Date: Tue, 17 Sep 2002 16:25:30 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: THE TARZAN MUSHROOM HUNTERS - IV
THE TARZAN MUSHROOM HUNTERS
by R. Forbes Emerson
(Bi-ped, inc., rom.)
BOOK IV
It's not just you, I'm bragging to everyone about how
fast this book is going. You work with your talent for years, then end up
working for it. It dictates so fiercely one can literally have a more avid
every day fourteen year old girlfriend and spot her second to the word
count. Eighty three thousand, by the way. The traditional definition of a
novel, plus twenty three thousand words in case we didn't get everyone to
sleep.
I'm beginning to take my talent seriously, try to hide it
under frivolity and levity though I might. To realize the sign on the
gates to madness read simply Wander Here, and yet have to wander somewhere
other than the normal street and accepted byway is something one would
assume one would do no more than necessary, yet we seem unable to do it
little enough. A peek through the gate, and we pull away more horrified by
the scene we've left than that which for just a moment we viewed. And, I
suppose, that's the answer. The world has become so mad under urban
socialists that reality is the literary madhouse and the gates segregate a
more human existence.
I suppose the most frightening thing is by how much I've
exceeded myself. The first draft of this novel is a brilliant read, I am
very proud of it. But I wrote Teasing Burbank in eight hours. There's
something blinding in that. Not remotely human, though I haven't noted
Samantha carrying garlic of late so one foot must be with you. I spent too
many years in the harness to spread credit around gladly, but I do think
having a 150-watt stereo and a Celine Dion CD has helped with an absolute
voice. To know you can operate simply flat out, routinely, and, no,
nothing happens or goes wrong. You just produce and turn the page as if
you were a line worker in a factory that made pages.
Alex was turning pages, too, but in the instruction
manual for his new digital camera. Kip Jensen was eyeing the pages, cards
and coupons spread between them on the bench seat of the station wagon.
When the paperwork equaled the weight of the camera, they shipped it
without waiting for more. Indeed, there was an instruction manual.
"Triple A," the boy said, answering the most fundamental of tech questions.
He disappeared back into the store with a ten dollar bill in his hand.
Kip and Kit. He could test his predilection for senility
by keeping them straight at all times. Room for a tawdry pun or two there.
Kit was with Victor. The two had been paired twice for
guiding expeditions of three days each, and once, each, solo, as if they'd
needed any further stimulation to their bright-eyed relationship. Their
leadership had brought the club its first million dollar gross take
earlier, by five days, than the mark had ever been reached in previous
years. What to do for Alex? that had been the question. In weeks he'd
stripped two plants of their congregations, demolishing one church for a
park area and converting the other into a shelter. It was joked that even
in cool, fair weather the ladies of competing orthodoxies were never to be
seen without umbrellas reading "God" raised to give their deity of flies
and mosquitoes all the help against the evil from on high that they could
spare. How to reward a man who had so instantly changed this, modified
that, and left the third thing entirely alone? And, in the nicest, to say
nothing of the most convenient way possible, the problem had solved itself.
"He's been listening to that song "The Games that Daddies
Play," Ellen Jensen said. "We don't have a neighbor with a son his age to
take him camping, so would you fill in? I think the song is about the
birds and the bees, and he's seven, just like the boy in the song, and his
father's gone, so that's a ditto, and, if there's any way you could see
your way to spending some time with him, well, I know two ladies I can
backslide out of the second pew on your left from the pulpit, and, I'll get
them to do it anyway, but, in the meantime, I'd really like it if you could
see your way to helping with Kip."
And here he was, grinning, holding up the blister pack
with its gold trim, flying in through the passenger door, and roosting
happily amongst packaging and product information. Carefully he removed
the plastic shield on the camera, held it to the light to positively see
the molded plus and minus symbols, and inserted the batteries by pushing
them against the conical springs, then seating and rolling them. Even at
seven a boy should be able to perform familiar operations with the proper
combination of alacrity and diligence. A simple thing, but no carelessness
about it, and that was a good sign.
"Was my mom pretty frank with you when she asked you to
hang out with me?" Kip asked.
"She didn't seem interested in having me teach you "Ten
Little Indians," Alex replied.
"She just found out she's a lesbian," the boy said.
"Actually, it's been great, because now that she knows what the story is
she goes and visits dad every couple of weeks. Weird, eh?"
"First wives are pretty important to a man," Alex said,
"and maybe it's just she's mature enough now to realize it, to share at
least some of herself with him, even if it can't be a full-time thing."
"I guess it's not very exciting," the boy said.
"Well, your mom's discovery about herself may have
potential," Alex observed. The boy's eyes brightened at that and he nodded
spontaneously making the even vague connection between the new reality and
his being in the here and now with Alex.
"What do you think about the song?" Alex asked. The boy
was paging through the start-up, or, he supposed, boot up procedure for the
Nikon, but he seemed to have sufficient reserves of intelligence to handle
two lines of thought at the same time.
"Yeah, I play it a lot," Kip acknowledged. "I guess more
than Mom knows because half the time I have my head set on."
"It says," Alex said, "that the mother hopes here boy
will never be old enough and bold enough to play the games some daddies
play. Right?"
"So what does it mean?" the boy asked, seeming to have
the camera on and blinking, oh, not blinking. Probably a good sign.
"If it passed the censors," Alex said, "I think it
probably has a conventional meaning, that is, that daddies go to bars and
chase adult women. Since this usually underfunds the marriage and is a
disease vector, it is natural that the mother hopes her son does not turn
out to be such an absolutely stupid shithead that he plays the bold games."
"But there could be other meanings, right?" Kip asked.
"If the song were a work of art, yes," Alex agreed, "it
might have other meanings."
"Would they, or might they make the mother wrong?" came a
second question.
"Yes," Alex said. "There are games that daddies play
with neighborhood boys, not usually their own sons, which can be very
satisfying and exciting for a young boy."
"How young?"
"Four or five, sometimes three, but usually closer to
your age."
"My friend Acker is five," the boy mused, reddening
slightly.
"It's unusual for boys your age to be interested in other
boys, per se," Alex explained, "because most very young boys want to be
with a mature male, either a teenager or a man, but what gets exciting is
sometimes two little boys, like you and Acker, can share a mature male."
"Yeah," Kip whispered, finally taking his eyes off the
beautiful new camera, "if you teach me anything exciting, I can tell him
and maybe he'll come over so you can teach him while I watch, instead of me
teaching him."
"First one of you," the seven year old said. How many
boys would have thrust the camera and snapped it at him? Most. Not Kip.
He reached for the rearview mirror, turned it toward the driver's seat, and
pulled a comb from his pocket. "If we pull under that tree," he said,
pointing to the far side of the parking lot, "we'll have diffused light and
it will come out better."
"You want to whip up seven hundred horses to drive a
hundred feet so I'll look better?" Alex asked, starting the huge engine.
Chirst, he'd forgotten that. How nice did a guy have to
be -- how real -- that a seven year old passenger of the distinctly male
persuasion would forget he had a well turned out crate motor under the
hood? Boy, it was cool to know the answer to that one.
They re-parked the car. Kip was right, just at the verge
of the foliage a mottled light spilled, softer than the blaze of the open
sky. In the end, after five minutes of lean a little this way and tilt
your head just so, he made a single exposure and handed the camera to Alex.
Whatever was up between Ellen and her husband seemed not
to have diminished the boy now posing for his own photograph. Often the
way. If either a mother or a father could establish even a basic network
they often excelled at bringing up a smaller number of children, in part,
no doubt, because of the absence of a stressful mate. Still, Alex was a
romantic at heart so the hint of a challenge arose in his fertile mind.
"You're an advisor to the Tarzan club, right?" Kip asked.
"I play backup lunatic in their band," Alex said.
"So Mom says," the boy answered: "We hear there are two
corpses to your credit."
"Sane kills don't count anymore," Alex growled.
"Just so long as I don't die ignorant," the boy shot
back, defining `keeper' about as quickly as it could be done.
"As far as I can see we have two options," Alex said, "we
can go camping and find a secluded spot in the mountains so you can ask any
questions you want, or, we can get a hotel suite with a hot tub and spend
the weekend kicking back and chilling."
"You're the one in the woods all the time so I'm going to
be selfish and vote for the hot tub."
Actually, he seemed to be spending more time in his
office at the rectory and motoring about to the tune of his cell phone than
he did out of doors, but he needed to round up a couple of bear hunters and
get them to work before there was a close encounter of the furred kind, as
the hunters would be sure to refer to any misadventure, so Alex readily
agreed and the athletic minister and curly headed blond high-fived each
other and awakened the multi-tricked pony show under the hood of the
Chevrolet.
"Would you like to date?" Alex asked the child as they
left Hastings and began the hundred mile ride to the luxo hotel.
"Yes," said the boy, "because that's different than just
`hanging-out' together, right?"
"It begins more expensively and ends differently, but
otherwise it's six of one and half a dozen of the other."
"You can feed me on bait," the boy replied, "I'm not
expensive."
"Worms, crickets, or pink eggs?" Alex asked.
"Eel mucus," the bright-eyes replied.
"Want it super-sized?"
It wasn't right but he seemed to do it with all the boys
and girls who rode with him. Find a slow dump truck on a long upgrade,
pull into the left lane, and unwind the silken engine until the speedometer
read a full 150 m.p.h., then drop to the posted limit. With Kip, why waste
the gas?
The seven year old brought up questions of accessibility.
Even over fifty extra pounds, an aggressive boy was doomed to a life of
frustration. At an extreme, he pictured a twinkie cutie accosting every
man that walked by, going so far as to display against his leg. Even in a
strange bazaar, anonymous and tawdry, such a boy would find scant
acceptance. Whore of the street. And the other extreme? A shy, nervous
child, timid and fluttering, blushing and perhaps even crying. It was not
a contest of equals. Bold as brass, out on your ass. Shy as a mouse,
welcome to my house. It was unusual for things to be so utterly backwards,
but there it was. And the paradox deepened when one realized the boy was
meant to lead, while overplaying the role, even slightly, doomed a
relationship more or less on the spot. Since it was difficult to get a
child to fill a water bottle before stuffing it back in the fridge, delving
into the subtle niceties of aggressive versus passive display modes seemed
to close a cousin to rocket science to even be worth trying. Alex thought
back on the careful way Kip had seated the batteries, of his care in taking
a single photo, that trailing into a precocious tangent on his mother and
their reason for being together for the weekend.
How much was mastery and seduction, the thrill of the
hunt, so to speak, for its own sake? Going into a middle school locker
room and thinking I had this one and I had that one and I'll be getting
him, too? On the other hand, how much was genuine friendship, no
underpants involved? First, kids and adults did not hang out together.
Boring. But add a vector and it became a catalyst, computers were the
prime example, and suddenly it was the most intense of all possible
relationships. A man could father a child in momentary anonymity; even
helping raise one took hundreds of hours a year. A man and wife could
dance to separate beats to a considerable extent, but a man and boy had to
synch up and stick it, or the kid would end up a yo-yo with numbskull
wishes and hockey-puck dreams.
The big engine purred. Kip scrambled to the rear of the
station wagon, bracing himself against a pillow, and made a series of
exposures. Alex noted him in the rearview mirror and was interested to see
that the child held the Nikon on its vertical access rather than the
horizontal aspect normally used to shoot a panorama. Clever.
"Did my mom say too much?" Kip asked when he was once
again belted into the passenger seat. "You know, make it seem like to
much, or anything?"
A penny for this boy's thoughts might be invested in the
bank, thus saving a drive into town.
"Why?" the young minister asked.
"Sometimes I act like I know stuff that I don't know.
You know, when we were talking about dating. Like that. I read all the
time so I know some stuff, but when it comes to us dating, all I know is
that I want it, not the expensive part, I'll stick with the eels for that,
but the ending part. The not-hanging-out part. I want it but I don't know
what it is."
"Bottom line," Alex said, "it's two guys who like each
other play wrestling in a hot tub while they're all soapy and slippery."
"And?" the boy asked. He may have been troweling a bit
with the shy act. That was interesting. All a boy had to do was act shy
at about the level that would be expected in a school play, and his appeal
zoomed.
"And," Alex said, "if the boy likes the feeling of the
man's hands on his body he lets the man pull down his swim suit and
sexually molest him, for hours if circumstances permit."
"But we can share some of it on the bed, too, right?" Kip
asked, defining himself as a perfect mixture of curious and avid.
"It goes one step at a time," Alex said. "You always
have the option of jumping ship. I'll take you as far as the hot tub with
us both wearing Speedos. You take me from there. We can sit and talk, and
sure, when the hot water becomes a drag, lye together on the bed with our
wet bathing suits hung on the shower. It's up to you, but don't go all
café kid and whoopee maker on me. Half interested, half demure. Try
that for starters."
And so he did. "Can we buy a special pair of Speedos?"
he asked.
Innocence, romance, sharing. Nice of the child to overdo
it.
"Yes."
They drove in silence for some miles, eventually coming
across a sleepy town on a lake and in the town a modest clothing store.
Worth a stop. A bell tinkled over the door. Last sound of America.
"I'm underage, but my dad's in the hospital so I have to
be here," a boy said from the back of the shop. "Just in case you're from
the government," he added, approaching, then grinning sheepishly as he
noted the diminutive customer, who'd likely not be from the government.
The boy had a big nose, wide mouth, and notable acne.
His lank brown hair hung in tendrils across his forehead; he was rangy and
lanky, very long-legged, and in an indefinable but compelling way about as
cute as a male can get.
"We'd like to look at Speedos if that's okay," Kip said.
"Sure," the boy said. He looked like a
way-ahead-of-him-self thirteen.
He led his customers to one side of the shop where the
swim trunks were displayed by the dozens. "We're not meant to let anyone
try them on in the store," he said, "but it's slow until four o'clock or
so, so if you want to, go ahead."
Nothing in the look of either Alex or Kip said they
wanted their assistant to go, so he didn't.
Alex chuckled silently to himself. All the careful
speeches he'd rehearsed about how many boys learned with adults, how
special friendships were almost exactly like platonic ones, how to display
to a potential partner, if he ever wanted to, all down pat and ready to
reel off as soon as they'd settled in the tub, and now what? The first
clerk in the first store of their shared lives, and Plan B, of which there
was no such thing, was up and running -- all -- by --itself.
"We're sorry about your dad," Alex said, grateful that
Kip had not tried to over-reach with a similar sentiment.
"It's nothing life-threatening," the boy said, "broken
arm a-la clean gutters. My uncle, John, will be here in a couple of hours.
Then I won't have to dodge the laws. Dad says the only place an eleven
year old should touch a cash register is in his dreams."
So many bathing suits, so much time. Total chaos to any
planning, of course, but the fickle finger ruled at random. They could
have had an accident; always there, something looming.
"You're from Hastings," the boy said. "We keep the
lights of for the pure ruralness of it. I didn't recognize you. I'm Jeff
Watkins. I want to join. I have three drafts of a letter on my hard
drive. I can show you."
"Not interested. Read too much. You are positively
accepted at your convenience."
Kip looked up awestruck. First at Jeff. The quick boy's
face tried for over six, may have made it all the way to eight, but was
nonetheless slave to, well, having his life utterly changed in three
heart-stopping seconds.
"I'm probably not good enough," he said, hanging his
head. "They're dorky letters."
"Then the club will suffer so that it may not survive,"
Alex said.
Kip took this opportunity to refocus, this time on the
face of god. Get the god of flies out of your head, your heart, and your
soul, reclaim all three for yourself, and find your own god. His mom had
gone ape for it, the cloying, saccharine, expensive church was history with
the slamming of a door (that's Celine, she's so much in my mind she
deserves a line), everything changed, Alex was stalked, accosted, Mom spoke
deliberately, and he was in a store looking at perhaps fifty swim suits
arrayed over a diorama of ye olde swimming hole. With god.
"I might be able to, all by myself, at that," Jeff said
with a shy grin.
"We give opportunities for shenanigans like you wouldn't
believe," the minister said to the eleven year old.
"Then I guess I better accept."
"If your uncle has things under control, we'll pick you
up on the way back, Sunday at nine p.m., and you can stay in the rectory,
or, I daresay, Kip here's house."
"He knows everything," the boy said, "so I'll be ready."
Still no swim suit.
"Take two or three and try them on. We've only got one
dressing room but it's big."
Alex and Kip began choosing. And stopped. Both looked
up at Jeff. He spoke: You could look at one on me, too, if that would help
you decide," he said. "There's enough room for three."
Kip was looking at Alex and plainly saw the hard eyes
turn soft. He extended his hand. "I think so," he said, "but Kip and I
are together for the first time, so maybe you'd give us a little time to
talk."
"I'm sorry," the boy said, blushing, "I mean, sure."
He waked to the rear of the small-town building and a
Joan Baez disc swelled over the speakers. Alex led Kip into the dressing
room. The same hand of the diorama of the swimming hole had been at work
here. Pride of place went to an old saddle and the walls were paneled with
barn board. The mirrors were floor to ceiling and spotless, the floor wool
carpeted in deep maroon, and the bench at one wall was woven of old tack
giving it an unconventionally rough but at the same time masculine
presence.
Alex swung Kip into the saddle and stood in front of him.
They high-fived. "Look," Alex said, "things are going ten zillion times
four faster than they're meant to be going. What your mother said. How we
interpret the words to the song. Yes, they probably meant we were going to
be sexually active with each other if that's what you wanted. I think you
do. Now it may happen here. With Jeff. How do you feel?"
"Like Buckaroo Bonsai on steroids," he wanted to sing
out, but Jeff's shy, modest ways had amounted to mentoring of a high order.
"It would save us time if we could look at three suits at once," the boy
actually replied.
This time the high-five was gentle and lingered slightly.
This time they met at the diorama to actually select
their merchandise. Kip broke the ice gently by asking Jeff if he'd wear a
blue pair of trunks. The very modesty of the choice, baggy and perhaps a
size large, thrilled Alex. And the balance was there, too, for three pairs
of Speedos and a thong made the final eight-suit cut.
Jeff excused himself for a moment. "Is he going to
close?" Kip asked, his blue eyes like saucers.
"I think he likes you," Alex said to the curly blond.
Further speculation was interrupted by the return of the
tall, coltish boy. "We're not meant to be open, and now we're not," he
said with his shy smile. Retrieving the blue suit the eleven year old
signaled his guests to the dressing room. "We have Kool-Aid in back, if
you're thirsty," he said, pausing before he closed the door.
All three stood nervously close together trying not to
pant or yawn, but they could do nothing about their voices.
"I'm glad I wore new underpants this morning," Jeff said.
"Mine have dorky cartoons," Kip said. Good boy.
Alex said nothing letting the children lead.
"I guess we don't need to wear them under the swimsuits,"
Jeff whispered, his voice too raspy to speak in a low voice.
Now Alex did speak. "Kip," he said softly, sitting on
the unique bench and pulling the boy gently into his lap, "if we take our
underpants off together, you will be sexually molested by Jeff and me,
maybe for an hour. I think you want that, or we wouldn't be here, but I
have to know. Okay?"
"I know," the boy whispered.
"Okay," Alex whispered back. "I just don't want to have
you get shocked because the adults are thinking about one thing, and you
interpret it as something else."
"I just don't know what it is," the boy replied
"I know," Alex comforted. "I thought we were going to
have an hour in the whirlpool where I could find out how much you know, and
about any experiences you've had or might like to have, then it would
happen if you wanted."
"Are you and Jeff going to take your shirts off or just
lift them up," Kip said, transitioning from one perfect boy to another.
Then impishly became a third: "If you can't make up your
minds, I'll do the buttons."
Cute thought, but it didn't work. Instead, they found
the sickest level of tension in huddling together and stripping themselves.
"I'll go first," Alex said, pulling down his briefs. The
eleven year old and the seven year old followed suit. They picked Kip up
together and stood him on the rawhide bench, standing a foot in front of
him so he could stare down at them.
"Part of what males do can be very messy," Alex cautioned
the boy. "How are you?" he added.
"I guess I'm thinking about being alone with you in the
whirlpool and sitting in your lap," the boy said, "but Jeff is really
beautiful so this is even better."
"I will molest you in private," Alex said.
"I want to leave you and Jeff alone, too, so I can
imagine what you're doing together," said the boy.
"Would you like to watch us first?" Alex asked.
"Yes," the twirp sang back, "because I want to imagine
everything."
He had the grace to blush and murmur "Sorry," at his
outburst. Alex and Jeff thought it was kind of cute, and a definite flirt
with the bold and the sorry.
"I want to watch you have sex together," Kip added.
"And you're sure you want to have sex with us?" Jeff
asked.
"Yes," said the boy.
Alex and Jeff dropped their heads to each others'
shoulders. The adult allowed the boy to take him first, and Jeff explored
while Kip stared from a foot away.
"Do you like to talk?" Alex asked.
"Yes," Jeff whispered, and that made Kip feel like the
bench was sending electricity up through his legs.
"Have you done this with many men?" Alex asked.
"My uncle and two of his friends," Jeff whispered.
"Did they climax with you?" Alex asked.
"Yes," said the boy.
Alex addressed Kip: "That means they went all the way
together. Climax is at the end."
Kip nodded.
"Do you want to quiz him?" Alex asked his traveling
companion.
"Do you bring your uncle in here?" the boy asked after a
pause.
"Yes," Jeff said. "The first time anything happened with
us was on the saddle, so we still like to use it."
"How did it happen?" Kip asked
"It was at a guest ranch where they did a real cattle
drive," the boy said. "My uncle Rick and I spent a month there. Drove
four hundred cattle across eight Texas counties."
"The stars must have been great," Alex said to the eleven
year old's immediate glow.
"They were!" he chirped "If the moon is down and it's
clear, they make you dizzy. But it is a pitiless gaze. The vast majority
who have been under that umbrella would have traded every star for a
thatched roof."
"It's sound like they taught more than roping and
hog-tying."
"It was kind of mature, I guess," Jeff said. "Paul, he
was the owner, tried to get us to look a little at what was behind things.
Even beef. It's a great food product, probably the best, where it's raised
on land that can't be farmed, but if it's raised on flat-land crops, it's
way inefficient."
"A vegetarian rancher," Alex commented.
"Sort of, I guess," Jeff agreed.
"Did he bring you and your uncle together?" Kip asked.
"He gave a speech, sort of, the first night, then they
pulled a trunk out of the chuck wagon.
"He said that out on the trail things were different
because all the girls were left in town. He said the ranch honored the
tradition but did not enforce it. The trunk had girl's clothing in it. He
said all the wranglers had worn them when they hired on as boys, so no one
was too likely laugh or say anything rude. He said more, too. That we
were free to be with each other in ways that were against the law back in
town. That was the tradition. That was why millions of cattle were driven
billions of miles to supply cheap food. Same thing with the great merchant
fleets. Cattle drive or ocean voyage, the life was hard and the work was
dangerous, but if there were boys along who didn't mind, in their turn,
taking on the role of girls, they found enough reward to do it again and
again.
"After his speech Chuck and Eddy, they were the other new
boys, and I got things from the trunk. They were modern, not old
fashioned. We put them on behind the wagon. I went to Uncle Rick and the
other boys went to the two youngest wrangles, because that was the
tradition. The older always accepted the wishes of the young. Anyway, we
sat around the fire and sang cowboy songs. Like the stars, that was way
cool. Even coyotes. But you can only sing for an hour. Then Paul brought
us a horse. `Ride double,' he said.
"Show me," Kip asked, grabbing Jeff's arm and swinging
onto the saddle. Alex helped the lanky and very mature child on behind Kip.
"What kind of costume did you have on?" the boy asked
"A cutoff blouse and midriff jeans," Jeff said, "like the
Olsen twins."
"Did your uncle like it?" Kip said.
"He rubbed my back and whispered, `My god, you're wearing
a bra.' Then we rode off to a bluff where we could keep watch. As soon as
we were away from the chuck wagon Uncle Rick started asking me questions."
"How did you feel?" Alex asked.
"I was embarrassed," the boy replied, even now reddening
at the thought.
"What did he ask you?" Kip said, immediately laying his
hands on Jeff's as the older boy began to fondle his belly.
"He started touching me the way I'm doing it with you,"
Jeff replied, "then he asked me about getting the bra on with Chuck and
Eddy behind the cook wagon. If anything private had happened."
Paul had told us to talk to our horses or sing so we
wouldn't startle any sleeping beef, so, as we rode up to the bluff, I told
him everything."
"How long did it take you and the other boys to change?"
Kip asked, assuming, as Alex had, it had been a few minutes.
"Half an hour," Jeff said. Alex rolled his eyes
involuntarily. Whatever dreams he'd had of a hot tub and a curious seven
year old now seemed a waste of money. Making Kip happier than he appeared
in Jeff's arms, with the tall boy's big hands massaging his belly ever
lower, was probably impossible. The young minister sat on the rough bench,
watching intently as Jeff pulled the immature child ever closer while he
continued to openly molest the boy.
"Can you feel me?" he asked.
"You mean against my back? It's hot," the boy replied.
"Do you want to come closer or move away?" Jeff asked.
"Much closer if there's room," the boy said. He reached
out his right hand for Alex, guiding the athletic male to his belly and
holding him tightly. Alex put his left arm around Jeff's slim waste and
the two mature males huddled against the child in the saddle as Jeff told
about his adventure of the previous summer when he was ten years old.
"We were rally embarrassed at first," the boy continued,
"I mean it's one thing to hear a speech and know all the cowboys did it
when they joined the roundup, but taking your pants off in front of others
boys is another thing if it isn't for gym."
"Did you get like I am from thinking about it?" Kip
asked, gently taking the older boy's right hand and separating his index
finger to rub on the glans of his hard penis.
"From when Paul was talking. How quiet everyone was.
That it was about something private."
"So that made it embarrassing when you went behind the
wagon to change into the girls' clothes?" the little boy queried.
"I think it was more exciting and scary at first. Then
we all saw the panties together and we couldn't kid around after that.
That was the embarrassing part, because nobody could think of anything to
say, plus the men around the fire were completely silent while they waited
for us."
"Think if it wasn't a sin," Alex said, "and you'd all
clowned around while you changed, then gone skipping out to jump on a man
and lead him away for privacy. You'd be back in five minutes, a long,
boring evening ahead."
Point well taken.
"No memories, either," Jeff added, "and the way it did
happen, I remember everything."
It was nice to live in synch with one's preaching. It
made Alex happy to know that Kip, entrusted to him by a wise mother, and an
avid and likely boy, would stand little chance of forgetting sitting on the
display saddle of a rural mercantile.
"Chuck was thirteen, the oldest new kid," Jeff went on,
"so Eddy and I kept looking at him. "I guess we'd better not turn our
backs so we can get at least a little experience," he finally said. Eddy
and I nodded.
"What did he look like?" Kip asked in a whisper, now
using the lanky pre-teen's big hand to stroke the big, frank-size boner
jutting up from his soft, childish belly.
"He was blond with a prison cut that sort of made him
look like a chick, you know, fuzzy, plus he had big eyelashes. Even for
boys, once you saw them, everything else couldn't help being perfect. And
he was really tall. Like my uncle."
"You are, too," Jeff said, "you're so tall you could
almost be eleven."
"But I'm not like you when I have my underpants off," the
seven year old observed.
"I'm that way because of what happened last summer. It
will happen to you, too."
"I hope so," Kip said.
"But you can't overdo it," Jeff cautioned. "I'll teach
you how with Alex, but you have to limit yourself, otherwise you get so
overdeveloped you, a, become a freak, or, b, hurt a normal size girl if you
lose control with her."
"So you don't want to grow any more?" Kip ask, wriggling
happily against the more mature male's belly.
"One more inch long," Jeff said. "That will be eight."
"Then why does it feel longer now?" the twirp asked.
"Because your bare skin is getting me more excited and I
want to do what Chuck taught us about."
"You and Eddy?" Kip asked, good at keeping up the
conversation.
"Yeah," Jeff grunted.
"Were you naked like we are?" came the childish whisper.
"He was first. We took off our buckskins, then he pulled
his underpants so we could see his boner and not be embarrassed because we
had them, too."
"How long did you look at him?" Kip queried.
"For a long time. He posed for us like we were artists
and he was a model."
Alex pictured the Texas scene, older boys and young men
waiting around a campfire, not so much as the sound of taking coffee from
the rim of a cup intruding. If a fortnight was two weeks then that
half-an-hour must have been a light year.
"While we were watching Chuck, we pulled our underpants
down," the eleven year old went on, "then he stopped making poses and stood
still with his legs wide apart and his hands behind his neck."
"Did he look really beautiful?" Kip asked.
"Yes," the boy behind him said.
"Will you stand in front of the mirror and show us?"
Alex vaguely wondered at a seven year old being obeyed as
if he were king of the roost, but it seemed a good time to let smaller
matters pass, and he was sure the tyke would have added `please' if he'd
had another second. He helped Jeff dismount and took the boy's place
behind Kip."
"You're right," the child said, and if the arching,
coltish pre-teen was anything that was the word. Beautiful, yet sensual,
neither a flower in a school girl's hair, nor the chiseled perfection of a
serpent's head. Hypocrisy free? A boy.
Kip extended his arms, beckoning. Jeff straightened from
his arching pose and moved to the child. "Can I feel you against my tummy
like Alex was?" he asked.
"Yes," Jeff whispered, closing the gap and finding
against the tall child's slim flank the wetness the older male had left.
"Right there?" he asked as they came gently together.
"Yes," the youngster whispered softly, staring down as
Jeff hunched over to wet him more.
"On your penis, too," Jeff asked.
Kip looked to Alex for permission, beckoning at the same
time. Alex joined the huddled children as Jeff went up on his tiptoes. He
fondled the pre-teen's long, slim penis, gently bringing its tip to Kip.
"I can spray now if you want him to see," Jeff advised
Alex in a shadow of his clear young voice.
"Can we hear the rest of your story, first, please?" Kip
asked.
"Yes," the boy said. Alex stopped doing what he was
doing because he knew Jeff was on the brink of his climax and gently
released the boy and helped him back on the saddle. For a long moment the
three looked at their grouping in the mirror, the tall minister standing
behind the lanky eleven year old now with his big penis jutting up between
the legs of the curly blond seven year old, hiding the child's boner from
the reflected view. The image was on the accessible side. A tall,
athletic young man with a pair of coltish boys. What was not to like?
Perhaps it was fair that such imagery was not fit for the galleries and
museums. Get the models, click the shutter, post the result. Anyone could
do it. On the other hand if an art museum was supposed to archive beauty,
there was little likelihood of any exhibit equaling the tableau in the
dressing room, and no likelihood, whatever, of the portrait being
surpassed.
Nor would it hurt to enhance the exhibit with a sound
track.
"We couldn't keep the cowboys waiting all night," Jeff
continued as the three rested comfortably together, Kip taking it on
himself to experiment with masturbating the big, circumcised penis jutting
high over his own teen-size boner, "even though we knew they knew we were
nervous so they'd be really patient, so Chuck told us to try something with
him.
"Eddy was twelve so he went first, then he took my hand
and showed me."
"Did you do it like this with Chuck?" Kip asked, stroking
the boy gently on his now wet glans.
"Not too much," Jeff whispered in a squeaky, ragged
voice, "because we didn't want anything to happen before we were with the
experienced men and we still had to put on the girl's panties and bras, and
we knew that would be really hard if we got too excited.."
Yes, definitely a sound track.
"The older boys dressed me first. We only had the
shaving mirror but I could see myself before I put on the blouse and jeans,
so I knew a little about what I looked like. Then Eddy chose a school girl
outfit with skirt and blouse. There was a clown costume, and Chuck wore
that but no underwear and we helped paint his face white with black
whiskers, like a cat.
"By that time it was over half an hour, so we went out
and stood in front of the cowboys. Paul brought the horse for Uncle Rick
and me, and we started out to keep watch. Then I told him what had
happened while he and Paul and the others were waiting for us. He asked me
if I wanted to take the reins, and I did, so he could use both hands on me
while I told him what Chuck and Eddy looked like. He got underneath the
bra, and then he asked me if I was a man if I'd like to go off alone under
the stars with Chuck in his clown suit. I said that most of the ten year
olds I knew would like it and he laughed."
Kip had slowly released Jeff and now sat back against the
older boy with his hands clasped behind his neck as the pre-teen fondled
his chest with his left hand and used his right to masturbate the two of
them, sometimes squeezing tightly and making the seven year old gasp. Alex
cuddled the children against his waist, his big penis stroking gently
between their silky bodies. Jeff accepted him readily, and they moved
carefully against each other so Jeff could stimulate the mature male and
wet his right hand on his flow of seminal fluid.
"The bluff was almost five miles from camp. Uncle Rick
said he had wanted to wait until we were at the watch station to take me,
but now he wanted to try while we were riding. I wanted the same thing he
did, so I said it would be okay. We talked about how to do it while we
were riding and I giggled when he said that he bet a lot of cowboys had
figured it out in the past.
"The secret was not to hurry," Jeff continued, to the
story apparently born. "The boots were the hardest part, but then Uncle
Rick joked that a cowboy never walked anywhere, anyway, so we rode by an
outcropping and dropped them. The rest of our clothes could go in the
saddle bags.
"So we turned the horse, Victory, back toward the bluff
from the outcrop and took turns holding the reins while we helped each
other. I guess it would have been funny but we were too nervous to think
so. Uncle Rick was really scared he'd corrupt me or make me into a punk,
but I knew it was because he loved me so it was okay. It was hard for him
to get out of his jeans while we were riding, because he's six-three and
has really long legs. He joked it must have been easier in Billy the Kid's
day, because then everyone was about five-three. It didn't matter, because
the moon was just coming up and lighting up the prairie like a white fire
on a slow elevator.
"Finally, he was sitting against me in just his briefs.
I'd taken my pants off before him, so it was nice to feel his strong legs
against mine, plus, where he was pressed against me. I rode for awhile and
he molested me so he could get really hard against my back. Then he asked
me if I wanted to feel his bare chest against mine. I nodded and he took
the reins while I turned around. I had to ride backwards, I've never done
that before, so his hands would be free to reach around and undo the bra
strap. When he got it off me and tucked it in the saddle bag, he took the
reins and we did what we wanted.
"'How do you feel about the camp being homosexual?' he
asked me. I said that the tradition seemed natural. `I guess an hour like
this made up for plenty of dust,' he said, and then we experimented with
kissing on the lips."
"I never thought of that," Kip said, blushing with his
unconscious outburst. It was time for a break, anyway. Jeff had gotten so
far ahead in his story, the tableau needed refreshing to stay in synch with
the narrative.
Speaking of which, I've been a little out of the
narrative, myself. This is obviously turning into a monumental piece of
work. The fright factor again: does an artist ever lose it? Where does
it, the art, come from, irregardless of how one has focused and worked,
sacrificed, and worked the more? Millions do that more diligently than I.
Therefore, why, in the first place, so freaking much? and, in the not so
second place, what is the limit? No one goes on like this. It's
unprecedented in art, to say nothing of literature. There are the
brilliant works, music, painting, theater and novels, but only one or a few
per customer. Upton Sinclair wrote a library full of books, and, like the
Neanderthal, improved not an iota. Not to blow my own horn, but I seem
unable to write a paragraph without the following one being better. So,
how come, already? While Mozart published some four hundred works, only
twenty or so have the unworldly brilliance of his finest work. So many
fall away for want consistent brilliance we are left with Dickens and
Shakespeare, and who would YOU rather read?
My neighbor assures me she has bootstrapped me on the
telephone list. A little frightening talking to her. Apparently she is
computer literate and knows how to mail merge. This machine has never been
touched by knowledgeable hands. I kick it to boot it and start typing.
Andrew was over this evening. He's my word-count disciple, the first one
to actually take an interest. Good time to ask, because I'd just passed
ninety thousand. Up ten thousand from his last visit. It's difficult to
explain to him that cigarettes and marijuana add ten hours to each working
day without intriguing him with smoking, but I think I've gotten the
message across.
From time to time Samantha will smile over her shoulder,
hair neatly done, and look exactly like a young soccer mom. She has so
many looks. The other afternoon she was pouting while lying on my knee
with her cheek against her hand. She's already wiped out Anne, but Lolita,
too? I never in my born days saw anything like it. Living my own novel
while working eighteen hours a day on yours is scary enough, but living as
newlyweds compounds the fear factor until dread rules. To have the crossed
tees and dotted i-s of perfection results in the highest potential for the
longest fall. Meantime, I have a fourteen year old dancing and singing
around the house for an hour or two each six-thousand-word day. She
becomes more affectionate. So girls grow if you lave them alone. I'm a
sodden lump, thirty-two inch waistline notwithstanding, with all the
personality of salt-free oatmeal. I'm always in bed, always working. She
thinks its funny, hauling up my eyelids looking for signs of life, then
kissing me tenderly good-bye.
I'm glad I taught her to talk. Proves money actually is
good for some things. From terse, nervous requests, probably afraid I'd
want something off her, we've advanced to stories of a thousand words or
more as to why she needs five bucks for this or that. These are becoming
multi-layered and even at their least complex involve two or three
sub-plots. In an interesting example of the often accurate less-is-more
doctrine, the less money I have, the more ingenious her doggerel. It's
fair to middling theater, what with her rich Creole idiom and accent, and
one of these days I'm going to tape me an hour.
She often stands at the west window of my room, probably
spying on her cousins who live two houses away, but looking so exactly like
the Venus de Milo it's uncanny. Same breasts, same hips, same buttocks and
legs. I'm pointing this out for you readers who might tend towards
impatience with temporizing, divergence, and, I suppose, outright teasing,
just so you'll know that Samantha has been my girlfriend for the best part
of a year, and I've never seen her naked. Do you think the experience will
be less for the waiting? Nuff said.
Three months now without cable and I miss it less than
ever. Only Saturday mornings when I'm accustom to getting my Stacy David
fix on TNN. I believe it's been nearly a month since I even heard a news
cast. Even the BBC finally became wall-to-wall Israel and that simply must
be someone else's news. But it does make me a cultural illiterate.
Several periods in my life I've been entirely out of touch. Vietnam, but
that was just ninety days. My first and second stays here in Belize,
totaling three years, then four more in Mexico, during which time I did
finally get on the cable. Now its been eight years with the set on all day
and three months with no set. I wish I could say something patriotic about
missing the welcome voice of my native land, but I'm only funny when I try
to be, and the very lack of any feeling of disconnection is without merit
as a subject for levity. In reflection, I can say the only thing I would
really miss would be some of Jimmy Brogan's jokes when he was writing for
Jay. Otherwise television is not so much a vast wasteland as an invalid
wasteland. Its fat, debt-ridden, punked-kids audience should be proof of
that. It is a bug and it needs a heel. Hmm. I seem to have a pair. I
submit the happiest day in your immediate future will be the day on which
you do not pay your first TCI bill.
My great great grandfather said that a foolish
consistency was the hobgoblin of a little mind. Let me give you an example
of what he meant. If you don't have cable, you should get it.
Unquestionably, the medium is in a golden age. One scene from "Married
With Children" can be funnier than all the work Moore and Ball did in their
entire careers. Ditto for several other comedies. Once subplot in "Law
and Order" is greater than three seasons of "Hill Street Blues." The
documentary channels have good to excellent programming around the clock.
The problem comes after several years. You've seen it all, tuned yourself
with some accuracy to the world at large, and so it becomes intrusive
wallpaper and a valueless waste of time. Three years off, one year on.
That's my anti-hobgoblin advice. (You can always read during the off
years, you know.) Any experienced reader knows I'm one pretty pissed off
king. (In the Sixties there was a T-shirt reading: "Christ is coming, and
his he pissed!" Now might be the time for a new edition. "Your king is
here, and is he pissed!") But am I crazy? Let's look at crazy. If I was
crazy the advice would be the same, two year without, one year with, but,
and this is the big part, I wouldn't be talking about television, but,
rather, food. Other perspectives are useful on such a sensitive subject
(crazy kings cluttering up history, as they do.) I like the last thing in
the news before I went cable-free. The White House distancing itself so
quickly and thoroughly from Enron in its hour of crises. Did this company
supply tiddlywinks to Somallian refugees? It seems to me the media is
running the country. If this is true, it will kill you, just for the
story. Of course, being a crazy king, I'll kill you just for the laugh.
The only thing worse than our brothers, the urban socialists, or my own
attitude, would be if there actually happened to be a functioning god, for
he would have killed you long ago. No momma no waddle no mall no more.
At six thousand words on many days I don't spend
excessive time totting up the list of perfections I've assembled around
this dynamic studio. A minor example is living where the neighbors as you
to turn the music UP. I'm quite the fellow for cracking the volume wide
open with the "Groove"/Rock equalizer on and pushing the play button on
Celine. "The Power of Love" and six more on one CD. Why does anyone buy
anything else. She's a great comfort to me. Another god in human drag..
I wonder how the particular urban types scripting SNL feel about trashing
her? Do they high-five each other at the Club Lipshitz to this very day?
I do feel like trying a smiley face here. What are they, emoticons? A
very smiley guy, in this case, is licking his chops over the possibility
they might try a little of their Catskill slime on me. I was gigging eels,
skinning them, and eating them when I was ten. In my book when your
trailer amounts to ceaseless repetitions of a fat-legged girl falling down
you've got major artistic problems unlikely to be rectified by any number
of glib schmoes, and, further, I am not impressed with the show's staying
on the air through the greatest economic boom in world history.
(Letterman's stayed-on-the-air, for god's sake.)
I think one of the best things about Samantha is that she
is not likely to become particularly attached to me. A lot of people in a
mainstream audience would view our relationship as askance enough for the
big house, but the advantages are considerable. If Samantha, as might have
happened in pre-AIDS days, fell in love with the right boy and spent her
life with him, they'd face the ultimate pain, next to losing a beloved
child, of losing each other one way or the other. Since I'm a pretty sure
bet to be outta here in twenty or so years, in spite of sensational
familial genes, that lets me, a much older man, go to the happy hunting
grounds in a natural progression, leaving her a thirtyish widow with plenty
of loot. Presumably, she will then continue the mismatch with a younger
man, again, avoiding the penultimate grief. Since I've orchestrated my
personal life to a fare-thee-well, so far, I maintain a trace of optimism,
and, in any event, in the AIDS environment, the only choices she has are me
and abstinence. One thing's for sure. Somewhere out there is a VERY LUCKY
young man. Too bad I couldn't figure out who it was, because he'd
undoubtedly supply free cigarettes by the case.
Delineating the relationship is touchy because it's so
uncommon. We are grandfather and favorite granddaughter. In a long-term
sense, having known each other eight years, we are friends. We are
partners in loving Celine and when we need to tear into a malfunctioning
television or stereo. We are high school sweethearts who hardly go much
beyond necking. We are newlyweds putting together a first home. We are
lovers in all but the most technical (and legal) sense, both licking our
chops for the day. We are fiancées with a wedding date of Sept.10,
2005. She is the hand that shops for me. She's the hand that pulls up my
eyelids to see if I'm still alive and between herself and the huge stash of
money. She is the one who kisses me tenderly when she thinks I'm dead.
I've known five fabulous girls in my life, and one perfect one. Someday
I'll put together a hundred-photo website, just her lips, then you-all will
see what I mean. She is a greater reward than Mr. Gate's money or any
combination of fame and fortune. Being poor with her is more fun than
being rich with another. All this, plus she is absolutely sexy. As I
said, there's likely an awfully lucky boy out there somewhere.
Let's look around for other lucky people. How about
Alex, Kip and Jeff? And you, too, don't feel left out, you're lucky to be
reading the Celine Dion of prose artists on the greatest Archive in the
world.
Jeff stayed mounted while Alex picked up Kip and reversed
him, settling him gently against Jeff. He tilted the child's head back and
Jeff was quick to take the hint and lean to the big-eyed boy.
"What you were doing with my tongue," Kip asked a few
minutes later, "is that what your uncle did with you?"
"Not on the horse," Jeff replied, "but, yeah, later when
we were up on the bluff on Victory's blanket, I lay back and spread my legs
and he lay down between them and did it the same way." If it had been
Christmas or his birthday under discussion the boy would undoubtedly have
said I can't wait, but in the more mature situatuation he just pressed his
lips to Jeff and hummed, "Mmm."
Alex was now fully between their young bodies, his penis
jutting up under Kip's right thigh, pressing against both boys.
"Is this what you experimented with after you finished
kissing?" Kip asked, his hands especially active on his pre-teen saddlemate
but also including Alex.
"Yes," the older boy said in a barely audible whisper.
"Then beef should have cost a penny a pound," the
whippersnapper commented.
"Or a hundred dollars," Jeff said, illuminating the happy
fact that trail riders as well suited to each other as Rick and his nephew
might have had difficulty making a mile a week across open ground.
"'Do you think you'll be gay after this?' Uncle Rick
asked me after we kissed.
"'I think I'll know enough not to reject anyone on a
gender basis," the ten year old Jeff had replied, "but I don't think I'll
haunt the lifestyle. Too much homework, for openers, plus, with you close
by it would take a lot to distract me."
"How are you going to feel about being with the other
males on the drive?" Rick asked'
"I'm trying to get used to the idea."
"Well," Rick said, "like Paul said, no pressure. At
least there are no weirdoes or creeps along."
"Part of it will be exciting if something does happen, do
you know what that will be?" the boy said.
"I'd guess everything, but go ahead."
"If I do want to be with Dave or Hank, the first time I
go off alone with them and you watch me go. I'll wonder how you'll feel
when I come back?"
"In a word, Lucky," the young uncle responded.
"Can homosexuals be jealous?" Kip asked Alex.
"There's vastly less to be jealous about," the preacher
replied. "In a marriage a husband may be jealous if his wife wants another
male to get her pregnant, whether it's by way of an affair or divorce.
This obvious imperative is missing in a homosexual relationship, so the
rules are much more flexible. In fact, mature men who have relationships
with young boys not only want them to be with other attractive partners,
but they'll often set up dates or take them to settings were group sex is
going to happen. It's pretty much two different worlds, except the gays
develop strong para-marital feelings, so jealousy can become a significant
factor amongst them, even to catty club spitting, if you believe everything
you see on late night.
"How would you feel watching me ride off with Eddy?" Rick
asked the naked boy he held in his arms.
"Glad to have you back," the ten year old said.
"Would you want to ask questions?" Rick quizzed.
"Yes," said Kip.
"I would, too," his uncle said, "and Paul told me about a
special camp secret they have at Heart Arrow. It may sound a little gross
to a kid your age, but I could tell you if you wanted."
"I want," the boy said, pulling his handsome young uncle
to him for another experiment in kissing.
"Remember how you asked how I'd feel watching you leave
camp with another man?" Rick asked.
"Yes," the boy said.
"Well," the man said, "there's a way it can be even more
exciting when you come back to me."
"How?" Jeff asked.
"Don't wipe yourself off after something happens between
you," Rick explained. "Come back with his sperm drying on your body. Paul
says that's beyond awesome, and I think he knows what he's talking about."
"It would work for me, too," the boy whispered. "If you
came back with Eddy and I could see what happened when you were alone with
him that means I could share it at least a little."
"And how would you feel about group sex?" Rick asked.
Paul says it happens sometimes."
"I'd want to stay with you," the boy said, "then we could
try it if you want to."
"I would," Rick said. "I'd love to watch you and Paul
together. Or anyone that was your choice."
"But just sometimes, right?" the boy asked.
"Paul said it happens about once a week for a couple of
hours."
"That sounds about right," Jeff said.
"But this is a pretty good camp, right?" Rick asked.
"Definitely," his ten-year-old nephew replied.
"Okay, so, the last night out, guess what?"
"I don't know," the boy said, experimenting by linking
his slim leg's under his uncle's knees, taking the reins, and lying back
stretched along Victory's mane. Again, he was navigating blind, but the
newly risen moon made it easy and it gave his handsome, athletic uncle a
chance to masturbate him openly, using both hands.
"There's a former cowboy who's settled out along the
run-in trail. It just happens, again, according to Paul, that he has two
boys, sixteen and fourteen, and three daughters, aged ten, nine, and
seven."
"It is a great camp," Jeff agreed, whispering loud enough
to be heard in the still Texas night..
"How do you feel about watching a brother have incest
with his sister?" Rick asked.
"I'd like to touch them," Jeff replied. "Even that would
be exciting."
"It's the most exciting relationship, along with father
and daughter," Rick said.
"They say at school it's the most damaging," the ten year
old observed.
"They're right," Rick said. "The stolid middle class is
actually right about a number of things in spite of their propensity for
eating themselves to death on credit. They are also wrong about some
things. The most complex issue they're right and/or wrong about is incest.
Jason Forester is the rancher with the sons and daughters. His theory on
the matter is that girls who lie with their fathers or brothers, may,
because of social codes, develop self-esteem problems. The answer is
simple. Let them be with un-related males who find them attractive as
people and lovers."
"And we're the unrelated males," the boy stated.
"And they're attractive," Rick concluded.
"So it's our responsibility to help keep them that way,"
Jeff said.
"Very perceptive."
Kip was becoming more responsive as Jeff's story of his
adventure of the previous summer wore on. He was now emulating the
storyteller by lying stretched out along the oak barrel on which the
display saddle was mounted. If anything, his pose was the more carnal
because the tapering of the whisky barrel allowed him to fully arch his
back and raise his hips high to Jeff. Alex huddled close to the duo,
molesting both boys and listening to Jeff's every word.
"We rode on like that," the boy recounted, "then Uncle
Rick stuck out his hand and pulled me back to him.
"Do you want to talk about the last part?" the uncle
asked.
"Yes," Jeff said bashfully.
"We don't have to," the man said, "talking's exciting
sometimes, but other times it's not."
"Well," the boy responded, "it may not be as exciting
with you as it will be with Mr. Forester`s daughters, but it's still
exciting, especially the part where I don't clean up after I've been with
another mature male."
"Do you want to clean after me?"
"No."
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"I'd better take the reins."
"Okay."
"A little bit faster and harder."
"Are you cumming off in my hand?"
"Yes."
"It looks beautiful in the moon."
"Uh."
"Spray some on my face."
"Yesss..."
"You're getting me really wet."
"You're beautiful."
"Give me the reins so you have your hands free."
"Here."
"Your hand is really wet."
"Hold back as long as you can."
"Will I drop the reins when it happens?"
"Hold them at the ends so you'll have slack in case you
want come against my chest while you're sperming."
"Okay."
"Am I doing it the right way with you?"
"Just don't stop. Please."
"It would take a comet."
"I want Paul to do this with me while you watch."
"I want you to be with him in private, too."
"Lean forward for a second so I can grab your left arm"
"Okay."
"I want to cum on you."
"Yes."
"I'm cumming."
"You've still got the reins. Hold them."
"I'll try."
"Do you know if you have sperm?"
"No."
"Go ahead. Cum. It doesn't matter."
"I want to get you wet. I love you."
"I love you, too."
"I'm cumming."
"Guess what."
"It's wet?"
"Look. Open your eyes."
"Easy for you to say."
"You're spraying all over me, can't you feel it?"
"It just fells hot and kind of like rusty."
"Well, it is hot and watery, not thick and white. For a
ten year old awesome."
"It's going to happen again."
"It's happened six times."
"Wow. It felt like one or two."
"Seven."
"Wow."
"Eight."
"I'm going to look. I can't believe it."
"I wonder how the old-time cowboys got dressed, again."
"They dismounted."
"Very funny."
"Well, we're here, so let's experiment and see if it's
easier astride or on the ground."
"Very funny. Plus, it's like duh'uh's grandfather that
we would want to get dressed before tomorrow morning, in the first place."
"You don't mind riding into camp naked with me?"
"Well I sure and for certain don't want you wearing any
kind of shirt."
"You got it."
"That's the best story I ever heard," Kip said.
"For sure and for certain,' Alex quoted, "you are going
to make a Hunter."
The boy blushed happily while reaching for the supine
child at his waist. He pulled the boy gently to himself, and Kip found him
immediately.
"This is what you did with your uncle?" he asked
masturbating tentatively. Jeff looked at Alex who got the message, and
steadied the seven year old's hands on the eleven year old's man-size six
inch penis. Jeff hissed his pleasure and immediately began wetting Kip's
tiny hands. "The sperm is more than this, isn't it?" he asked in a
whisper. "Yes," Alex replied, Jeff already beyond speaking, "lots more."
Alex ejaculated first, his penis thrust up under the
child's thigh. His hard, fast spray wet them both and made them pant with
the hot, slick touch of each other as they stared into each others' eyes.
"I'm cumming," Jeff whispered after two long minutes. They broke their
gaze, and Jeff cradled Kip's pretty child face in his hands as he began to
ejaculate hot, watery pre-teen semen all over the bird-like chest of the
little boy. Alex guided Jeff to Kip's face, and, demonstrating a high
level of intelligence, the seven year lowered his face, in spite of Jeff's
token resistance, and whisper of You don't have to, until his lips and
tongue covered the eleven year old.
Five minutes later they were still sweating and panting
against each other. "We don't have to clean up, either," Jeff said as they
retrieved the exhausted Kip from the saddle, lay him back on the rough
leather bench, and took turns kneeling at the little boy's waist and using
their mouths and tongues on him until he flailed and grunted through three
hard, dry climaxes.
Even post-coitally they were excited seeing the stripes
and pools of semen on each other. In ten minutes they were licking each
others' sperm, and, in twenty, they had submitted again.
Jeff re-opened the quiet store, Alex and Kip took six of
the eight swim suits, and they met Rick as they were in the parking lot.
"If you ever go let me go riding with him," Kip said, "it might be better
if I was bare chested when I came back."
"You know, kid," Alex said, "I don't think you have to be
careful what you wish for."
"I'll bet you could take five hundred kids my age," Kip
said, "and not one of them would have a best-day-of-their-life like mine."
"That would probably be true of boys twice your age,"
Alex observed.
They'd decided the hot tub was serious overkill and left
it empty. They lay together on the bed.
"I don't want to make a trollop out of you," Alex said,
"and if you want to just hang out together, I'd be flattered, but, at the
same time, I did notice a couple by the pool that seemed aware of us."
"Do a lot of men bring kids here to molest them?" Kip
asked, nice, childlike, and direct.
"Probably about half," Alex said.
"I'll be the couple was the one with the girl in the pink
swim suit."
"Do you wish she was wearing a bikini?" Alex asked.
"Yeah," the boy grinned.
"That's what a man sees in a boy's body," Alex said, "the
same thing you see in a young girl."
"I think your body is even better, so was Jeff's, but I
like hers, for sure."
"Who knows how you'll grow up," the older male said as
they toyed with each others' legs on the bed. They were both in their
briefs, hugely erect, and enjoying play of their inner calves and thighs
with each other, "but you'll, a, probably have some idea of what love is
before too very long, and, b, make your final choice, or very small group
of choices, for the right reasons and not out of frustration or curiosity,
plus, there's a c, and c is that you will, guaranteed, end up a child
molester. So this is the part where I honor your mother's request to fill
you in and fill you in so simply that a bird could catch on. You get top
grades, especially in math. You then have your choice of summer camps to
work for. Later, you can get involved in scouting, sports, clubs, or other
such activities. Out of every twenty or thirty boys you come in contact,
at least one will want to spend time in private with you, and very often
his parents will encourage the relationship, especially if it's a single
mom. Out of the same number of girls, not only one or more willing
partners, but, also, mothers willing for you to mentor their daughters.
Excel, and the options are thine. There. End of message."
"Clerical, too," the boy chirped.
"Don't remind me," Alex said.
Since that very day was the first day of their lives they
lay playing legsies in their underpants until Kip asked a question.
"Blue goes with pink?"
They stopped their wrestling game. Alex rose over Kip,
settled on his left elbow and gazed into his eyes, then gently kissed him
on the lips. "Definitely," he said.
She was alone now. They found empty lounge chairs and
instinct told them to settle in for a chill before they hit the pool. To
choose the best? Well, they were an exceedingly attractive young couple,
so they had their standards, but no, just watching the parade of humanity
some dozens strong and reviewing the memories they were beginning to
accumulate on the first day of their relationship. But she was the best.
Couldn't help noticing it at a glance, and five minutes of spectatorship
confirmed it in spades. The most kid of the many kids, pixie haircut, pug
nose, freckles, slim as a dart but for a well developed pair of
shoulders... she looked as if she could actually throw overhand.
Fishing without a string. The girl hacked around with
the other kids in the pool with a cute sixteen year old boy taking a
special interest, but, inexorably, the absence of string meant nothing.
The dynamic was intriguing. The athletic young adult accompanied by a
tall, slim seven year old, lounge chairs side by side, became the center of
attention inciting avid interest and engendering exquisite manners as this
individual and that couple circled close, each wish half to attract and
half not to ace out the next guy. Through all this the girl whirled and
played ever closer, her teen companion finally acquiescing with a See you
later as she reached the ladder. The brunette pixie didn't need a body,
the face and shoulders would satisfy anybody, but she had one. Cute, too,
even a seven year old boy would have to acknowledge that. It seemed the
entire congregation of swimmers and stalkers gave a sigh of tense relief as
the beauty made her decision obvious by retrieving her towel from a nearby
plastic table and sitting on the vacant lounge chair next to Kip.
"My dad had some business call to make. Is it okay if I
hang out with you guys until he comes back?"
She introduced herself with a blush as Nancy Drew. "Do
you know how many times I hear Investigate This every day?" she sighed as
she seated herself and began drying her hair.
"Have we been swimming, or not?" Kip asked sporting his
patently dry, baggy blue swimming trunks. Nancy had brown eyes and they
did a job on Kip before she finally allowed herself to giggle at him.
"Are you going, or not?" she countered.
Alex sensed they both wanted to wisecrack along the line
of Are you feeling lucky, punk, but they just stared at each other. It was
axiomatic amongst the Hunters that by far the best partner for a young boy
or girl was an older teen or a younger man. Boys and girls under eleven or
so were, happily, more interested in pulling out each others' hair than
pulling down their underpants or little panties with one another. Could
there be exceptions to this orthodoxy?
"You're as handsome as my dad," Nancy said, graciously
including the older male in the conversation as she gazed, big-eyed, at
Kip.
"What's your dad do?" Alex asked.
"He's a mining engineer," the girl replied.
"Is your mom here?" Kip asked.
"No," Nancy said, "she's visiting my grandpa in Montana.
He has a cattle ranch. Dad and I are here by ourselves for the week"
Alex let Kip do the talking. The kid was a dude when he
wanted to be, and, young as he was, avid to experiment with small talk.
"Is it the first time you've been alone together?" the
boy asked.
The pixie blushed. She was dry but continued fussing
nervously with the towel. "Yes," she whispered. "Tonight will be our
first time."
There was an awkward silence. Seven was still seven.
"Have you talked about things?" Alex asked, gently, his
voice tinged with the so-called sickness so that it gave Kip an immediate
boner.
"Quite a bit," the girl allowed, "but I'm still really
nervous."
"I was lucky," Kip said. "My first time with Alex, we
were buying bathing suits, so one thing led to another. If we'd been in
his bedroom, I would have been nervous, too."
"Dad bought me this bathing suit," the girl replied.
Since it was obvious a child's father would buy her clothes there must be
something to the girl's mentioning it. Kip was not unaware of this.
"I tried on several so Alex could see them," the boy said
in a harmless variation of the truth.
"Me, too," the girl said.
"Did he whistle and stomp and cheer, or was he really
quiet." Kip asked.
"Really quiet," Nancy said, giggling happily and
obviously relaxing.
"Did you like him looking at you?" the boy went on.
"It was embarrassing when I got to the bikini," she said,
blushing again.
"Did you buy it?"
"Yes. I'm going to wear it for him again after dinner."
"I bet you'll really blush," Kip said.
"At least we'll be in private," the girl said. Alex's
erection pumped wildly. She could have easily said they'd be alone, and
was obviously bright enough to distinguish between being alone and being
private. Kip helped with more prosaic interpretations, as befitted his
role of duty seven year old.
"Were there other people in the store?" he asked.
"Just the salesgirl," Nancy said, again blushing.
Alex, dutifully composing his thoughts for later
transcription, was amused at gleaning a footnote to the general subject of
wildly mismatched couples. Attentive sales personnel. I noticed this when
Steven, eleven, and I, then in my mid forties, went shopping together.
Everyone from gas station attendants, who'd suddenly fill the car in the
Self-Serve lane, to the boat rental, to the ski rental, to the Clarion,
where, after two arduous years, I was able to take him for frequent
grilled-cheese pig outs, to my landlord, took double the interest in us as
they would have if I'd been accompanied by an appropriate partner. This
can pay dividends. On one of our overnight at the Best Western, I awoke at
three in the morning to find him missing from our bed. He sneaked into the
room a few minutes later, trying not to wake me. He cuddled happily and I
quizzed him. I let him keep most of it private, but he was willing to
allow that he'd been molested by the security guard before he fell sound
asleep in my arms. I didn't quiz him on where or how much, just enjoyed
the companionship of a happier and more self-confident boy from that night
on. There were two way points in this intensely difficult relationship.
The first was some months before when I decided to end his rude, obnoxious
selfishness, or half kill him. I walloped him a dozen times across the
back of his head and stiff little moron neck. Wish I'd done it a year
earlier. Patience CAN be exactly the wrong thing when it comes to
children. Anyway, the new kid got to go a lot of places and do a lot of
things the old kid only dreamed of, plus, as a special reward for almost
ending up in the clink for child abuse (with bruising for the court), he
became a far more engaging and avid lover, soon becoming perfect. For
three plus years he was my only lover, and, for the last two, and
especially after that particular night at the Best Western, I was about as
happy as a camper can get, an extensive police investigation, triggered by
a phone call from his material-girl sister, notwithstanding. In a more
sane and tolerant environment Steven and I would be together to this day,
but the affair ended as was inevitable, with the boy, now thirteen, at a
youth shelter. Steven was such a wreck when I first met him as a browser
in my bookstore that I would have called the police, had he not assured me
his mother was a deputy sheriff and, no, he was not lost or abandon.
Before we parted I was able to take him anywhere, enduring only the
embarrassment of an occasional tactless remark on his part. Much of what I
write is true. I know, for I have lived it for months and years on end.
If there is no viable system for sanctioning alternative relationships,
against a backdrop of conventional authority, millions suffer needlessly
for years on end. It should go without saying that this is bad for the
moral health of society. Listen to the salesgirl:
"Nancy," Shirley asked, "would you like me to help you
with that?"
"Yes, please," the girl said, giving her father a fond
look but delighted to be going off alone with the nice girl." They
introduced themselves as they entered the boutique's dressing room.
"Do you want me to lock the door?" Shirley asked.
"Yes," the pretty girl said, eyes glowing.
"Your dad is very handsome," Shirley whispered.
"I know," Nancy whispered back, "is your dad handsome,
too?"
"Yes," the twenty year old said, and they high fived.
"Do you want to talk for a little while?" Shirley asked,
"because men love to wait for we who shop."
Nancy giggled and nodded her head.
"You seemed nervous when you got near the swim suits. I
remember feeling the same way when I wanted my dad to help me pick out my
first bra. But it's exciting, too, isn't it."
"Like a roller coaster without the rollers or the
coaster," Nancy said.
"And you're just buying a bathing suit," Shirley
observed.
"Don't remind me," the girl responded in a dry voice.
"It sounds serious," Shirley whispered, "is something
going to happen between you soon?"
"Tonight," Nancy said.
"Have you been able to talk to anyone about it?" the
college girl asked.
"I know different things are going to be happening now
that I'm seven," Nancy said, "and Mom said they happen to lots of girls.
It's just that I love my dad so much I'm afraid I'll disappoint him."
"Because you haven't started to grow yet?" Shirley asked.
"That, and I don't know what to do."
"Why don't you go tell your dad to go for a cup of coffee
-- I doubt he'll want a drink -- and we can hang out as long as I keep an
ear out for customers."
Nancy was off in a flash, and Ken Fitzroy, mining
engineer and tall, muscular redhead was dispatched to the nearest café.
Shirley had emerged from the dressing room, returned Ken's smile, and
turned her attention to the display as Nancy joined her. They picked out
half a dozen suits and returned to the changing room.
"Do you want me to ask you some mature questions?"
Shirley asked after they'd seated themselves.
"Yes," Nancy said, loving the husky note in her new
friend's voice.
"Okay," Shirley said. "My dad an I became close when I
was even younger than you are, so that probably answers a few, right
there."
"How old do you have to be?" Nancy asked.
"Seven, for physical comfort, if your dad is of normal
size. As far as being in love with a man and wanting to please him, as a
man, that can happen even younger. I had a crush on my dad from about
three years old, but I didn't take a shower with him until I was six, then
I had to sneak in while he was singing "Don't Cry for me Argentina."
"Did he get mad?" Nancy asked.
"He tried to, but there's a secret about men, and it's
quite possible for the dears to say one thing and mean another, but it
matters not for their bodies tell the truth."
"So you stayed in the shower with him?"
"Yes," Shirley whispered. Then she took the pretty face
of the big-eyed child in her hands and brought her close. "He taught me
how to kiss," the young beauty said, "has your dad taught you yet."
"No," Nancy said.
"If you want to wait for him, it's okay," Shirley
whispered as she drew the seven year old to her and slowly found her lips.
"It will be better with him, tonight," the older girl
said.
"I'm glad it was you," Nancy said. "We pass this store a
lot and I'll always be reminded that I had my first kiss here."
Shirley blushed at the childish sincerity of the
compliment, and held her face to her right breast.
"You'll remember where you were the first time your dad
kisses you like a man, too," Shirley said. "Guaranteed." They high fived
again.
"You must have taken a shower with your dad before he
brought you the bra," the alert child noted.
"We just played like children before that day," Shirley
explained. "He wanted to wait to be sure I was sure."
"Are you glad you waited?" Nancy asked.
"No," Shirley said. " Was ready to be with him all the
way when I was your age. What if I'd died or gotten fat?"
"You probably would have done more than most girls your
age," Nancy observed.
"I was lucky," Shirley admitted, "I just said that so you
don't let your dad go half way, so you can convince him you meant it when
you ask for him."
"Sounds like a good tip," Nancy said.
"This is a good tip," Shirley said, holding up a tiny
yellow bikini.
"Looks like Dad brought me to the right place," the girl
said, smiling shyly.
"You've just got the right dad, like I do," the older
girl said.
"Was after you got the bra the best time of your life?"
Nancy asked.
"Yes," Shirley said, "but it would have been just as good
three years earlier. It's the man an nothing else, so do your best, but if
he's stubborn, it's because he loves you and doesn't want to take any
chances by going to far."
"Did you show your dad the bra in the dressing room?"
Nancy asked.
"No," Shirley said, "I bought it in secret to surprise
him."
"Cool," Nancy chirped.
"Well, you can take it as a tip, too, if you want, no
charge," Shirley said. "I had a hard time keeping it a secret when I
started to grow. He stopped touching me because he thought I was changing
my mind like some girls do when they get to the age of ten or eleven. That
went on for a week and things were happening kind of fast. Then it was
Saturday and I could get to the store. Mom knew what I was up to, so she
went to visit her brother. When dad got home I was vacuuming in just my
bra, not even panties or slippers."
"I was right when I said dad brought me to the right
place," the girl enthused in a whisper.
"I've only told two other girls," Shirley said, "it's not
for every family, but the ones who ignore certain rules can go the whole
new worlds as long as everyone is willing and no one gets fat."
"What happened when your dad got home?" Nancy asked, the
child's what-next imperative flattering Shirley and deepening their
fast-curing bond.
"I couldn't hear him come in because of the vacuum. He
didn't want to frighten me, so he stripped off everything, then waved
through a window, then came back to the door.
"Have you ever seen your dad naked?" she said, changing
the subject but not by much.
"No," Nancy said.
"Other men or older boys?
"No."
"The dolls in school?"
"They're for next year, but Sally Swartz peaked when we
were getting stuff for a science experiment."
"And?"
"I guess we were a little disappointed," Nancy admitted.
"Your dad is tall and rangy," Shirley said, "I doubt
you'll be disappointed when you see him."
"I wouldn't care if he looked like the doll," Nancy said.
"Good girl. So, anyway, there was Dad, naked at the back
door."
"Cool," Nancy cooed.
"'I'm here for the woman of the house,' he said"
"'She's in love with the man of the house, so I'm afraid
you've come for nothing,'" that's what I said.
"I don't think I'll be able to talk," Nancy said.
"You'll have to remember to even breathe," Shirley
assured the girl.
"Did you discourage the man at the door?" Nancy giggled.
"He said he had the wrong house, and was looking for a
flat-chested nymph, made his apology and bid me good day."
"But he didn't go."
"Only a few feet across the lawn. I ran out and jumped
on him and we piggybacked under a tree together. I held onto a branch.
"If you'd like you can stand in front of the mirror and
I'll show you what he did to me because its what men usually do with young
girls."
Nancy stood. She'd kicked off her sandals and was
wearing a white blouse and khaki cargo shorts.
"This is called `feeling up', the older girl explained,
standing close behind Nancy and reaching in front of her to pull the tails
of her blouse free of her shorts. "Especially here," she said after a
minute as she reached Nancy's nipples.
"Did he feel you up a lot?" Nancy whispered, sighing and
the gentle fondling of her belly and chest.
"No," Shirley said, "as soon as he found out how mature
I'd gotten in a week, he wanted to cum in me. That's sperm. I was old
enough, and we'd waited three years, so he unhooked the bra and led me to
some deep grass, then I lay back and he got me naked and lay on top of me.
"It started happening while he was kissing me. I was
really wet and I could grip the grass with my heels so I spread myself
really wide for him, that way he could keep kissing me and holding my face
in his hands while he found me.
"It's not something you need to hurry, though, for sure,
you want to."
"I like what you're doing with me," Nancy whispered.
"I'm going to open your shorts and masturbate you while
you're leaning against me," Shirley said, "that's what daddy did with me
our first time in the shower."
"Okay," Nancy whispered, holding Shirley's arms tensely
as the tall girl bent low over her, running her hands softly from her chest
down over her belly and to her braided belt. Slowly she unfastened it as
Nancy stared down at her hands, panting gently. "I've found the snap," the
older girl said, "okay?"
Nancy nodded her head as Shirley kissed her gently on her
page boy and began her sexual assault of the child. Nancy mewed at the
first touch and walked her feet apart on the carpet to welcome Shirley
inside her panties. "Your dad will do this with you a lot if he has you in
his bed tonight," the girl said.
"As if I needed another reason for that to happen," Nancy
said to Shirley's giggle and hug.
"He'll want you to be with other men and teenage girls,"
Shirley said.
"He will?"
"Yes," the older girl said. "Most dads do, so you don't
grow up lopsided from having incest, so you know you're exactly the same
girl you were before anything happened, and so you'll know you're still
cool even to boys who know your Big Secret."
Ken and Nancy were great older movie fans. They'd often
turn the sound off an just watch the locations and backgrounds; the beauty
dignity of traditional American downtowns versus the signs --`n' -- malls
of the ultimate era as was perfectly delineated in the Back to the Future
films. It was encouraging to know amongst the millions of truckloads of
drywall a real girl like Shirley existed.
"How many boyfriends did your dad let you have?" Nancy
asked.
"Two adults and a boy my own age at the time, who happens
to still be my age, and who also happens to be my husband."
"Do you have any kids?" the seven year old asked.
"Guess," Shirley prompted.
"Yes," Nancy guessed.
"Now guess how old."
"Three."
"Wrong by five years."
"If I'm wrong the right way," Nancy said, eyes sparkling,
"you'd still have two years to go. If I'm wrong the wrong way, you were
twelve years old and your daughter is eight years old."
"You're hired," Shirley laughed.
"You don't have to pay me. I'd do it just so I could
talk to nervous girls like I was when I came in."
"Well, I can only hire you once."
"And I can only accept once. What's your daughter's
name?"
"Bren. Brenda."
"Does her dad come to the back door naked?" Nancy asked.
"Her dad is my dad," Shirley said.
"Awesome," Karen responded, now beginning to pant hard as
Shirley fondled her with a building rhythm.
"It's way beyond that," the older girl said. "She's my
sister and my daughter and she keeps Al, my husband, very close to home."
That was so cool. To think all this was part of making a
baby.
"Brenda was a shower baby," Shirley said, "do you know
what that is?"
"That you got the sperms when you were bathing with your
dad?" the child asked.
"That may be true," the older girl answered, "because
sometimes he did cum in me in the shower, but what it means is that you
don't use any protection. Then your dad finds out you're going to have a
baby while he's molesting you in the shower because you got pregnant from
him before you had your first period. That's how we found out about
Brenda."
"What did they say about your having a child so young?"
Nancy asked.
"We went to a special clinic in Canada," Shirley
answered. "They do a lot of tests for genetic diseases, then they induce
labor when the baby weighs five or six pounds."
"So it's not too hard for the mother?"
"Correct," Shirley said, "just about like it would be for
a grown woman delivering an eight or nine pound baby. No picnic, but not
particularly dangerous, and definitely worth it."
"Did other girls in your school get pregnant when they
were twelve?" Nancy asked.
"We had a club for girls from Free Spirit families,"
Shirley said. "There were about thirty girls in it and three of us had
shower babies. We're all finishing our courses to be accountants. They're
the happiest workers, according to the surveys, so we figure, what the
heck, we've already got the happiest personal lives, why not be happy at
work."
Nancy looked up at her lover and frowned. "That means
lots of math courses."
"You just said a mouthful," Shirley laughed, "but add it
up for yourself. Pretty much, there's no reason to go to school but maths.
Most of the other stuff you can learn from books. History, psychology,
English; even languages, chem and physics to a certain extent. But you've
got to be there for Calculus and Trig."
"I'm glad you warned me while there's still time," the
second grader said.
"Don't be a comic," Shirley scolded playfully, "the hours
totally suck."
"Did you use words like that with your dad?" the alert
child asked.
"I used the f-word with him once, under the tree,"
Shirley said, "but no. A girl can suck a male, but its not exactly the
language of love to use the word."
"What word should you use?"
"It's not something you have to ask permission for, so no
word are needed, plus, when its happening, no words are possible."
"I thought you didn't like late hours," Nancy chided her
friend.
"You are going to drive your father wilder than a tiger,"
Shirley said, again kissing the top of the cuties' head, "speaking of
which, why don't you try on the bikini and let him see you in it, just to
be absolutely, positively sure he'll be there in the morning."
"I wish you'd put one on, too," Nancy said.
"Darling," Shirley whispered softly to the girl in her
arms, "would you like to be naked with me?"
"Will we be lesbians if I am?" Nancy asked.
"Yes," Shirley said. "We already are. When a female
masturbates another, that's being a lesbian."
"Well," Nancy said after a moment's thought, "I don't
like half the men in the world, anyway."
"Men are a problem," the older girl acknowledged.
"How about fathers?" the girl queried.
"No problem," the girl said, sitting on the dressing room
bench and bringing Nancy to her lap so she could unbutton her blouse then
slip the seven year old out of her shorts and panties. "Look at yourself
in the mirror," the older girl suggested, as she slipped out of her own
clothes.
"Look familiar?" she asked, standing tall over the child
who viewed her reflection intently.
"You left your bra on," Nancy said.
"And...?" Shirley coaxed.
"It was a mistake?" Nancy guessed, a shy smile on her
gamin face.
"Would you like to take it off like my dad did under the
tree?" Shirley whispered.
"Yes," Nancy whispered back.
"Stand on the bench," Shirley said, helping the girl up.
"Now we bow our heads together, then you reach in back of me and play with
the catch until it comes loose, then you take the straps off my shoulders
so it will fall away. If you want you can touch me, then hug me so I can
feel you against me, then kiss me. When you want to go all the way, lie
back on the bench with your right foot on the carpet and I'll cuddle with
you and you can have an orgasm. Okay?"
"Yes," Nancy said, immediately rebelling against the
crown by fondling Shirley just above her bra and whispering, "You're so
beautiful." But the crown ruled. Shirley's nipples stood out hard against
the lacy garment.
"Is that from touching you?" Nancy whispered.
"Yes," Shirley answered.
She wanted to see. Slowly, lingeringly, she left off the
older girl's chest and walked her fingers to her neck, her eyes, her ears,
the taut back of her neck and down over the little-girl-soft of her back.
"Oh, Daddy," Shirley hissed, lost in her memories.
Nancy found the clasp. The tabs of the unfamiliar
garment buckled under her fingers as she tried to slip them apart.
"Did he know how to do it?" Nancy asked.
"Yes," Shirley said, "he was a married man."
"Sorry," Nancy replied as she continued.
"We could practice kissing while you're getting used to
it," Shirley suggested.
"Good," Nancy whispered, "because its like they say about
being careful of what you wish for, and I think feeling you against me will
make me dizzy, even if seeing you doesn't."
Gazing into each others' eyes they nibbled and almost
instantly opened to each other, finally settling for tongues tenderly
playing in each of their mouthes while Nancy's fingers learned how to work
the two little clasps. When they finally came apart, nothing happened as
both females were becoming frantic in their hot, licking, nibbling kissing.
Karen's hands went to Shirley's face. The straps fell and hung, the
shoulder straps slipped free and only the press of Karen's body kept the
silk from falling away.
Eventually the lovers discovered they could talk while
kissing, at least a little.
"I want to make you cum," the older girl said, her teeth
softly against Nancy's.
Slowly she lay Nancy back on the wide bench and spread
her naked legs. Kneeling over the child, she held her bra at her flanks,
letting Karen reach to her and explore with her tiny finger. Slowly the
little girl found more and more until Shirley let the bra drop to her
belly.
Nancy stared. Shirley, looking down at the pet, almost
burst out laughing at the wide, astonished eyes. Slowly the little hands
found their way to the pistol hard nipples. She gave a questioning look,
knowing she had permission but wanting it from those pretty eyes gazing
down into hers. "Yes, darling," Shirley whispered, nodding her welcome.
Both young females moaned aloud at the first touch. "Be
a lesbian with me," Shirley whispered and the naughty word brought the
mouth of the child to the young mother. "Oh, daddy," she whispered at the
first tentative suction of lips and tongue. She lowered herself to Karen.
"Your dad and your husband are lucky," the seven year old whispered,
adding, after a moment of gather her wits, "me, too."
They lay, they kissed, Shirley mouth left the little
girl, found her cute chin, her throat, her own immature nipples, her
delicate, creamy, belly, then the tense muscles of her inner thighs.
Slowly, she took the child, guided by the little fingers twined in her
unruly mop of blond hair as well as the mews and moans of the child. Nancy
rose gently and tentatively to her at first, then the fingers tightened in
her hair and the slim, boyish hips started to fall with a gentle rhythm
that quickly became intense. Nancy was now sweating and panting, her legs
wrapped tightly around Shirley's neck.
Somehow Nancy knew what to say. "I'm cumming," she
whispered as long as she could, then a series of powerful seizures wracked
her seventy-pound frame and she yelped in fright as Shirley cooed and
comforted her.
"It'll be three times as much with your father," the
older girl whispered some minutes later, "plus, the same thing will happen
to him, and when it does, you'll have his seed in your belly, and they can
swim there for three or four days before they die."
Nancy was in a kissing mood and took the young mother's
explanation at face value. Slowly they calmed together and lay napping for
a few minutes.
"Darling," Shirley whispered to the recovering seven year
old.
"Yes?" the girl sighed. She didn't know the question,
just the answer.
"Remember when we talked about sucking?"
"Yes," Nancy did not sigh.
"There's several names for it you'll find out as you go
along. It's taking a male in your mouth and moving your lips and tongue on
him until he ejaculates in you."
"It must be weird getting used to it," Nancy observed.
"Only because you think in terms of peeing and germs.
That fades pretty quickly under the right circumstances, after that it's
almost as nice for the female as it is for the male, and the sperm is
pungent and salty with its own sensation in your mouth that's really hot."
"Do you think daddy will let me suck him tonight?" Nancy
whispered.
"Most fathers, " Shirley whispered back, "who rape their
daughter cum on their chests on their first date. The second time, mature
girls suck their dads so they can have that sensation. Then they make
love. Our first night, my dad cummed in my mouth three times, so I'd say
you chances are extremely good."
"Extremely good," the monkey parroted with a grin.
"Darling," Shirley said, "you know how you got here just
after lunch?"
"Yes," Nancy said, "that was so the store wouldn't be
crowded."
"Well," the older girl went on, "I dated my dad over
lunch, and after we ate we parked for awhile at the back of the parking
lot. We haven't been together for awhile so what happened in the car was
very complete, and we didn't use a condom.
"So, if you want to try experiencing semen -- sperm -- on
your tongue you could do the same thing with me I did with you a little
while ago."
"Will you cum?" the darling asked.
"Yes, love."
By now her hair was crisp dry, half a cloud (dust, I
guess). Ken Fitzroy approached. Nancy skipped off, grabbed him with at
least an ounce of ceremony, and dragged him hither as Alex and Kip stood.
When Shirley had told her `lucky girl' she had not been whistling Dixie.
Ken wasn't any kind of giant, just six-five with a swimmer's build and
notably lacking the dual horrors of abs and pecs. He was hairless, lightly
freckled, and wearing a baggy pair of trunks for obvious reasons. They
introduced themselves and Nancy dragged her young dad onto the lounge so
she could sit in his lap.
"Looks like you've recovered, sweetie," Ken said to his
girl.
"You knew I'd get over it," the girl said, looking over
her shoulder to smile at this half giant who held her like she was all
butterfly.
"She wanted to model her first bikini for me," the
newcomer explained, "and she was as nervous as an elf before an ogre."
Alex and Kip looked at each other, the elder feeling
younger than the two children while trying to remain expressionless. Kip
did an excellent job of pinch-hitting for his stricken elder by becoming
all boylike and asking:
"Did you get one?"
"Pink," the cutie piped up. "It's the one I told you
about, remember?" There was enough of a twinkle in her eyes, hidden from
her father, to let Alex and Kip know they were dealing with a little
savage.
Given a week either Kip or Alex might have come up with
an intelligible reply. In truth, we can't even give them five seconds.
"Do you want to come up to our room and see it?" the girl
asked.
I guess I've earned my little dram of editorial space. I
was thinking about what bad news politicians are. Here in Belize there's a
guy running loose named George Price. He was prime minister for a
godzillion years, maybe even longer than Bearded Fidel has been lord of the
wreckage he surveys. Price, a non-family man, made it his monomania to get
British Honduras free of England. Apparently he thought the country would
do better than Bermuda or the Cayman Islands, both staunch colonies, on the
road to independence. There's a joke for the hemisphere. Anyway, the
capital of Belize is a crossroads called Belmopan, which just celebrated
its twenty-eights anniversary. Like Brasilia, it is a built-from-scratch
community, begun with government housing for fifty-five hundred and
projected to have an ultimate population of thirty thousand. It still has
five thousand five hundred residents. It is a total failure, as well as
being a monumental nuisance for the majority of the population who have to
sashay off to the hinterlands conduct any government business. But not on
the media. They turn on a microphone and George the Independent rattles on
about the awakening dream, the early days, and Did any of us then realize
what we would have now.
Simon Bolivar came to realize the errors of his ways in
his later years, turning constitutions out of hand like so many brochures.
My great great great great grandfather had exactly the same experience. As
a minister, he orchestrated the forming of a militia (The Minutemen), then,
after the war began, went off with much of his congregation to join Ethan
Allen in Vermont. Not half way through the trip, he resigned the
commission as a major bestowed on him by George Washington, got sick, and
died half way home. All the yak-yak about liberty, justice, freedom and
independence, and men he'd known for ten years turned into drunkards,
blasphemers, womanizers and the whole A-list of scurrilous and tawdry
deviants their first day away from home, and got worse every day. George
Price reduced the living standard by one half in the name of independence,
Simon Bolivar set South America monarch-free, and left it an enduring hell
for ninety percent of the hoards existing there. William Emerson simply
destroyed the world. Haiti came next, then France, then the buzz-word
claptrap of democracy infested country after country with the inevitable
rise of the socialism ignorant people always vote for, assuming the
constitutional power thugs let them vote in the first place. As our
morality is rotten to the core with hypocrisy, so our politicians, large,
small, and medium are infested with shortsightedness and lack of
discipline. There is a delicious side to all this, or at least there is to
a compulsive humorist, because Boston, city of revolution, has buckled
under to its tradeunionists and the politicians have signed pieces of paper
to build a fourteen billion dollar tunnel. How would you like that
governor's in-box?
The typical pool crowd had taken a keen, if subtle,
interest in Nancy's meeting Drew and Kip. It was less subtle, this time.
As the four got up from their two lounge chairs and walked toward the
elevators a buzz rolled over the assembly, a few onlookers clapped, then,
perhaps a little hesitantly at first, most of the swimmers and sun bathers
joined in. "And I'm a redhead," Ken said to Alex, but they all blushed at
least a little and the two mature males knew there was some knockout
fantasizing in the offing. (If they'd stayed to watch, which, of course,
they couldn't, they'd have seen twenty percent of the couples, all younger
ages and both sexes, vacate, with none being so gross as to run in the pool
area, though they would have seen few exactly walking, either) (Their bills
for the week amounting to six thousand dollars for the two couples were
marked Complimentary, with a hand-written note from the owner and the
manager explaining that they were welcome as guests of the house at any
time for as long as they wanted and a car would be reserved in their name
if they'd just call a day ahead.)
Steven and I never quite made it to this league, but
mismatched couples can be extremely provocative and have a tendency to
spice things up as they wend their ways along the highways and byways of la
vida. However, this is a game and it does have rules. No PDA. Jose and
Steven and I, totally lopsided as we were, never roused a sarcastic comment
or snide remark in public, and we did not hold hands, act swish, or try to
rain on anyone's parade. We were universally accepted by desk clerks,
waiters, cab drivers, bell boys and the public at large. No cop ever
interfered. Kiddie lovers are, besides myself, god's greatest gift to the
world, so love them wisely and remain as attached (versus `clingy') as
possible for years if not forever. Plus, it's easy to get a kiddie. Just
stay fit and be a consistent, generous, low-key friend and the right one
will be along in due time (I had to wait fifty-six years, and, technically,
I'm still waiting (albeit it, for the absolutely perfect, dazzling,
dance-in-your-dreams spectacular Samantha (undoubtedly my reward for
Steven).))
Check it out. I'm your king. Haul your moronic face out
of the trough, read, focus your life like the point of a pin, and
eventually a twinkie will stay for breakfast. Disobey at you own risk.
Step one is to make up a Nifty.org T-shirt and wear it in public. If you
had any guts I'd tell you to write up your relationship and submit the copy
to your local paper; in other words, come out of the closet and so choke
the jails and courts that serious prosecution for sexual contact with
willing children will become as rare as lightning strikes. This will have
the significant side effect of letting millions of victims know This Goes
On in every neighborhood and on every street and farm. Chop the tree of
Big Deal down to the size of a comfortable bed, and fuck on it. If you get
caught, tell them your king made you do it. If enough of you do just that,
you'll be screwing up the career of best writer ever to dwell on the
planet, so be sure of you commitment.
Big, big scare last night. I was playing Celine's duet
with R. Kelly for the neighborhood and the right speaker vibrated off the
headboard and crashed onto the CPU, which died on the spot. For sure I
thought I'd trashed the hard drive, and re-booting tended to confirm, what
with a blank screen and all. Luckily, I'm a longtime veteran of Tech TV,
so I churned and cussed amongst the boards, reassembled everything after
cleaning the fans, and pushed the button. A little frightening, because,
like Marie in "Stonington Stories," the computer came back to life, booted
once in Safe Mode, then normally. Phew. I've been off the phone line for
three months, writing more-or-less constantly, and have four or five
hundred pages of files nervously awaiting transmission. I know I said at
the beginning of this book that re-writing always yields better copy, but I
really did spend a couple of hours wondering if I'd have the guts to start
all over again on a novel I've already written twice. Probably, but it's
nice not to know.
Interesting historical note in a minor key. Our Power
Mix FM station is playing "Material Girl" and "Karma Chameleon" these days.
Both were at least a little revolutionary in their day, both sound dated
now. Less confusing new world. Celine supplies all your music while I'm
your only source of fiction and commentary.. One ethereal choice for each.
Ain't it neat?
Speaking of minor, here's one of those lifetime oddities
for you. Winzie, Jessica's three-year-old daughter (they live downstairs),
came up for a bottle of ice water, trailing both shoelaces. My staircases
are the most dangerous I've ever seen, so I tied her shoes for her so she
wouldn't trip and bounce for ten minutes before she reached the bottom. To
my recollection, I've never tied another persons shoes in decades. Half an
hour later, Samantha arrived in a pair of trousers about five sizes too
large. She asked me for a belt. My only belt is a nylon cord, so there I
was, for the second time, tying a bow knot, backwards. I'd describe the
sensations of tying up a fabulous fourteen year old, but I've already
exceeded Nifty's submissions' policy with my anti-Semitism and I'd hate to
do the same with the carnality of a young teen in white panties and
oversize blue corduroys. As a note, she also had on a blue T-shirt with
sleeves and her hair bobbed at the back. Once she was properly dressed,
she looked just like a boy. How cool is that? But she's more than a boy.
Easy to prove. Last week, after she'd been chatting away for half an hour
she began rubbing her finger. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Scorpion done
sting me," she said, going on to explain it had been in her mother's
bureau. I asked if it was a black one, and she said no. The black ones
are the size of a poor-man's lobster, but have a mild sting. It was the
small brown species, which does not have a mild sting. She never mentioned
after that. I can picture any American boy I ever knew, and that's a lot,
under the same circumstances, sirens, flashing lights, Chem Seven, and
heaven only knows what. (My inclination would be to sue your god, who made
them.)
I do try to take the subject of odd age matches
seriously, however I quip the light fantastic. This afternoon I didn't
work but rather pondered the question of middle age men being paired with
three year old girls. There are good sides. It will be fifteen years
before she can drive, giving time to save up for the insurance premiums
when she does. I spent a long time searching for bad sides, and it was
unrewarding. Other than the obvious, injuring the child, the field war
barren. Winzie would, over a period of time, be happy to sleep with me, of
that I have no doubt. The downstairs shower is in an out building and she
doesn't close the door. I spied on her a week or so ago, not hard to do
since my south veranda looks directly down on the bath house. She is an
octoroon, always the favorites of brothels throughout the ages, light honey
colored with colorless brown hair. Made me think girls are as neat as
boys. A couple of days ago I was downstairs and walked by the bath house,
door wide open. "Hi, Mr. Thomas," she called out. I'm sure she'd have
been happy if I joined her in the shower, then, supposing something
happened to Jessica, and she had to remain with me for at least awhile.
Would showering and sleeping with a child that age, at her volition, hurt
her in any way? Sure, if a guy was a rapist and went after her, but
gentle, giggling play, leading to intercourse when she was seven? Wouldn't
hurt a fly. In contemporary society, she'd have to be coached on privacy
and secrecy, my choice, while, in an open society, she wouldn't. That's
about the only Deal, as in big-deal, in the deal. So, again, are we not
vastly and excruciatingly missing the boat here? Aren't we denying and
eighteen year old girl fifteen years of excitement, pleasure and love in
sufferance of a defective clergy? It's you who aren't allowed to play with
your loving daughters or the affectionate little girl from next door -- so
what do you think? We are on a fat, rotten road as a culture. Our
leaderships is of the Iridium/Enron/Worldcom ilk, why trust them? I say
every attractive middle age man, and I define this as thirty-five to
seventy, reluctant as I am to stick numbers on things, should have a child
lover or two. If you say something else, sue your mother's obstetrician
because he left something behind when you were born.
Along with the horrific quality of leadership making vast
and ludicrous mistakes in technology and industry, we have a more widely
spread lack of intelligence and conscience at all levels of behavioral
science. Every credentialled expert who interviewed children in the Little
Rascals case severely and permanently damaged every child brought before
them. No apologies, and no compensation. The turned sweet kids into
bed-wetting monsters, and went blithely off to repeat their performance,
never questioning anything. I have two first cousins in exactly this
field, and their kids are uninteresting, highly dysfunctional garbage (not
to put too fine a point on it). Yet they rule us. Sure sounds like you
need a king, to me.
There is a vector, of course, and perhaps it's a little
pretentious to say `of course', but so many know. Stepfathers. I've been
offered two nubile beauties by their mothers, and it is perhaps a comment
on the devastating effects of obesity that I graciously bowed out. So far
no combination of sleek mom and fairy princess, though I seem to have ended
up with the princess on her onesies.
As to raw age, as a subject, let me tell this story. I
once lived with a family as a care giver. Sarah, the two year old used to
come into my bedroom in the early morning, climb under the covers and kiss
my arm and make cooing noises. Although she was the most beautiful child
of her age I've ever seen, I didn't happen to like Sarah, so I let her play
her little games without reacting. However, instinct tells me if she'd
been an enjoyable child, perhaps even tolerable, I would have had a willing
partner up to the point of intercourse, which was obviously out of the
question. Two years old, and she was as full of boy love as a twelve year
old.
Libertine always brings up the image of Hugh with his
pipe and maroon smoking jacket, pretty clammy stuff for a Yankee.
Casanova, Don Juan, emperors, princes and degenerates of various stripe and
hue. They go after the body, alone. One after the other. Since the
village girls in Mexico only sleep with the boys who've been to prison,
they have their clientele. I don't like these kinds of people. They give
pedophiles a bad name. Whether they're worse than toxic parents, sex
aside, or not, I don't know, but probably they're not. That's admitted,
but I still don't like them, and I'd waste little time getting rid of the
ilk, while standing firmly behind a don't ask, don't tell policy regarding
any relationship that is enduring and has good aspects.
"Sick bitch." That's what a dread called me in the
middle of Commerce Street a couple of months ago. I've been keeping an eye
out for him. Why? Well, to break his wrist if he comes at me with a
knife, for one thing, but I did once hit on an unwilling boy. It was
accidental. He was anxious to sleep in my tent, and, based on other
experiences, I made the mistake of assuming he wanted sex. I did not touch
him, but I'm sure I made him uncomfortable. Was the dread the same boys,
twenty-three years later? He was the lowest of the low, even by Dangriga
standards. Am I responsible for kinking him in some way that loused up his
life? I'm not trying to be funny here, but I have an answer: my mother.
She kinked me (not sexually) as both her day job and as a hobby. If I did
something wrong with this boy when he was thirteen or so, isn't it her
fault? This brings up a horrifying paradox. How about all the things I've
done right? The dozens I've helped? Is she responsible, at least to a
degree, for them, also? Maybe you have to have been there, but it seems to
me she was still wrong and bad, even though I turned out to be a, a
world-class artist, likely the greatest who ever lived, and, b, a bone-deep
humanitarian who has occasionally had sex with obviously receptive people
whom he helped (but who has never helped to have sex).
Rhasheeda is another case in point. She's seven. She
lived downstairs for a week before I evicted her mother, a friend of Bev's,
for catatonic laziness. (Good move. Jessica holds a full-time job and is
a superb mother to Winzie and six-month-old Jesse.) Part of the reason I
made Shirley, the mother, leave was that Rhasheeda was scheduled to be
adopted in the near future. She's a bright, friendly girl and I couldn't
bear the thought of becoming attached to her, then having her leave. The
adoption fell through, so Rhasheeda is staying in Dangriga. She and
Samantha are friends, almost sisters. Now to make it interesting.
Samantha is retarded, Rhasheeda is very bright, but seven years younger.
So, if Rhasheeda came here to practice reading, I could teach her, the
bright child, and she could, in turn, help get Samantha get up to speed on
her more basic texts. To complicate the matter, Rhasheeda is tiny. If she
weighs fifty pounds, I'd be surprised. Is tiny sexy? Well, you could try
putting a hundred men off the street on a polygraph. That would be one way
to find out, or, you could accept me as artist and monarch and take my word
for it. And I'll bet Rhasheeda is sexy to Samantha, too. So, in October,
if there's anything left to my quarterly funding, I'm going to set one of
my empty rooms up as a girls-only boudoir, and see what happens.
A true story I keep forgetting is something that happened
on my first visit here. I was fishing with quite a gang of local friends,
with a half-circus household. One night "Bad Monkey Kung Fu" came back to
the Joyland Theater for its three hundredth showing and everyone wanted to
go except a visiting girl who was six or seven years old. I didn't want to
see the moronic epic, but I was surprised the child didn't; even wondered
if she was sick. As the door clicked shut, I'm not kidding, she was in my
lap with her tongue in my mouth. She was much hotter than any of the
juveniles I write about, and she'd have stuck me with a hat pin if I'd gone
off on one of my lackadaisical divergences. Straight to the bedroom. In
fact, we hit the bed so hard, I was worried the noise would alarm the
just-departed moviegoers, prompting someone to return. (Maybe they all
knew what the sound was.) Anyway, no one returned and we made out for an
hour while she jerked me off four times. She wanted me inside her, but she
was just too small, but otherwise in was a steam bath. As a moral
certainty, I know we could have lived together for years on end, happy as
clams. As it was, her party left the next day, so it amounted to a one
night stand. She was the total aggressor and she loved everything that
happened. I'm, in lewd fact, moe than an eyewitness to the potential for
partners forty years and more apart in age. These should be sanctioned by
a committee for alternative relationships with the imperative of the
committee being to do very little until some nosey parker tries to cause
trouble, as in the Little Rascals case. These interferers should be
politely warned, once, concerning a particular relationships, then held
liable in civil and criminal court for further interference. Other than
that, the sanctioning board need only vet the applicants for medical
problems and deny an occasional application for gross unsuitability. I
propose the term `Riss' for the title of a girl in such a relationship.
Riss Sally Jones, instead of Miss, Ms., or Mrs.. Riss stands for
Relationship Sanctioned. Usually these will be fathers and daughters, but
the term and concept would apply to any girl under eighteen in a long-term
relationship with a male twenty or more years her senior. The overseeing
body would be the Riss Council. If I was in the mood for an atrocious pun,
I'd point out that they are Riss Assessors. That should make it click with
the cuter New Yorkers, so maybe the idea has a chance. Me, I'm for
anything that might possibly, at whatever cost, delay our cultural suicide
by means of obesity. Anything. If I'd liked two-year-old Sarah, had sex
with her, and let her sleep with me every night, cumming in her delicious
pixie mouth, it would be better than Sarah getting fat, plus, it would have
been a great motivation for her to stay in shape, in the first place.
To review the basic principles involved, they are, a,
that the industrial revolution is over, there is nothing interesting on the
horizon for the first time in centuries, and, b, that our current systems
of values and morality is defective because there are so many fat people.
Don't try to oversimplify this, or, to be more politically correct:
attempts to oversimplify this may lead to frustration, confusion and other
symptoms of mental disability. (A sure sign of these conditions becoming
critical would be any attempt to dismiss the artist as frivolous or
anything to do with a joke.)
Nancy was the perfect little hostess. Everyone was
invited in and comfortably seated. Soft drinks were offered and Alex and
Kip accepted with thanks, do to their extremely dry mouths. Four colas
were served up, seconds were offered and consumed and there were a couple
of nervous trips to the suite's bathroom. Any other time the young men and
the children would have found much to talk about, being readers as they all
were. But in a situation like this books, education, enlightenment, and
everything that went with them were out the window. They weren't stiff and
awkward with each other, no sing-song, overly polite banalities such as
Anne's later marriage(s) likely featured, no phony bonhomie or bawdy
innuendo. Comfortable. Silent. Hearts pounding.
She left with a shy smile to Ken. The bedroom door
clicked and she was gone for an eternity of five minutes. The door clicked
again. There was no conversation. Shirley had outdone herself in minimum
pink. Slowly she walked across the carpet to her tall, athletic father.
She pulled up his T-shirt, indicating with her huge brown eyes he should
strip it. She found the string-tie inside her father's swim suit, loosened
the knot, and wriggled the suit to the ground, nudging him back to
consciousness so she could free it from his ankles. Alex and Kip emulated
their host and hostess interested in the leastest, and in a minute the
three males were naked on the oversize sofa, the tiny girl standing between
her father's legs with Alex to her right and Kip to her left.
"Do you like it?" the super pixie asked her father.
"Something in it rather strikes my fancy," Ken said to
the girl's soft smile.
Slowly his big hands rose and the seven year old
approached. He touched her with tender, trailing fingers, fondling her
tummy and her juvenile flanks as high as her bikini strap. She moved
closer and the lips of the handsome engineer met the belly of his daughter.
Her eyes flashed at Kip, somehow bringing the boy enough to life to rise
from the sofa, stand behind her, and untie her bra. Ken held the fabric to
her until he'd kissed up high on her chest, then dropped one side at a time
to expose her to his gaze and his soft, wet tongue.
Kip dropped to his knees and slowly pulled down the
girl's panties, leaving her naked but for a gold chain around her neck.
Alex, familiar with the progression of a child's interest in sex from his
years in Vermont, and veteran of Nancy's tale of Shirley, knew what the
girl's next desire would be. Kip, also, understood. Together the two
guests stood, Alex taking a position at Nancy's right hip with Kit's left
arm tightly around his slim, athletic waist. Ken gazed hotly at the man
and boy as Kip fondled Alex and slowly began masturbating the athlete.
Gently, Ken turned his daughter around and brought her
into his lap, his face slacking when the girl pushed her back into his
belly and rose for a second so her father's penis would be free between her
slim legs.
The girl learned quickly from watching what Kip was doing
with Alex, who was now standing between Ken's legs with Kip sitting on
Ken's right knee. They shuffled and huddled a minute, then all were
comfortable.
"You do want to see it spray, don't you," Kip asked his
little age-mate. Nancy nodded. "It will get you wet," the boy explained,
"all over your face and your hair and your neck, everywhere. I'll get wet
from it too, and your dad. Okay?"
"It's awesome," the boy went on, "and if you want to hold
still and open your mouth, that's okay."
Again, the nod.
"Sweetheart," Alex said to the affectionate girl, "if you
do this with your dad, just be sure not to stop until he tells you. If Kip
stopped with me now, it would be very frustrating. Okay?"
"Yes," she whispered, her eyes bright as she began to pet
and stroke her father swollen glans, soon duplicating Kip's motions with
the tall, athletic minister. As did he, she found his seminal fluid and
wet him.
Bonding is a trendy word for close human contact, but it
has its uses, because Ken and Alex bonded. Through eye contact and body
English, Alex dominated the tableau. He would cum off first, allowing the
young father to fully rape a daughter content in knowing what was happening
in her belly when the male could no longer speak.
Alex couldn't speak, either. One would think after his
experiences with Angela, some resilience would have manifested itself, but
no, he was panting, sweating, shaking, and mute.
Kip sensed the end coming. He hissed at Nancy to be sure
she was watching (for she seemed to want to stare into his, Kip's, eyes),
then slowed his stroking, finally lunging his right hand against the base
of Alex while steadying the young man with all his strength. "He's
cumming," the boy whispered as Alex leaned forward and braced himself with
an arm extended against Ken's rugged shoulder. "She's so beautiful," he
whispered. Kip held him still and Nancy matched his style until they had
the tips of their stallions' hot, huge erections pressed firmly together.
"It could be Daddy," the pixie whispered to Kip. The
spurts of semen sprayed out from the almost locked penises and it was
impossible to tell whose it was by looking. "No," the boy whispered, "feel
here." The girl quickly followed the young boy's instructions, allowing
Kip to hold her tiny hand firmly against Alex. "Oh, wow, daddy," she
mewed, "it feels like hammering ."
Ken was beyond speech and he just nodded as if in a
trance. His mental state was not helped by his daughter's next question:
"Will I be able to feel this when you're cumming inside me?"
"I think you can feel it if he holds you really still,"
replied the only male still capable of speech (and his was ragged).
Alex moved from Ken to further satisfy Nancy, cumming
three times on her belly before his first hard throbbing eased to a
pulsing, white stream and he used the last of his strength to lay back the
seven year old on the sofa and help position the father over the panting,
wanton child. Kip responded by climbing on the powerful redhead's back and
reaching to the stallion. Thanks to his efforts, Ken was able to lie on
both his forearms over the little girl. This was good, because he lacked
the strength to extend his arm or to cover her while supported by one arm
so he could guide himself to her, plus, she was too inexperienced to guide
him. It's not the kind of thing they give medals for, but nonetheless Kip
proved a sensitive and competent partner, allowing Ken to find Nancy and
come fully against her.
Even entering his wet, spermy daughter a fraction
energized the handsome, athletic young father he pushed himself high, his
head bent back, slack-eyed as he felt his daughter's cloud of hair against
his heaving chest. Though it took more endurance than he had, he allowed
her to look as he began tenderly stroking himself up between her thighs to
her mews of excitement and pain.
With a grunt he stopped the mating, falling gently to
her, his mouth on her neck kissing her and asking if she was alright. The
rising and fall of the child took on a beginning hardness, so Alex and Kip
could tell she was fine. Ken rose again, this time looking down between
their young bodies, himself. They whispered inaudibly to each other as he
entered with increasing deliberation, finally taking a solid rhythm against
her, and, now soaked by her and Alex's cum, was able to be fully successful
with the child in a rapid series of hard strokes.
Shirley had repeated her reminder to Nancy that her
father would be much more intense as a lover than she, Shirley, could be.
It didn't prepare the girl for being fully mounted by the man she adored,
but it helped. She stayed conscious longer, felt him in her more fully,
was still able to call out to him when the shock of being taken as an
innocent might have rendered her a whimpering mute.
Kip slid off Ken, and, not liking the view from the rear,
joined Alex as he knelt between the couple. The thought of the boy
watching further energized Ken and he was able to stay up high on his
extended arms for some minutes while he set a steady, full rhythm with the
gurgling, happy girl. Neither had seen a man fuck a child, and neither
would ever want to see anything else, but life went on.
The minutes went by but what was happening between the
father and his young daughter did not get less exciting. They kept
perfectly with each other, her hands tender on his heaving flanks, he head
sometimes butting hers as he bent to kiss the top of her head. She kissed
his chest and licked him like a happy cat when he lowered himself within
reach, then stared between her legs when he pushed up again off her slick,
panting chest.
It was twice ten minutes before the stallion began to
tense. Nancy sensed it immediately and began whimpering with excitement.
Alex and Kip both wet their hand on the semen dripping from the flanks of
her tummy and molested her, Kip at her waist and Alex, his left hand now
supporting her lolling head, at her chest and belly. Both could feel the
iron determination in the now whipping body; Alex, her racing heart, Kip,
the banjo-string muscles of her legs as she pulled the young male fully to
her.
"I'm cumming," Ken whispered, pushing himself high with
his last reserve of strength. Kip felt the gush of semen over his fingers,
while Alex watched the startlingly violent flow from between the child's
legs. Because he was still having intercourse, Ken's sperm wasn't trapped
in the little girl's womb, rather, he cummed wildly, almost instantly
soaking the sheet and going on to leave a puddle with was frothed by the
wildness of his daughter, who, seeing what her father was doing, went mad
with excitement, screaming and flailing as the males held her and her
father kept ejaculating.
The afterglow lasted a dizzying half an hour, all four
very glad they'd had that extra cola.