Date: Thu, 3 Jul 2003 21:28:19 -0600
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: BEYOND BREWSTER - BOOK IV (Conc.)

BEYOND BREWSTER -- BOOK IV

THE Horatio Alger Story

(Conclusion)

T.C. EMERSON


BOOK IV


	Where were we?  How many were still awake after the long night's
drive?  Had anything exciting happened during Nancy Fox's dissertation on
Brewster, Massachusetts, and its environs?  Would we like to hear the end
of the Alger story?  How his pistols again came into play?  How he placed
one in front each of the judges, whereupon, forsooth, they quaked and did
so tremble and disassemble as to be unable to carry out the obvious
sentence on themselves?  Brought up to Christian stricture, He helped those
unable to help themselves and, beseeching the forgiveness of the char, blew
neat, if perhaps excessively large, holes in each of the corpulent breasts.
As a final gift to his former flock, he discharged the fourth .44 caliber
weapon into the smoke-laden air over the alter, and the hole in the roof
remains to the present day, placed there, not merely to help vent the
smoke, but in order that a ray of true light might illuminate a small part
of the sacred house, assuming, of course, the sun was erect.

       As to practical details, Nancy, Gerald, Neil, Billie-Joe, Meg, Ned,
Sonja, Vince, Chip, Rob, and Madden were all naked in the soft-light
interior of the luxurious Bedouin tent, their excitement at each other's
presence undiminished in spite of the two hours it had taken Nancy to read
through her alternative folio.  The salacious and lingering musk of sex
hung thick in the air and more than one delicate thigh and tender belly was
slick with the seminal fluid known, alternatively, as pre-cum.

       Nor was Nancy in any way one to dominate the floor, or, had it been
the church ten miles south, the ethereal spotlight.  Far from it.  "Does
anyone else have a story?" she asked, happening to glance at Vince Bristol,
eldest brother of Billie-Jo's friend and classmate, Sonja.
       The boy blushed, in context, exciting the others considerably, and
said: "Well, if you really want me to."  Duh'uh.  Billie-Jo had been well
taken in hand by Nancy's thirteen year old brother, the handsome and
athletic Gerald, and both moved to the lap of Billie-Jo McAlester's father,
Neil.  Sonja joined her brother on the center silk-clad pillow, the
seventeen-year-old male lying back, spread eagle, as his naked eleven year
old sister straddled his muscular right thigh and masturbated him as all
huddled close and watched intently, sniffing as if suddenly beset with
colds.  The temperature was seventy five degrees, the ventilation good, and
an air of patience and tolerance permeated the small gathering.  All glowed
warmly, an interior radiance fueled by the knowledge of what was coming
off.

       "I was sick of his word-play," Vince began, "so I wrote what might
be deemed a pithy dissection of one of his lectures, and handed it in in
lieu of a book report."

       "H'mm, promising," the assemblage murmured mostly to themselves.

       "He called me down to his office after class, and we talked," the
teen went on in explanation.  "He explained he wanted to be a writer =
fiction -- and it took so much practice, writers were always `on'.
       "Seemed a little lame to me at the time, but I didn't know the half
of it.
       "'Also,' he went on, `to write well takes an almost preposterous
level of self-confidence."


       "What do you mean?" the seventeen year old asked his English
instructor (the boy had eased though school so effortlessly he was, at
sixteen, a sophomore at Boston University).
       "It's on the mature side, if I can indulge in a little
understatement," the teacher replied, "and you may have other interests."
       "My interest," Vince responded, "is in not being on the receiving
end of a splitting headache after twenty minutes in your class,
vis-à-vis trying to figure out what you are talking about."
       "Oh, that," the handsome professor laughed, "well, how would you go
about separating the numb from the quick?  I mean this is a university, the
students don't exactly drool on their desks."
       "Which is why I didn't apply to Harvard," Vince rejoined, "but
assuming I am among the quick, in your opinion, what does that have to do
with your becoming some kind of maven of the lithographed word?"
       "Can't you guess?" the instructor asked.
       "Vagueness in understanding what has passed," the prodigy said, "and
can hardly bode well for guessing what's next."

       "Well," the adult said, "it goes, our potential friendship, to the
issue of self-confidence to the degree required of the virtuoso.  Not
self-confidence, per se, but, rather, absolute confidence; all the
confidence in the world; all the confidence Bill Gates must feel as a
provider for his family, or Tiger must feel when his father-in-law suggests
a round of golf.  More apropos, think of the confidence Haley Mathers must
have in her father when she's ready to become a big girl.  Think of the
confidence of a medical resident choosing endocrinology, or, again, more on
target, the confidence of the Olsen twins feel in having the prettiest
breasts in the world."

       "But not, I assume," the student observed, "the confidence I have
that this conversation is actually going somewhere."
       "And as an alternative," the professor, not so much older than his
student, said, "you'd be where and hanging out with who or whom, I rarely
get them straight?"
       "Cotton Mather, since you brought up the name," the teen replied,
hardly needing to add: "Touche."
       "If you wish to learn how not to write," the elder male suggested,
"I'd suggest stories by boy-band aficionados in the alternative literary
archives."
       "With your examples of how not to lecture," Vince said, "that might
indeed fill me out, fiction-wise."
       "It might or might not," his teacher allowed, "but it returns us to
the subject at hand.  Self-confidence.  Knowing, as a writer, you may not
know it all, I mean does anyone really know how many grains of sand there
are between Bourne and P'town? but that you know acey-duecy more than
anyone else."
       "Inexorably leading us to something you don't know."

       "Lord, child," the man replied, "do you thing you're here
gratuitously?  Frivolously?  On some kind of whim or notion?  Your paper,
an arch and droll reminder of mine-own earlier years, was obviously
composed by a sighted person, and I know, as a fact, you have floor-to
ceiling mirrors in your dormitory rooms, said mirrors which you must have
noted from time to time.
       "Let's try it from the mathematical standpoint: the number two
represents your reflection in any such mirror, and a second equal digit
equals the sole remaining gap in my development as a master of English
fiction."
       "Sounds like a case of Addison's Disease," quotth the youth."
       "If I was the type to beat around the bush," the youthful professor
explained, "I'd hardly come right out and say it could add-some to your
grade this semester."

       "And," the boy responded, "if I weren't a student who deserved an A
on the news of my mirror, I'd be loathe to express my opinion, which is
that you have little interest in beating -- around -- the bush."
       The teacher sighed, perhaps a trifle dramatically.  "Back to math,
are we?" he said, "but why not?  Identify x, as in: a single x in the hand
is worth two x's in the bush."


       I've resisted a reader game, or quiz, if you will, perhaps too long.
Perfect time for one, especially you beginning writers.  How does the
current theme play out?  Don't cheat and look ahead, but try to come up
with the next line or two on your own.  It's fun, though not particularly
easy, and no one will ever know if you won or lost, no grade will be
issued.  Reread, take a break.  My patent recipe for coffee is to mix two
and a half heaping teaspoons (maybe a little more) of sugar with a like
amount of house brand non-dairy creamer (it's just as good as Carnation at
a fraction of the price, to stick with our mathematical theme), and then
add about one-third teaspoon of instant coffee. Mix in a mug, starting with
a paste, and heat (microwave) to all-but-boiling.  More a coffee "shake"
than cup of joe.  Yum-yum.  (Great confidence builder, you know, making a
perfect cup of the old eye opener.)  Okay, pencils down, please.

       Of course it wouldn't be fair, to those who've tried, to splash the
answer in plain sight, so we'll kind of bury it here, without tell-tale
quotation marks, by giving the line, and I guess this is pretty obvious, to
young Vince.  I get it, he said, three: triple x.

       "Excessive," responded the teacher, "extreme, even, but exact
enough, for all of that."

       The two sat for some moments, the boy on the leather sofa, the man
at his half-cluttered mahogany desk.  At their intellectual levels, much
could be said in moments, so neither felt an immediate need to continue the
conversation, being plenty smart enough to enjoy an interval of silence.
In the teacher's case, the fact the boy didn't vacate, to paraphrase
Eminem, "penis and all," was intensely exciting.  The boy, more youthful in
his outlook, in his turn found intense eroticism in his young teacher's
failure to look meaningfully at the door, or tap abstractedly on his desk.
So they sat, aware of a filter of distant sounds indicating the last of the
staff were leaving for the day.  It wasn't Harvard, they didn't drool, but
that's not saying much (unless you paid god-knows-how-much only to see your
papa doc University skewered and flensed by a high-school grad).

       The elder male eventually broke the silence.  Nodding at the door,
he reminded Vince it was not locked.  The boy flushed slightly, but didn't
move.  "Has anything happened with you?" he asked.
       "A few things probably passed me by in my pursuit of tenure at a
younger age than you achieved it," the sixteen year old admitted.
       "But you've read about it?" the man asked, "you're not puzzled by
what I'm getting at or confused about how you feel?"
       "I guess those are thing I'd feel if you weren't getting at
something," the boy allowed.
       "So?" the teacher said, repeating the central question.

       "Something happened when I was fishing, once," the boy on the sofa
said.  "When I'd just turned twelve."
       "Repeatedly?" the man asked, "or just ships not quite passing in the
night."
       "I went back a few times," Vince acknowledged, "then finals came up
and he moved away.  Mobile America.  Rolling stones, easy on the moss."
       "I'm sorry."
       "Just lucky to have had it at all.  How about you?"
       "All I ever caught were some flounder."
       "And a PhD at twenty-one."
       "I was insecure," the professor noted, "since something that seemed
essential had been left out, like the salt out of boiled pasta.  I had to
make up for it any way I could."
       "And we're all alive because you didn't turn your talents to
tainting reservoirs?"
       "The Pepto-Bismol and Imodium people made offers," the host
admitted, "but they were ones I could refuse."
       "Well, your math certainly isn't up to Uni-Bomber standards," the
student concurred.
       "Nor my luck at fishing," the adult added, wryly.

       By this time the two males had synchronized in harmonious accord.
"It's pretty-much kid's stuff to be slowly stripped by a panting older
male," Vince said.  He stood, shrugged off his sport jacket, and stripped
down to his briefs, placing his shoes neatly under the sofa and folding his
clothes over one arm.  His young teacher followed un-suit, then stepped
from behind his desk, coming up close behind the youthful, almost preteen
looking boy.  "Did he start by touching you here?" he asked, fingering the
neck of the already panting youth.
       "Yes," Vince said, "but we talked a lot, first, so I kind of knew
what was going to happen."
       "Was it graphic?" the man wanted to know, "or did he just kind of
allude to things."
       "At first," Vince said, "to be sure I wouldn't freak out, but then
when I said I wanted to hear more, he told me everything.  How he loosened
one of the spark plug leads on the outboard so his uncle would huddle over
him as they tried to figure out what was wrong, and what that led to."
       "I take it not a record catch," the elder observed.
       "I believe seven inches was mentioned," the boy responded.
       "If you want to write," the teacher advised, "stay away from
numbers.  Nothing wrong with them, but you just don't have the time.  It's
an all-out, no-holds-barred effort; reading, living, not studying math."
       "What if his uncle had been nine inches?" the boy wanted to know,
since they were on the subject.
       "I see your point," the class leader intoned, "because if a young
boy tempted an adult so well endowed, there'd surely be more to the story
than integers denoting length and girth."
       "You've got that right," Vince agreed, "it was more along the lines
of the second coming and the flood."

       I don't think characters have to be exactly this made-for-each-other
to warrant inclusion in a non-adversarial (I leave that to the wonderful
people amongst us) New Novel, but when you've written seven, and published
six, you've earned the right to sketch a utopian romance, even if it
amounts to a fish story.

       By now the tall, athletic teacher had begun tracing the delicate
child's slim shoulders.  He kept up his gentle play until Vince's hands
covered his own, moving them to his belly.  "I did this for him," the boy
whispered, reaching up behind the older male's neck and lacing his fingers
are he arched in welcome to the adult's gentle touch.
         "Did he have you naked?" the man whispered back.
       "He was unbuttoning my shirt," Vince replied.  "I'd invited him to
stay and go swimming; we were at an isolated river bank, he was canoeing
downstream and asked if I had any fish he could buy.  I didn't but I said
if he stayed, maybe that would change my luck, so he beached his boat and
we talked.  He asked how old I was and I told him fifteen.  He was
surprised and said he thought I was ten or eleven, not his fault, I was
more mascot than man.  When he knew I was at least a little mature he asked
if I had a girlfriend.  I replied that I thought Mavis Beacon was the only
female worth knowing, because she taught me to type.  He said I was one up
on him.  Then I got my first trout, so that interrupted the conversation.
When he was in the creel, he quizzed me a little more.  It made my knees
shake a little, you know, when he asked if I'd been to summer camp or if I
liked going on sleepovers to other boys' houses.  By this time he was
standing behind me giving me some tips on working the line.  He asked if I
minded if he stayed, and I said I didn't.  We got two more big fish, bang,
bang, so I used that as an excuse to invite him, not that it was my part of
the river or anything.  Then he started caressing my neck, and that was,
well, at least technically, nothing to do with casting.  A lure without a
string.  He told me something had happened between him and his uncle when
he was thirteen, and asked if I'd like to hear about it.  I nodded and he
told me about tampering with the outboard motor.  It was nearly noon, by
that time, and I asked him if he wanted to go swimming with me.  Jack
replied his suit was packed away in his duffle bag, but he could get to it
in a couple of minutes.  I said we could skinny-dip if he wanted.  He
quizzed me more; asked if I'd ever showered or swum alone with an adult
before.  I told him No.  He said if anything happened that made me feel
uncomfortable, I should tell him.  We waded ashore, leaned the rod against
a tree, and he stood behind me again, this time no pretending about
fishing.  He whispered about how his uncle had touched him inside his
coveralls as they were tinkering with the Johnson, how he'd moved against
him to let him know it was okay, and then, as he opened my shirt, how he'd
suddenly fixed the machine, and they'd motored to a small island on the
lake, then gone in from the beach to find a spot to picnic, or so they
said.  By this time his finger's were working on my belt so we moved behind
some brush in case anyone else happened by.  As soon as we were secluded,
he stripped out of his shirt, and really came back to me using both hands
and kissing my neck.  He asked me if I wanted to know what his uncle had
done with him on the little island, and I nodded as he pulled my belt open
and lowered the zipper on my shorts.  Then he wanted to know if I knew
about sperm, other than what's in the bio books, and I said No.  It turned
out his uncle had taught him all about it while they were lying on the
grass, next to each other.  I said that there was a sleeping bag in my
backpack, and we could lie on that.  He said he wanted to take me quickly,
where we were, and, after that, if I wanted him to stay he'd pitch his tent
and get out his own sleeping bag.  I said that was okay as long as he
didn't get out his swimsuit.  I guess by kidding I somehow let him know I
wasn't kidding, and he became pretty urgent for what we both wanted.  He
got me naked except for a gold chain I was wearing, and started doing what
you're doing, only without my underpants to get in the way.  He said I
might feel a little crummy for a few minutes when it was over, and he'd
take a little hike to see if I wanted him to come back.  By this time, he
was really taking me.  I had my legs up on the bank, like they are on the
sofa, so I could really spread my legs and let him know I liked being raped
by him.  That lasted about five minutes, because his uncle had molested him
many times and he knew how to make it last without making it last too
long. `Try to tell me when you cum off,' he whispered, saying it was
important to try to do it in case I was ever with a little boy or girl who
might freak out at all the sperm suddenly spraying all over them.  I tried,
but it was my first time, and he'd wet his hand with some lotion in his
pack, so I couldn't make any words come out.  He whispered that he'd
sometimes fantasized about molesting a little boy who was, you know, built
like a man except for the hair, and then took me hard and fast, panting in
my ear.  His left arm was around my bare chest, his right hand on me, and
he kept doing it a little faster and harder until he felt me shaking all
over.  `If you want me to stay on with you,' he whispered, `I'd like to cum
on your face the first time like Uncle Ray did with me, would that be
okay?'  I wasn't sure, but if it would make him feel like he was making me
feel, I was pretty sure I wanted whatever he did, so I nodded.  Then he
told me to pretend I was cumming on McCauley Culkin's face, like Michael
Jackson had when they were dating, and his little pink tongue was eagerly
licking my sperm from his lips.  That made it start.  I don't know what
made it stop, but certainly Jack Melrose didn't, he kept hissing and
encouraging me, his wet hand now fisting me tightly at the base of my
boner, and it kept happening again and again until it was all over the bush
in front of my hips.  He eased me to the ground so I could rest, stripped,
and swam out in the river while I recovered.  In a few minutes I joined
him, and we split eight nice trout for dinner."

       "Glad of the extra protein," the teacher said, Vince now growing
tense in his arms as he splayed his long, coltish legs on the leather couch
and bucked his hips hard and fast to his mentor's stroking hand.  "I'm
cumming," the sixteen year old student said, obviously pleased with his
new-found competence at conversational English.

       For any but a nascent writer, Vince's hard, pulsing spray might have
ended it, at least for the moment, but in the teacher's literary mind only
half the "void" had been filled by successfully molesting a willing boy.
The older male stripped quickly out of his briefs, getting the still
panting youth naked, also.  The young man positioned himself on his back,
knees in hands, legs spread, and wet himself with some of Vince's sperm,
which seemed to be almost everywhere.  The boy knelt on the carpeting of
the office, and, hunched over between his professor's boyish, athletic
legs, found him and slowly entered.  Moving firmly to his hilt, he paused a
long moment as the older male acclimated himself to the slim six-inch
erection now deep inside him.  The man nodded and the boy began moving
against him.  It was ten minutes before he tensed once again, and the hard
throb of his hot penis earned him extra credit, which he needed like The
King of Pop needs a girlfriend, and status with the once and future writer
as contributing colleague.

       Naked children and young adults huddled around the now seventeen
year old as he lay spread-eagle, arched over the giant central pillow,
pinning his arms and legs firmly to the tent floor.  The allowed the young
stallion to strain mightily against the now almost whipping hand of his
pretty kid sister without throwing her off his thigh.  The boy gasped,
mewed, and panted like a hot engine.  His nostrils flared, his muscle and
sinew bulged, and his beautiful young athlete's body glistened with sweat.
"Oh, sis, oh god, don't stop," were his last distinguishable words, then
his eyes glazed, his features slackened, and he lapsed into half a seizure.
Since they were experimenting, little Sonja held her handsome brother's
huge, circumcised erection in the vertical position as she suddenly shot
her hand to his very base and gripped his penis until her knuckles went
dead white.  For long moments the tableau remained frozen, all eyes trained
avidly on Vince.  His first heavy, hot, white cum rocketed nearly three
feet, so straight up that much of his flying semen slicked Sonja's hand as
gravity brought it splatting heavily from whence it came.  It was sex as,
yes, high art; the most beautiful single sight any present had ever
witnessed or even imagined.  And it went on for well over half a minute,
the only difference being the shocked Sonja holding her ejaculating brother
against her bare chest, taking one heavy spurt after another over her
swollen, acorn-size nipples.  The wanton passion of their coupling incited
all present, and in less time than it takes to tell, Neil and other
manhandled Vince on top of his sister, guided him between her long, slim
legs, and to where she yielded with a hot scream of welcome to his hard
thrusting.

       There are huddled masses here and huddled masses there, but not far
beyond Brewster the phrase was succinctly redefined in the long minutes
Vince bucked -- gently -- against his preteen sister.  All fondled,
touched, kissed, and licked them, all wet their hands with the heavy
slickness between the two straining young bodies, and all hissed
encouragement as they sensed his renewing tension Then Billie-Jo's pretty
voice dominated.  Quietly she spoke: "Vince," she said, "think of that
first shower with her after you know she's pregnant."  The now mature teen
tensed in a final rictus.  Sonja hissed: "Oh, yes, baby, oh yes, yes, yes."
Again, it was over half a minute before his athletic young body had fully
responded to the tight, wet heat of the immature female and he slowly
collapsed into her wild arms as she lay beneath him, lost totally in a
head-lolling, glazed-eye world entirely her young stallion brother's.

       Again, Billie-Jo's voice: "Daddy," she whispered so all could hear,
"masturbate Gerald so he cums off on my face."  So saying, she replaced the
exhausted Vince on the red-silk pillow, eager young bodies pinning her arms
as hands, young and mature, male and female, many still wet with the
teenager's seed, molested and fondled her.  Gerald positioned himself on
his knees, looking over his shoulder to welcome his future father in lay.
Neil moved close to the boy, taking his slim bare chest in his powerful
left arm, and finding his hard, circumcised six inch man's penis with his
right.  The girl's eyes glowed up at the boy's, his returning the fire.
"On my lips, as much as you can," she suggested, then let nature take its
course.

       In minutes, the well developed thirteen year old began his loss of
control.  "Daddy," Billie-Jo whispered, "be the first one to kiss me when
it's over."  "Over?" the young father mused to himself, fisting the boy in
his arms hard against the base of his hard steel erection while he held his
almost girl-pretty pink glans against his panting daughter's right cheek,
"what could possibly be `over' if a man kissed his pretty daughter for the
first time when her lips were bubbling the fresh, hot sperm of a cute young
teen?'  Nor was he just engaging in idle speculation.  The child's semen
was thin and watery, but richly streaked with white sperm than almost
radiated.  Gerald spent fully and freely on the pretty schoolgirl's face,
Neil carefully guiding him, in spite of his sweating lunges, so that, yes,
her lips disappeared under his hot adolescent torrent of total release.
Again, the youth's climax lasted nearly a minute, at least eight full
spurts jetting from the pink delicacy of his innocent appearing young
glans, followed by a lesser pulsing stream than lasted longer than the
initial surge of hot, fast pulses.

       Then came the sight that focused them all, as if they needed; made
indelible exactly what it was -- the beauty of -- what they were all about.
Gerald's sister eased her quaking, panting brother from Neil's arms,
cradling him against her pert, swollen breasts, and Neil rolled between his
daughter's widely spread legs.  He looked down at her for a long minute
from the push-up position, then it happened.  The tip of the child's pink
tongue poked up through the heavy slick of Gerald's sperm.  Slowly her
father lowered to her pretty face, extending his own tongue by just half an
inch.  In all the world, there had never been such a first kiss and
everyone knew it.  Sigh.  Was it the sea breeze taking hold?

       There was more, of course, and it was two hours and more -- mid
afternoon -- by the time the horror of Taunton finally stunned the last
open eyes (Billie-Jo's, still glowing from repeated raping by her father)
into heavenly sleep, but this story concludes in a tent, making it
especially easy to draw the curtain.

       Yes, I have lots of stories on Nifty, and I'd tell you more but for
the fact that half the fun will be finding them.  Do check out "Cowboy
Blues."  If you're meaningfully, rather than wishfully connected up, fear
not if you're a Cohen or Epstein, I'm still friends with Malcolm, and, if
once in awhile a bit crude, the farthest thing you ever saw from a peasant.
Don't you be one.  Next is "Poet of Phu Bai," so this has been your walk in
the park before a day in the crags.  Anyone supplying information on
Horatio Alger will be noted in a future story.  Guess that's about it.
Beyond Brewster is P'town, so maybe the world's not quite as, well, - - - -
- up as it sometimes appears.

Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx