, and both girls
piling back on his now naked torso, covering him with enough heat to melt
half Siberia.
"Looks like I got muddy, myself," Sam said, unbuttoning his
shirt, then sitting on the arm of a chair while he got rid of his shoes and
pants. If the nine year old had been embarrassed his first time with his
sister, it was nothing compared to how he felt pulling down his underpants
in front of this mature male athlete.
Trikka was lying on Adam's shoulders. "We're only two," she
whispered, "so we don't know much, but from the way Sam is, you must be
very attractive."
There was one excellent thing about being taken as a beast; he
didn't have to talk. Excellent. What was there to say, especially about
Sam? Put one in every household and there would suddenly be no time for
war and violence; even a plaster statue. Why shouldn't a naked boy be a
national symbol. Keep your koala bears, your pandas, your toucans and
tigers, nothing came close to a boy with a boner. Certainly Trikka and
Vanessa thought so because when the boy suggested that his sister and her
little friend mosey on up to the master bedroom, Adam felt nothing but
pretend spurs and heard nothing but urgent clucking punctuated by calls to
giddy-ap As if.
On the other hand, there was the sight of a wraith of a boy
climbing the blond pine stairs, slim waist, long, coltish legs, so maybe a
bit of a trot WAS in order. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, as
if! The girls were sweet, the girls were patient; didn't make any
difference. He was shaking so hard, he couldn't move. Couldn't. Arms and
shoulders, useless, legs, barely able to keep him off the floor: not going
anywhere.
Again, Adam looked around the Swedish living room as if it were
to be his last mortal environment. Fortunately, as his head lolled back in
forth like a stricken beast, his eyes managed to catch a glimpse of the
staircase. Sam, possibly not hearing hoof beats, had turned around. He
was still embarrassed at being with so mature a male, but he stood facing
Adam, arms at his side, hugely swollen; obviously longing. The girls cooed
plaintively; in the end, it all came together, proving there are limits
even to states of the most intense stupefaction.
His gait was not what his young riders might have preferred,
but stiff, tentative, and shaking with nerves, he did move across the
floor, to the stairs, and then on up. Sam excused himself, and dashed down
the hall and into the bathroom. The girls guided their stallion to
Trikka's parents' bedroom, and pretended to tether her mount to the
bedpost.
Sam showed up almost immediately carrying a soapy washcloth and
a bath towel. .He placed these on the bedspread, and reached to help Adam
to his feet. The mature teen could sense anything to do with games was
over. As long as they didn't demand coherent speech, this was fine.
From a position of half-standing, it was easy. All he had to
do was grasp the bedpost, and pull. But why had he made the effort? No
sooner was he upright, than four tiny hands were busying themselves with
his shorts. Sam knelt at the foot of the bed, staring hotly into Adam's
eyes. When he sensed the little girls were making progress, he glanced
down.
Where is art? Art is a seventeen-year-old athlete posed
against a twisting mahogany bedpost with two little brides removing his
athletic shorts while a nine-year-old boy with a huge boner stares down.
At least that's one place where it is.
Where there is art, can heaven be far behind? I know you'll
excuse me for speaking in my character's stead; use your imagination, put
yourself in his bare feet; wouldn't you want assistance? Require it?
Well, Adam's no better than you are, so I'm just helping as you'd wish to
be helped.
Sam helped by holding up the wet, soapy cloth. This prompted
the toddlers to stop playing and pull down Adam's shorts and briefs. Now
I've gone and rendered the whole freaking cast mute. If I was doing this
for money, we'd cut to the hockey playoffs -- that would mean research and
delay in publication; not optimal. Meantime, Adam was staring down at
himself, the little girls were both at his right hip, also staring while
gently coaxing him to turn so he'd be completely free of the bedpost and
give themselves and Sam a full view..
Silence. Other than panting, silence.
Adam reached with his left hand, gripping the pineapple at the
top of the mahogany post; his arm bulged with the strain of standing as he
swung fully to the tiny brides at his feet. Trikka reminded Vanessa that
they really shouldn't be dressed in white, so Sam dropped off the bed
behind the little girls and unsnapped the bras of their bikini costumes.
Adam's arm bulged with the strain of his weight, his knuckles white in a
death grip. Then off came the little panties.
Silence.
Sam reached out for Adam and with the patience of a cleric
loosing the grip of a near-drowning victim, pried the teen's fingers from
the pineapple, gently lowering him to the bed . The girls were especially
cute as they helped each other onto the adult bed, all blond hair, daisies
and magic. Sam tugged, pulled and gently coaxed Adam until the athlete was
lying full-length on his back. Trikka straddled his right thigh, Vanessa,
his left, and Sam came to rest kneeling at the man's left hip.
"Like with Robbie?" his little sister asked.
"If you want," the boy said, handing her the wet, soapy
washcloth.
The nymph held the cloth to Trikka. Trikka took one end.
Serious as accountants, the girls twisted their ends in opposite
directions, carefully, holding the midpoint exactly over Adam. As the
girls executed this opening act, Sam prompted Adam to arch his back and
moved a pillow under his rear, then made final adjustments leaving young
man's hands behind his neck.
Trikka and her little guest seemed to be having second thoughts
about their use of the wet cloth:
"He's so wet, already," the two year old observed.
"We wouldn't want to wash it away because it's natural,"
Vanessa agreed, demonstrating, if nothing else, what happens with an infant
should her parents bestir themselves to read to the child an hour each
night.
Adam, for his part, was glad something about the evening was
natural. I mean, sure, Robbie slugging it out with stick and razor blades
on a sheet of ice was natural, but it was also remote. Two twenty pound
girls... with flowers in their hair. That part was natural. A reader
writes to say sex with minors should be left to other minors. Adam was a
minor, but that's a technicality. That sex with minors should only be with
other minors is actually a bit loose. In a perfect world, any aspect of
sex beyond kissing would only come with permanent marriage; that's how my
maternal grandmother grew up, and she made it to a happy
one-hundred-two. In today's world, the sentiment might be paraphrased:
Death for the elderly should be left to the elderly. I have had four
experiences with extreme juvenility and sex. Two occurred here in
Dangriga; one, a three year old girl wantonly hugging David Zeheneh as I
shopped in his mother's store. This went on for about half an hour.
Later, the same day, there were some fellows loading a boat on the river.
One of them had a three year old girl attached to his back like a limpet.
At my gym in Torreon there once was a man in the sauna with a two year old
boy on his lap. When I sat across from them, the boy touched the man, whom
I took to be his uncle, and said "Leche, aqui." Milk, here. His uncle
said something about "fuerte," "strength". In context, they were talking
about semen, and the boy being too young to masturbate his uncle. This
story is actually inspired by a real event, a time when I was babysitting
two two-year-olds. When I went in to get them out of the tub they gave me
very aware looks, and if I mistreated them in any way it was in briskly
drying them off, getting them to bed, and leaving them there. In summary,
whether Vanessa and Trikka have sex, or don't have sex, makes no difference
-- as long as someone reads to them. Of a hundred possible virtues of a
child, growing unmolested is probably on the bottom half of the list. As
ever, I'm not espousing anything to do with anything to do with sex, I'm
just telling the truth, and the truth is it just isn't very important, one
way or the other. Science fiction isn't important, detective stories
aren't important, westerns aren't important, and sex isn't important. GET
IT??
Why do I write about it, then? Because misplaced morality and
Puritanism are ruining the world, in general, and sex is a litmus paper
that folk actually read. Read to your kids and sleep with them, you'll
have good kids. Don't read to (a/k/a nurture) your kids, and don't sleep
with them; well, you're pretty much on you own there, and your children
definitely will be. From god's mouth to your ears, capuche?
Sighs from you veteran readers, I know: here he goes again,
deity, prince, artist, archangel, and king of Big Blue, the planet. Hey,
at least I try to make it fun.
Not the right word for Adam. Fun? Where was the fun in two
cutie pies abandoning their soapy rag and exploring bare-handed? Who was
laughing? Certainly not the nine year old boy. He had shifted to Adam's
right hip so he could help the little girls and look into the teen
athlete's eyes.
Six hands. Thirty fingers. Kneading, stroking, fondling and
playing.
"Sam," Vanessa whispered, "I'm getting excited."
"Are you ready for me?" her brother asked in response.
"Yes," the pixie whispered.
"Can you help us?" Sam asked, directing the question at Adam.
Since none of this was happening in the first place, Adam took
an indifferent attitude and nodded his head. He'd long since lost any
feeling or memory of feeling, and nothing anyone could do was going to
return him to the world of normal stimuli and sensation. He was doomed to
perennial numbness, so what happened from here on out was academic.
Seeing Adam's slight nod, Vanessa scramble forward off his left
thigh and onto his taut belly, rolling on her back and spreading her legs
as wide as she could. This brought feeling to Adam's midriff, and he
reached down to cradle the girl. Sam also moved forward, over his sister,
and, staring into Adam's eyes, lowered himself to the little girl. The
teen, now he had a role to play, brushed off enough of his trance to find
Sam, find Vanessa, and bring the boy's slim three inch penis to the waiting
child.
And he thought he was already comatose? Feeling so much it
became an ethereal numbness, neither mind, body nor spirit spared?
Impossible. He must be feeling something, cupping Sam's boner with his
right hand, cradling boy and girl in his left arm, feeling the hard,
finger-size penis entering the now panting and sweating girl, these must
lead to some sensation -- what were they, chopped liver?
Trikka was sucking him. If he canted his head up off the
pillow, he could see her mopped, flowery head bobbing slowly up and down
over the bodies of the frozen children in his arms.
Adam slowly released frozen Sam, flattening his hand between
the young bodies to see if that would bring any sensation -- any quickness,
in the archaic sense -- to his shattered nervous system.
The boy behaved beautifully. Remained frozen as his tiny
sister grew comfortable with his penetration, then took her gently, in a
series of tiny, tender strokes, until she whispered that he was in her
womb, at which point the boy grunted like an animal and buried himself to
the hilt. Again he froze as his sister cooed and coaxed.
And Trikka.
Something utterly not to think about or imagine in any way
was Trikka's tiny mouth, lips and tongue. Blessed oblivion, blessed comas
of mind and body, for any sensation attached to that tenderly bobbing blond
head would have been unendurable in the adult male, which would seem, in
context, to mean any male over age two.
Now that Sam was fully inside his baby sister, Adam removed
his right hand so he could cradle the lovers in both arms. Sam's face was
a foot from his own, just the distance for their eyes to focus on each
other and stare in mutual incomprehension.
For long minutes they remained rigid as carved stone, only the
slow rhythm of Trikka's head animating the tableaux.
"I'm ready to go all the way with you," Vanessa whispered to
her brother. Adam felt a stirring at Sam's waist. The boys ragged
breathing became a feral pant, sweat wetted his handsome boy's face, his
eyes alternately squeezed shut, and opened, apparently shocked by the
thrusting of his little sister aided by Adam's strong hands.
Huffing and grunting, the boy began stroking deep in the little
girl's belly. Trikka, obviously excited by te site of the slim penis
ravaging her ardent little friend, became very serious with Adam, licking,
tonguing and sucking him as avidly as Vanessa was with the penis in her
tummy.
An applicable age factor was the nine-year-old boy's speed.
Probably gauche to mention it, but the youngster mounted to a frenzy inside
the tight, hot little girl, mounting her high, exciting her until her legs,
now held by Adam, thrashed at her brother's thighs and her hips
jack-hammered in response to his almost rabbit rate of intercourse.
Trikka had released Adam from her mouth so she could watch Sam
and her friend and began masturbating the teen's glans hard and fast.
Where before there had been a void caused by extreme sensory
overload, now came breakthrough sensations. All three re-entered the world
of the living, together. It took awhile, but that mattered not. They
were, after all, alive.
Sam lead, and no, it wasn't golf, but, still, by a stroke.
Vanessa cried out, "oh, baby!" the second the nine year old froze against
her. "He's cumming in her," Trikka squealed in childish glee.
Like clouds parting showing a Hollywood heaven to a movie
character, Adam felt his climax approach.
"He's getting ready to do what Robbie does," Trikka panted.
The nine year old's orgasm was utterly intense, as was
Vanessa's, but neither lasted more than half a minute. It was a good
thing. Adam really was cumming off. Sam kissed his sister quickly, and
rolled off her, then knelt at Adam's right hip. For a few seconds he
helped Trikka masturbate the athletic teen, then the two of them maneuvered
Vanessa above Adam, bringing the tip of his throbbing erection against the
child's vagina.
"I want to get ready for Daddy," the little girl gasp,
thrusting herself against the mature male with more than deliberation. Sam
held Adam rigid for the little girl, and Trikka grabbed her waist, helping
her mount the young adult.
Adam felt her on him, first and inch, just covering his glans
with her hot, silky perfection, then another inch so his penis felt buried
in lava. He started cumming while Sam pulled the eager Trikka underneath
him, mounting her quickly from the rear, and at the same time retaining his
grip on Adam.
Sam stayed high over the girl, so she wouldn't be pressed into
Adam's body and thus lose her view. Both gazed hotly at the semen flowing
from Vanessa as Adam's ejaculation continued. Vanessa also raised herself
on her sturdy little arms so she could look back down between herself and
Adam, even moving slightly to the side, so as not to block her lover's
view.
The sight of what he was sharing with the baby, of Sam panting
wildly over his little niece, brought Adam back to a real, if better,
world. He came inside Vanessa again and again, sometimes looking into the
child's glazed eyes, sometimes down at his penis still held rigidly by the
panting Sam. His urgency with the girl finally sent her into a second
smashing orgasm, equaled by Trikka responding to her brother. All three
ultimately spent themselves, as did the athletic teen, and the fell in a
panting, sweating heap, finally ready for the bathtub.
Good story, but it still left Tip and Margaret.
Next time.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx