Date: Fri, 8 Aug 2003 02:03:10 -0600
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: THAT VALLEY - FILE II  (CONC.)

       "Why did you wait until I was seven?" Nell asked Reyn.
       "What happened at the end," the boy explained, "happened a lot
because we didn't need to be naked together to share it.  What I mean is,
it happened the other way, too, with him standing over me.  What happened
in my mouth was pretty intense, and maybe kind of neutral at the same time,
which doesn't make much sense, but it always made me feel kind of light and
good, afterwards, so it happened a lot.  Darl was a very potent young
adult, his seed probably carrying a maximum of, well, call it male essence.
The result of our being together two or three times a week, both monogamous
and not given to divergent pleasures, was that I kind of grew a little
faster and, well, a little bigger than most boys.  Even when you were six I
didn't think it was safe, then you didn't put on much of a growth spurt,
and I sort of did, so I knew it wouldn't be safe, then I began falling in
love with you, so I no longer thought of you as my kid sister, and began
not caring if it was safe or not.  I mean, I could hardly kill you.  I'm
not like a horse or anything.  But it's going to hurt at first, and it's
going to make you walk stiffly for awhile.  People will know, but than
that's probably usually the case.  Put enough feet to the fire and the
stories would come pouring from every family.  A lot of things, Nell.  Just
waiting.  Watching you display more and more over the last few months, make
your wanting known without being anything but sweet and delicious.  That
was like living a year each day, and with things the way they are in the
world, that's nothing trivial.  Waiting.  A morning prayer, every morning,
that a run away truck or wasting disease wouldn't claim you before I heard
you cry out beneath me and felt your tears on my chest.  The chance to pour
myself unto you, to get American corny about it.  Selfish.  Wanting you for
me.  Then you traded your radio for a new set of batteries, and I became
the happiest fourteen year old yet to live."

       "How strange it is," the pixie mused.  "For the first time in my
life I feel like praying for something, not out of ritual, but really, and
think of the blasphemy!  Why it's monstrous.  No color of cloth on earth
would share my prayer, light a candle, or bless me"
       "And yet," the fourteen year old advised, "should you seek a
consultation with this minister and that priest, in private, seal of the
sacrament, you'd probably come to find that Jesus loved you so dearly his
disciples would glory in understanding your wants and meeting your needs."
       "And I wouldn't have to pay like we usually do?" the girl asked.
       "If you were lucky," the boy responded after a moment, "you might
even reverse that old collection-plate gag."  The girl thought her brother
very droll and funny even while nurturing just a trace of a grudge against
Coach Darl for so endowing her brother they'd had to postpone their talk
for perhaps two whole years.

       "Were you ever able to be naked with him?" the girl asked.
       "We called it going to the fire," Reyn replied, "hiking by the area
we'd first visited on skies.  The first time we were like I don't know
what.  Very bashful.  We made up a game by closing our eyes then sort of
playing hide and seek.  Touching each other and seeing who could got the
furthest without peeking.  We didn't do very well, but it was fun, anyway.
He's so beautiful lying along a log on his back, hands behind his head, his
left leg on the ground for balance.  We'd pretend we were artists working
with models and carefully arrange each other.  What we liked best was lying
on soft grass, on hour backs, me on top of him with his hands going all
over me, then touching me while we talked about things like compressing
weeks of passion into hours and who knows what else.  My big thrill was
when he let me get him wet, first, because usually it was the other way
around, and feeling how excited he got -- you know, extra -- when my
hand was slick with my own watery sperm, where usually the end happened
with his hand wet with his semen."

       "Did that make it happen faster?" she wanted to know.
       "Abut twice as fast," the boy answered, "but you know, it's kind of
hard to be precise because before I'd spray off on him we'd usually have
been naked for half an hour more.  But starting from being active with each
other, yeah, about twice as fast, plus quite a bit more.  If you had
pictures of both ways, it would be easy to tell which was which."

       "I liked the part about being naked and lying on the grass," the
girl murmured, "did you ever roll over so you could feel his bare chest
against yours?"
       "That's how we came together when we were playing our hide-and-seek
game," the boy said, "it took awhile, as against just grabbing on to each
other, but the feeling was very special."
       "Say no more," Nell whispered.

       The athletic you teenager quickly stripped out of the remainder of
his clothing, the seven year old girl copying him garment by garment.
Closing their eyes they simulated a game of hide-and-seek as well as they
could on the confines of their improvised, but very pleasant, bower.  As it
had been when he was eleven, the first touch of the girl's chest against
his own was equivalent to what many conventional might experience in a
hear.  She felt tiny and soft, he rugged and highly potent.  Just firmly
touching they slowly opened their eyes.  "Hi" they both whispered.

       Gradually, their arms folded around each other, the girl wriggled
slightly, and in a few minutes was lying on her back on her beautiful
brother's heaving chest.  His penis was huge between her legs, seven full
inches, thick, and utterly reliable looking.  How amazing a wonderful boy
was attached, a quiet, sensible beauty who'd earn well for his tribe,
perhaps their tribe of little monkeys and geniuses.  In her life she'd
never be jealous of another female sharing him, how could she possibly
blame a girl?

       "Nell," Reyn whispered after his hands had roamed every beautiful
inch of her tiny body for long minutes, "it's going to happen just the way
it did the first time with Darl.  Hold me low down with your left hand and
grip he hard and pull down slowly with your right.  You'll start getting
splashed immediately, so be ready, and if there's too much hold me to the
side and let it spill in the snow."
       "Will there be any for inside me?" she wanted to know.
       "If there's time," her brother replied, "you can roll over on your
tummy, move back against me, and maybe I can spray some in you without
going up inside your body."
       "If that happened," the prodigy asked, "would it make it easier for
us, later?"
       "It's very slippery at first," Reyn acknowledged, "but pretty
quickly it gets sticky.  I don't know if it would help or cause problems."
       "Then it's not all romance," the girl mock-sighed, "we'll end up
experimenting just like other boys and girls do."
       "What would be absolutely amazing," Reyn observed, "would be if we
lived in a world where you could get up and report for show-and-tell.  Say
to your fellow second grader's that having sperm inside you made it easier
or harder to take a mature male.  Even if they giggled, you know, the
girls, they'd still learn."

       No, their aspiration to advance the world and set things right was
not solely frivolous.

       Nell way lying with her hands behind her head, giving herself
completely to the lingering touches and feather caresses of her stallion
buck.  "Can I touch you at all before it happens?" she asked.
       "It feels like you could for five or ten seconds," Reyn answered to
her responsive nod, his hands now everywhere on the arching, panting, naked
child, legs spread wide.  She wriggled lovingly to his gentle
ministrations, arching with a gasp when his right hand moved high on her
right leg and kept moving against her.  It was hard, keeping her pose of
welcome and will, but her hands remained behind her pretty braids and she
made do by whispering his name over and over.  Three times he brought her
to gentle, fairy cums, and each time she gurgled happily and encouraged him
with soft hisses and mews deep in her throat.  Nearly an hour had passed.
The heavily laid fire burned feely, it's heat collected by the clam-shell
design of the lean-to.  The blaze, the story of Darl, their nakedness and
closeness, their lives, all moved inward, all centered between their young
navels and knees, and her hands came free.  For a few seconds she felt him
go to steel in her hand, gripped him hard -- he was so rugged --
following protocol, and lowered her right hand, instinctively wetting it on
a heavy slick of seminal fluid lodged under his full hand heavy foreskin
before holding him vertically and taking him slowly and fully.  His
sperming was immediate, the silver spray jetting against the bows roofing
their shelter.  So astounded was she with Reyn's display she gaped in
petrified awe before responding to her own needs, and bringing his huge,
spraying penis hard against her tender breast, thence allowing him to slick
her white and deep just has Darl had cum off on him a few years earlier.
In half a minute the real fire began subsiding, and she gazed tenderly and
still awestruck as his pulse lessened.  So enthralled was the act between a
mature teen and a wildly young girl she nearly forgot her own suggested
ending to their first time together, and so with some haste rolled, her
slippery chest and belly helping, on her stomach, moving urgently back.  He
helped and they found each other in an instant.  Pushed firmly against her,
but did not force.  "I'm cumming," the fourteen year old groaned at the
full touch of the tiny maiden, and Nell, holding still, could feel a
renewed heaviness to his pulse as he ejaculated four heavy sprays of semen
just inside her.

       Again they rolled, very carefully, this time the stag on top of his
fawn.  "Hi" they whispered again as she spread her legs widely and moved
carefully up against her mature brother.  They were still perfectly
positioned, Reyn slightly on his elbows and knees, the girl with her arms
around his middle back, legs ready to wrap around his muscular buttocks and
pull him to her.  So ready, yet for ten minutes they just enjoyed wiggling
gently together to the rhythm of his tender thrusting against her.  His
hugeness and her tiny body.  Her hard, athletic banjo string muscles,
thighs and belly, the soft stroking of her hands on his flanks and back as
they stared by firelight into each other's wide, blue eyes.  Could there
possibly be more?  Wouldn't a single, quietly passed drop of his spend fill
her belly?  Wouldn't that be enough for the clerics to deny and forbid?
God sure as hell didn't think so.  And the kids were on his side.  Reyn was
guided by unseen hands, encouraged by unheard voices, and responded with
power and vigor.  He began taking the little girl, and her legs flew around
him with a slap.  His flaring head entered her, and he bucked hard but
short.  She did shriek, she did cry, and he felt her tears against his
heaving, bare chest.

       In a few minutes it began to be complete with the children.  "You're
way inside me now," she whispered as his huge penis moved to have its
length high between her slim, white legs.  He hissed in response, and,
though his eyes had grown slack and vacant, he still stared down into her
pretty German-girl face.
       "More sperm is coming," the teen managed to whisper after half an
hour, "then we better stop for awhile."
       "Yes and no," the girl panted.
       "Are you sure?" he panted, caring displacing the animal in his eyes
almost in an instant.
       "I want you to fuck me," she hissed, biting his collarbone and
shaking.

       There, she'd said it.  No more dirty little secrets between them.
He wilded at the word, not quite fully raping her, but in less than five
strong minutes his lower belly was hard against hers; he was home, he was a
man and man enough to hold his manhood.  She panted, resting, for another
five minutes, then, with the energy of a tiger, began her own fill rape,
lunging against him, biting him, raking his back with her tiny fingers as
she pounded on him with her tiny feet.  He responded lie another tiger, now
hard and fast with her, studding fully, lunging fully, faster and faster
until she screamed and went wild, so out of control she violated their one
rule and yelled "fuck me" once again, then her eyes rolled fully back, her
head lolled and she died to the outside world.  Twice.  three times.  Then
the fourth, gentle and tender as a spring breeze, a gentle shuddering
accompanied by happy gurgling as she felt once again the pulse of him so
incredibly deeply inside herself.  "Good-night" each whispered, both very
thankful the skier and scout knew now to build a lasting fire (and he was
good at woodcraft, too).


       Note to vet readers.  Just this minute.  Over heard very clearly
while I was in the kitchen.  "Mama," Tonton to Daisy, "Elston wants to take
my boty."  I'm, no kidding, tempted to go downstairs and say "Elston, why
don't you come up an sleep with me?"  I had to go down once a month or so
ago for a long distance, collect-to-me, call, and, while I rarely even
knock on their door, it is my home, they are my guests, not tenants, so
with just a quick knock I opened the west bedroom door.  As far as I could
tell, both boys, nine and thirteen, were in bed with the beautiful -- and
I mean it - Queenie, their fourteen year old sister.  They shuffled quickly
while I closed the door, Queenie came upstairs to take the call, and that's
the end of the story, for the moment.


       Heinz could almost sense them.

       "Do you want to talk a little?" he asked, assuming they all might
appreciate a break in the story telling.  "If nothing's happened this far,
I think we're pretty safe.
       "Okay," came Aaron's soft whisper.  He was a beautiful hawk faced,
black-eyed boy, delicate as a girl with no trace of femininity.  Indeed, it
was little Nammi who, in her black-eyed face, had some of the boyish
essence of her fourteen year old brother.  Both were slim and delicate
looking, yet could play, sing, and dance with great energy until late in
the night, providing they got ample sleep.

       "How are you fixed up for coats and blankets and things?" was the
Nazi's first question.
       "We could start a store," the musician replied, then giggled.  "I
mean is that a cliche for a Jew, or what.  One extra blanket, and he wants
to go all mercantile."
       Heinz laughed.
       "We're fine," Aaron answered, straight.  "The only thing is, there's
are a lot of things, I guess you'd call them issues, we wanted to talk
about while we were learning about your friends, but we were distracted by
the pace of the chronicle and so we've just been sitting and moving
closer."
       "I'm glad you didn't find any of it funny," the blond noted,
"whispering's one thing in the fog, but a fit of the giggles might be
something else."  They, the eight remaining children, were now enough in
sight Heinz could see them nodding and sense their quaking.  One slip of
one hand off one tightly clenched lip, and there's be half a firestorm,
that's how cute and intelligent the little group was.  But there was not
slip, and maybe none of it was that funny in the first place, so their
lives were saved.

       "You probably know the safest way to go," Heinz said to his
age-mate, the leader, Aaron, "so, if you want, you could take me to what
you think is the safest place and I could tell the story of Max.  He's
older than Josep, Reyn and me, but he was just drafted so he doesn't have
much rank."
       "How old is he," Aaron asked as he led his group, not of eleven,
deep in and beyond the cemetery, and far enough into a wood they could
light small torches and see what was around them.  They'd only been missing
for a day, but had managed to carve a cozy thicket from the summer
undergrowth.  In daylight, it would be virtually undetectable, and at night
the nearest bad Nazi was a million miles away, for awhile.
       "Nineteen," Heinz answered, "but very boyish.  We're almost brothers
in appearance.
       "Does he have a sister?" ten year old Nammi asked.
       "Seven," Heinz answered to a collective gasp, "two sets of twins, so
they're from thirteen to seven years old."  Another sustained gasp.  Maybe
his stories weren't very funny, but wasn't this response just as rewarding,
besides being so much safer?


       By the way, not that I left anyone hanging, the "boty" incident
passe peacefully, and all is quiet.

       "Seven sisters.  Nineteen.  It was almost beyond comprehension that
their friendly enemy had saved the best for last.  Gustav and Gretchen.
Heinz and Josep meeting them naked and highly aroused at the door to the
captive animal.  Reyn's hours with the tiny Nell.  And now it turned out
Max had seven sisters, six not yet in their teens.  Was it a paean for war?
If out of the slaughter, such a night as was ahead of them could occur, was
that not vast compensation?  Only one thing was certain in every young but
well-read mind, any outcome would be better with it than without it.

       Here, so far, so foggy, they were able to indulge in a fire and
spent two hours cooking and getting both acquainted and re-acquainted.
Filled with chicken and fish, the missing children updated Heinz on their
various last-they-new stories, Eva Kaluer, summing up for the tribe by
allowing that all their parents had to abandon them, trusting English
speaking children with at least a few local friends could move south,
where, accompanied by their parents, unlikely be successful at any rescue
trip in the first place, they'd be dead ducks.  For their part, the
children were delighted.  They had oodles of everything, could have started
a market if it had been safe to do so, and, as their parents said, local
friends.  In fact, the very plethora of transport options had been what
drove them into hiding.  They needed time to hear all ideas and decide what
would be best. Nor were they half-bad actors.  Their minds already made up;
half devastated with being made up, they nonetheless became the picture of
shy confusion, agreeing, (and remember, these are all Jewish children) that
it would help "so awfully" if, yes, Heinz would be nice enough to tell
Max's story.  Feeling there might be a laugh in it, after all, the handsome
boy agreed, suggesting that huddling together in the warm evening air by
the warm fire might be favorable to a more vivid story by virtue of less
clothing.  In less than a minute all were naked, Aaron and his sister
holding Heinz as the young Nazi protected the girl from his brother.  "It
really is important she be a virgin, tomorrow," the outside leader
whispered to his colleague.  "Cheating and conniving at this stage of the
game would be a disaster, everyone would know.  If she tells them she's
been spilled on, is honest about it, that will mildly enflame, but if she
bears the seed of a male in her belly, she's just another slab of meat.
It's simple, but it's war."

       "That goes for all of you," Heinz whispered.  "Whatever your other
options might have been, this seems to be the one you've chosen.  If so,
stick to it.  Obey?  It's probably about fourteen hours you'll have to
imagine the feelings of brother being with sister and boy being with
attractive young men.  You do your part and they'll do theirs, starting
tomorrow on Herr Werner's farm.  And that's not much more than half a day
from now with ample time to devote to sleep.  It won't be easy, especially
for you girls now coming to realize what you want most in life and dreaming
of the feelings Nell experienced with Reyn.  You boys may spill freely.
The men will understand, having been boys quite recently and retaining
sympathy for the condition.  And yes, the girls can help the boys, but not
brother and sister.

       "Does helping mean with our tongues," a shy voice asked, and eight
year old Hilda, younger sister of Jayz Mullen stood as if she were in
class.
       "Yes, sweetheart," Heinz softly reassured the pretty naked girl.
       "Am I too mature?" Kristen, the thirteen year old asked, indicating
her high, pert teacup size breasts, with their golden, upturned nipples the
size of small grapes.
       "They're pedophiles," Heinz answered, "not peda-morons.  They will
love you."

       Already with the first laugh?  Highly averse to smiling for very
good reasons, Heinz made an exception, and the woods finally filled with
the unbottled mirth of excited kids..

       Heinz took attendance

Kristen Mage -- (13) here
       Eva and Allen Kaluer (11/12).  here Aaron and Nammi Wolfe (14/10)
present Karl Weidman (13 here Freyer Gunter (13) here Hilda and Jayz Mullen
(8/14) here
              Henry Greene (12) here



     	A hard look from the young Nazi assured no brother was with his
sister.  It would take him awhile to have names at the tip of his tongue,
and, in the meantime, he felt the group had done a good job of forming
small, attentive clusters, in every case brothers and sisters with their
backs to each other.  Fed, warm and happy, an occasional slap at a
nocturnal fly, and the group settled in to listen to the story of Max
Nussle and his seven sisters.

     "If we keep him exhausted, in a chemical sense," the eldest, Ingrid,
thirteen said to her six pretty, younger sisters, "we should be quite safe
from his seed, though who would want to be, well, that's another question.
If we wash ourselves, having depleted him on our chests and faces, with a
strong solution of vinegar and water, we'll be safe as whores, who rarely
conceive."

     The strapping nineteen year old, rangy and long-boned, was nowhere to
be seen and the young females were making good use of his absence.  They
plotted, planned and connived; schemed their little hearts out, and waylaid
their stallion on his return.  Tilda, the eight year old and baby of the
tribe was sent out to the barn.

     "Max," she said, "Ingrid and the rest of us had a big, long talk while
you were out in the orchard.  If you had to guess do you thing it was about
dolls and pretend tea parties, or something else."
     "Well," the nineteen year old said, "if you were part of it, it had to
be something about dolls, but other than that, no, I can't guess."
     "Quite a lot has been happening with us, and especially the older
girls," the little blond, big-eyed darling explained, "but there's
something that hasn't happened."

     "Well," the boy mused, "you and Abba are too young to jump Zel over
the gate.  Maybe next year."
     "Don't we have Zel because there was no gate?" the tyke asked,
improvising as best she could in hopes of pleasing her six older sisters.
     "I guess something sort of accidental did happen," the beautiful, tall
athlete admitted, flushing slightly.
     "Good," Tilda said, "then we're on the same subject."
     "We are?"
     "Well," the girl mused, "maybe we were headed there, rather than
exactly on it.  But no gate is a good starting point.  Not in some big
conceptual way, no gate to heaven, so everyone gets to go, for example, or
philosophical way, no gate to the future, so we have to make it up for
ourselves, but kind of more practical, as in, for another example, seven
sisters who love you very much, and no gate."  Her eyes had that special
sparkle of the bright baby sister going through her paces for a handsome,
beloved older brother, and Max found it most engaging.
     "Then," he said, "assuming this gate represents a beginning and not a
terminus, maybe we should talk about it, strudelette."

     "I know we act like normal kids," `ette began, "and we're a happy
flock of chicks, but there is another side, or, to be mysterious, let me
say half another side.  A secret side and one that's abhorrent to
convention, though we like it well enough -- wish I could say that about
convention.  It's something that happened with each of us over the winters.
Sometimes it happened sort of alone, and sometimes with two or three of us,
together.  But half of it never happened with any of us."
     "And it has something to do with a gate?" Max asked, scared stiff at
the dawning inkling of where beautiful little Tilda was going with her
nervous chatter, and bigger and straining harder than he'd ever imagined he
could be.
     "Ingrid knows the most," the pixie replied, "and she says we younger
girls may be stiff-legged for awhile, which will affect our gait when we
walk, so if you stretch things a little, yes."
     "Riding Zel leaves you stiff," the teen observed.
     "That's pretty close, too," his tiny sister responded, "being mounted,
I mean."  He'd been wrong about his erection, it was yet bigger, yet
harder.  The eight year old prattled on, her voice dropping unconsciously
to a breathy whisper.
     "When we had our portraits done over the winter," she said.  "Berne
Fimeister, the artist."
     "He was nice," Max noted of the itinerant artist, "and he beats half
they artists in the books when it comes to his oils."
     "We all liked him," the girl agreed, "and, as I mentioned, we all
spent a lot of time either alone with him, or with two or three of us alone
with him.  Mostly for painting, he was very serious, but he also worked
hard and fast, so even though a lot got done, there was a certain amount of
time when we could do other things."
     "And that had nothing to do with painting gates on the farm," the
young man said.
     "Nope," she giggled, "and not Zel, either, though that's closer.  If
you want to know all the details, come up to Ingrid's room.  We're all
there, mother and father won't be returning from Aunt Ketchren's until
tomorrow, and we'll help with your chores to make up for the time you
lose."

     Unable to speak, had he been able to think of anything to say, Max
allowed himself to be led across the courtyard to the spacious farm house,
up the stairs, down the hall, and into the bedroom of his eldest sister.
The youngest parked him on the canopy bed and planted herself in his lap,
happily facing her sisters who were gathered close, sharing chairs and
hassocks.
     "He used this room, remember, because of the north light," Tilda
stated rhetorically.  (They all thought their brother's portrait had come
out by a tiny bit the best of all ten.) "so everything happened here."
     "Mostly I think because he looked like a boy and so much like you,"
Janine, a twelve year old twin said, her sister Lynn, nodding at her side.
     "And it was all our idea, eleven year old Nan added.  "He never asked
Ingrid to cut our dresses low in front, we did."
     "And how could he leave our bras off?" the other eleven year old twin,
Jill, asked.  "It's pretty hard for anyone but a girl to do that."  All
nodded.
     "He let us make sketches of him, too," nine year old Shelly completed
the default roll call, "so we were able to suggest things, you know, in the
name of art."
     "Make an Impression," Tilda giggled, showing a rare juvenile side to
her puckish viewpoint of most everything.

     With a little bounding around several of the girls produced a sketch
book and piece of paper.  They carefully opened the book to a certain page,
covering all but the top of the image with the blank paper, then slowly
drawing it down.  Max immediately recognized his old friend, and, as the
paper lowered against the sketch, there was more and more to recognize.

     "Did you ever see him like this?" Lynn asked.  All the sisters were
blond, blue-eyed, and pretty, with this twelve year old perhaps by a pinch
the most comely of the lot.  By now the screening paper was about half way
down the tall artist's athletic chest.
     "Yes," Max whispered, flushing, but glad to be where he was and mature
enough to realize his nervous embarrassment would pass in time.  He excused
himself, rose from the bed and walked down the hall to his own bedroom,
returning in a minute with his own sketch book and resuming his seat on
Ingrid's bed, Tilda in his lap.  The girls gathered around and were almost
immediately glad they had done so.  Opening to a certain page, the nineteen
year old emulated his sisters by covering his drawing with his hand, then
slowly drawing it down.  As children will, they made a game of it, huddled
around so all could see, girls moving and inch, boy moving an inch, lower,
tension mounting palpably, and lower.

     "Tell us," Tilda whispered, all nodding immediately.
     "He had to push me to get me started," the brother said, "about half a
gram.  I was curious and wanted to see some of his portfolio.  He said he
had a conventional one he used to get commissions, and another private one
that was more himself as the artist, but that he'd not usually show to
clients.  I guess that was about half a gram, because that's the one I
wanted to see."

     The amateur sketches of the visiting artist (not the first they'd ever
tried) were excellent and the children were content revealing them slowly
to each other.  By this time in Max's story, the solar plexus on both works
were exposed, leaving a lot to the imagination.  (All were equally
thrilled; the boy new to the girl's picture, the girls to his.)

     "Confucius says a gate is nothing but the mind," the youngest chirped,
knowing the ancient said nothing of the sort, resuming discussion of what
had become a bit of a fad topic.  But did she have a point, however
accidental?  Were the, for the moment, gates of the lowering paper and
lowering hand, barriers to what lay beneath, just of the imagination?  Why
were they gated, so to speak, in the first place?  How was that better than
if they'd all showed up for the painting sessions, thought nothing of
dropping their shifts and linen, and been upfront and outward starting from
hour one of day one?  Yet here they were acting the same way with their
mature brother as they had at first with their twenty-five year old guest;
nervous, shy, seeming to lack self-esteem and a positive outlook on things.

     Max had six years on Ingrid and his amateur work showed it, solidly
placed, confident without being bold.  It became the favorite, and (this
can't be good news to feminists) would have been even had the girls never
seen each other's work before.
     Quantity or quality, either way you measured it, these girls shared an
Alpine avalanche of sensitive, private information, and the thought that
their handsome and well-loved brother did too, left them temporarily
speechless as each mulled over taboo, sin, deviance, and the abnormal as
best they could conceive it.  Surely they'd find reference points, but
let's not take chances, let's help.  Draft horses.  There was a sin that
made sense.  Live at a Haufbro?  All would agree, allowing that maybe a
little artwork, after hours, might not reverse the spin of the planet.
There were so many more.  Inappropriate places, inappropriate situations
and inappropriate partners.  But were they brave young German girls, or
not?  Had ever they been taught by parent, kin, or friend they were
forbidden from adding a mythical chapter to the history of their country,
just because they were females?  What if Thor had been a girl and sane?
Questions like that distracted but did not deter and with a nod from Ingrid
all seven stood shucked themselves naked and stood in a semi-circle in
front of their brother off of doing the best the could to encourage and
coax the best possible story from him.  Tilda managed his belt and buttons,
and the other girls brought the thirteen year old Ingrid to their front as
she was the only one of them with ripening breasts, high and pert on her
heaving chest, pink nipples jutting high as she lowered her head either
shyly or slyly to keep an eye on tiny Tilda.

     Max's hands rose like retreating glaciers to his sister's tender,
juvenile beauty.  He touched her first at the base of her swollen mounds,
then tenderly found her nipples.  "Did he touch you like this, Ingrid?" he
whispered.
     "Yes," the girl shuddered.
     "Where were you standing?" he asked in a hoarse rasp.
     "Closer to the window," the girl said, nodding and moving to the exact
spot, her brother now naked from Tilda's quick hands and openly molesting
her in front of her transfixed little sisters.
     "And he stood here?" Max asked, standing on a certain spot.
     "Yes," Ingrid whispered, her nipples swelling noticeably.  "Do you
know because this is where it happened with you?"
     "Yes," the naked nineteen year old repeated.
     "Did he touch you first?" she wanted to know.
     "Just the way I'm touching you," came the whisper back.
     "Were you completely naked?" Janine queried.
     "Yes."
     "Was your penis touching his while he touched you?" Ingrid asked,
looking down and realizing it wasn't a very bright question because the way
her brother jutted wildly from his muscular hips and belly it would be
difficult -- in fact you'd have to do the most sophisticated of dances
-- to prevent male to male touching.
     "No," Max said, "we were really careful about that.  Coming together.
Boys are very sensitive there and we wanted that to be our first
experience, instead of touching each other with our hands."
     "Janine and Lynn did the same thing with me," Ingrid said, "made out
first touch just our breasts."  She didn't have to elaborate, the shy
smiles and swollen-cherry nipples of the twelve year old twins spoke for
them all.
     "When he did use his hand," little Shelly asked, "how did he touch
your penis the first time.  If you tell me, I'll try to do it the same
way."
     "And I could help her," Tilda panted.  Strangely, it was just the
chain of nonsense likely to incite a pillow fight, but that didn't happen.
No giggling and squealing.  The girls, half bold, have shy, quietly moved
close and took turns recreating their brother's, it turned out, first
molestation and sexual experience.  Berne had made it last, that was the
hard part.  Four hands where he'd used two, two where he'd used one, and,
creatures that they were, some where the artist had used none.  Ingrid
moved slowly close, her breasts finally touching the young adult's heaving,
sweating chest.  Their arms went around each other, their lips met, and
they swayed as the other girls felt them up.  For half an hour, the only
sounds, soft whispers as the young siblings each took turns with each way
they had discovered.  If they were going to establish a myth for their
empire, they'd begun very well.

     Naturally, such a scene wants an Act II

     "Max," Ingrid whispered softly, but so that all could hear, "we've all
had his semen spill on our chests, tummies, and legs, so we know about
that, but none of us have had sperm inside us.  He wouldn't dream of it,
partly because he said it wasn't any of his business, because he was a
happily married man, and partly because only Shelly and Tilda could be sure
of not conceiving.  We want you, inside us, your penis naked and not
covered with anything.  We feel if you mount Tilda first, she's plain not
old enough, and then Shelly, who's also an unlikely candidate for
motherhood, by the time you're with the eleven and twelve year old twins,
then me, it will be safe as long as we wash ourselves carefully, afterward.
We've chosen lemons over vinegar, and will excuse ourselves for a minute or
two immediately after you spray in us."

     Ah, if the world could be as sane as it organized.

     As a group they pressed Tilda back on the bed and Max between her bare
little knees.  Ingrid stood at the stallion's left so he could reach across
with his right hand and fondle the teen's jutting nipples as Tilda gazed up
huge eyed.  Looking at the tableau it would have been easy to thing nothin
short of a bombardment could attract the eight year old's passionate gaze
up at her big sister's pretty chest and the half-giant male who was
fondling her, but also mistaken.  For another little sister, Shelly, was
guiding the boy slowly between Tilda's widely spread legs and that
distracted the girl panting on the bed and she tore her eyes away from her
sister's beautiful tits.

     "How could she possibly not get pregnant?" she wondered in awe.  He
was so obvious, so gallant for just that purpose, so much the wild mammal,
so utter and absolute.  What a mess the creator had made of it.  She
should, by her rights as a child, at least be able to bear him a fairy
baby.  Her tiny breasts should be fit to nurse a puppy-size infant, perhaps
even back when she was a little seven year old.  If the world wasn't a big
old doomed clatter machine girls would have fairies with the brothers or
daddies.  Maybe one for every year they behaved.  Of course, they'd only be
able to fly through the window with ten apples a day, but if they only ate
half of one, that would be okay.  Then Max was guided closer and to
touching.  Fairies vanished from her fevered mind.  Wolves, warthogs and
tigers replaced them.  There it was, a truly perfect world.  A little girl
like her could spawn from the seed of her brother or father the nascent
wild animal, which could be simply loosed into any handy wilderness, there
to make its fortune and await the arrival of its brothers and sisters.  Bad
girls could bear giraffes.  That was so silly it almost made the eight year
old giggle, but the heat of breeding stifled the frivolous reaction.  He
was penetrating her hot, hot wetness.  Ingrid had guided his powerful hands
from her small breasts to the heaving flanks of his beautiful young
partner.  He was thrusting in tiny motions as he gently pulled himself to
her, trying to keep up with the child's eyes as her gaze flashed between
him and him.  Gentle arms cradled her head so she could see, perfectly, and
she was fondled and kissed by her beloved sisters, all eyes welded to the
connection of the young adult with the tiny child.  Watching him slowly
ease himself higher and higher between her muscular young legs as Tilda
began humming deep in her throat and wriggling in happy welcome.

     Then she stopped, froze, and went gently relaxed.  "Max," she
whispered, "let it happen now.  Let Shelly be the first to have you fully."
This whispered plea brought a sigh of adoration, lasting not five seconds.
With a spontaneous bark, Max froze as if he'd been speared and all the
trained eyes saw exactly the same thing at exactly the same time.  They'd
had adult sperm on their bare bodies, all of them, but they'd never seen it
gush from between the bodies of an adult and a child before.  No more
sighing, it was replaced by a hissing chorus of intense whispering,
encouraging the boy, coaxing, urging, and all but what we call in the
States today, cheerleading.
     Max's obedience to his beloved tyke of a baby sister was overwhelming.
What ever she'd asked for, he was providing as they'd never, Berne being a
married man, either seen before or even imagined.  As the tiny girl
whimpered and mewed with excitement, the pearly flooding spread hotly
across her lower tummy and upper thighs.  Wolf or fairy, something had to
come of such an event, some positive result of the intense urgency of both
seeking their ultimate roles.  Berne had collated and slicked their heaving
chests beautifully and heavily, leaving them half dizzy in the proximity to
his manhood, but after less than a quarter of a single minute, they were
milking him gently against their nipples, happy as they thought they ever
could be.  After a minute, though no one was timing, the flow continued,
almost, it seemed unabated.  The little girl's hands were locked to Max's
forearms.  "I can feel everything that's happening, Shelly," she whispered
to her nearby sister.
     "Is it hot?" the entranced nine year old hissed.
     "It's more like splashy," the girl gasped, now fading fast, "with hot
snowflakes in it."  Then she was lost, yelping and thrashing as he sister's
nestled her and looked with huge eyes up at the shaking statue of a Greek
athlete cumming with undiminished force inside his little, half-conscious
sister.
     Of course it would have to be over, who'd leave to fight if it
weren't? and slowly Max eased free of the little girl and collapsed gently
beside his reviving sister, finished, it felt for a second or two, for all
of time, but then Ingrid said, "Berne never let us get any of his sperm on
our lips and tongues -- what that had to do with his being happily
married, I don't know, but it was the rule -- and I think we're grown up
enough after last winter to make that decision for ourselves, right girls?"

     Guess how many nodded.

     In half an hour they gently ran the gamut of every way adult semen can
be extracted from belly, loins and pussy of an eight year old girl and
shared, kiss to kiss, until another remnant of virginity was vanquished
with no ill results, biblical, prosaic, or gastronomic.

     This has been a scene at the verge of war.  Pause for a moment to
reflect on how those of opposing forces or ideologies might find agreeable
paths, if through the gates were the sylphs and cupids of the loins of
their enemies.


     This ends the Nifty content of "That Valley", originally titled "Four
Nazis and Ten Jews."  Bubbling the kettle a little less gently.
     Elston hasn't been packed off to military school and Tonton is the
same as he was yesterday, so apparently survived the night's assault.  I go
on at times about rape in reverse, denying activity with an obviously
willing child.  I suppose that may be the case with Elston.  He's a nice
enough and average looking boy, but I've never been in the least attracted
to me, though I have little doubt he'd be highly responsive if I made the
least overture or invitation.  Mercy effing, I guess they call it, but it
does make me a hypocrite for not indulging in what certainly wouldn't be a
personally unpleasant experience to please someone else.  It all goes to
making life complicated which give me lots of places to hide.  Well and
good.

     As mentioned, there are stories all over Nifty, mostly under Bi Incest
and Bi Adult/Youth.  Many are not only politically insensitive but socially
irresponsible and ethnically offensive.  Not only that, but I have a way of
blaming the reader and not myself.  Good hunting.  And now, before the
loathing sets in, support Nifty, a great effort and a great archive of who
and what we are as well as what happens when the paper boy lingers after
getting his tip.

Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx