Date: Mon, 11 May 2015 20:57:27 -0400
From: Phillippe La Mer <naturiste@Safe-mail.net>
Subject: "The Rock"

Hello Nifty boys and girls! My name is Phillippe, and I'm a new Nifty
author. This is what I hope will be the start of a long series based around
my experiences with naturism, freikörperkultur, nudism, whatever you
call it. While real experiences underlie my writing, none of the sex in
this story is real, it's all just a dream of a more perfect union that may
some day, the gods willing, come to pass. Please do not try this at home!

This story will include sexual situations between older and younger people
of both genders. It will also include public nudity, good food, loud music,
adult beverages and possibly some witty banter. If these things not allowed
where you are, please head for the exit.

Like most authors, I crave recognition. In our little online world, that
means I crave email! Please send me your feedback, random thoughts,
heartfelt pleas and other data to my inbox at:
naturiste@safe-mail.net

I would especially love to hear from folks who practice naturism.
Cheers,
Phillippe

THE ROCK


PRELUDE
1962
LANGUEDOC

	THE SURVIVORS STOOD on the dome of the rock looking out to the sea,
the water shiny and flat upon the waveless coast. To the left hand and the
right stretched the long sandy sweep of the Gulf of Lions. The beach,
backed by a line of dunes, was backed by the glint of long salt ponds, and
then the land rising towards the dry vine-furrowed brown hills in the
distance. The young man pointed down to the seaside hollow of the rock,
where a patch of parasol pines grew, protected from the force of the winter
tramontane by the lee of sandstone. The young man was shirtless, in worn
khaki shorts and copper in the summer sun, and the young woman was wearing
a slip of a pale blue cotton dress with narrow straps across her sunburnt
shoulders, her long brown hair whipping in the wind.

"You don't remember? We came in the Packard after visiting grandfather from
Paris. Our tent was there. We stayed for weeks and swam and walked the
beach and climbed the rock. Papa cooked on a fire. There were no
servants. It was just us."

"Maybe I remember. Flashes. How old was I?"

"I was six, so you were three. It was the last summer with mama and papa
when things were still good, before the strain and fighting started. Blum
had been elected at the beginning of the summer and they were so excited.
They thought it meant things had changed, maybe that his power could
protect them, even save them. They wanted to forget that Blum had been
beaten almost to death in the streets a few months before. They were such
happy fools."

"Don't be angry. They couldn't imagine... So they were happy? I remember
them laughing but I don't remember them really happy."

The young man looked out for a long moment and listened to the cicadas
chirping in the sea grass.

"They were happy. When we got back to Paris the guerra had started and papa
headed off to Barcelona. When he came back in winter things were never
quite the same, but that summer before, they were happy. They talked about
the glass and cement house they were going to build, the one they wanted
Chareau and Bijvoet to do for them. Right there, in the pines. We made
lines in the sand, drawing the footprint out. They thought that summers
would go on forever."

He looked off towards the far mountain range that marked the Spanish border
and they were silent in each other's company, a silence that had been a
calm warm thing between them their entire lives.

"We won't sell then" she whispered.

"I don't know how we can avoid it. The tax on grandfather's house will
destroy the estate."

The young woman reached out and took his hand in hers. He turned towards
her with wet in his eyes.

"It doesn't matter. That dusty house and all his things never made us
happy. We'll sell all that. Look at this place. It's perfect. It's our
place. We will make something of this."

"What could we make of it? How will we live?"

"As for a living, good land can always provide. But we must make a home. We
have to have a home now."

Tenderly, the young man reached out and touched the swell contained under
his sister's dress, the swell that held their baby.

"Yes. We need our own home. One where we can be together forever."




CHAPTER ONE
JUNE, 2015
PARIS

	Agent de Police Judiciaire Jean-Paul Pederson pedaled his bicycle
across the Pont Neuf, dodging the early morning traffic of smoking little
white delivery vans, fashionable women on scooters, and brain-dead tourists
stopping in middle of the road to snap a selfie from Paris's most famous
bridge. The first day of June was here, it was going to be a perfect blue
day with fluffy little clouds, and the city was as good as it could look
after last night's rain. He turned into the triangular Place Dauphine,
passing the law bookstore, hung right at the BNP Paribas and rounded the
corner of the massive pile of cream stone that formed the block-long heart
of the French justice system. He stepped off the bike with one smooth
motion in front of the intimidating doors of 36 Quai des Orfévres, an
address that struck fear into the heart of any French criminal, and walked
the lightweight racer into the courtyard, securing it carefully to the
rack. All kind of shady characters might wander through the headquarters of
the Judiciary Police, and he wasn't about to let his ride be kipped.

APJ Pederson collected his coffee from the police cafe on the ground floor
and started up the six flights of stairs towards his office. He disdained
the elevator and relied on his morning ride plus the climb up the stairs to
get the blood pumping. It was a lovely marble staircase up to the second
floor, then it turned to worn but glossy oak. At the fourth floor the
staircase narrowed as he climbed into the warrant of tiny offices under the
eaves that occupied the former haunts of servants and storage. These were
the offices of the mathematical and scientific police, the men (almost all
men) who wrestled with numbers and code more than suspects. The police that
didn't need the interview rooms or holding cages downstairs. Up here were
the geeks.

Pederson had his geekish tendencies, but different from most of these cops
who'd been recruited right out of their grandes ecoles, he'd spent six
years as a uniformed officer in some of Paris's roughest neighborhoods. He
knew how to handle himself and unlike most of his colleagues he had the
muscle to show for it. He was a tall for a Frenchman, a well built man with
short cropped light brown hair and fair blue eyes, a testimony to his
father's Norwegian heritage. Slim and firm with a smooth round boyish face,
in his late 20's he hadn't started to develop the paunch and sag that many
men did, keeping himself trim, with a flat stomach and well developed
biceps that filled the sleeves of his tight-fitting dark blue Izod knit
shirt.

Jean-Paul had entered this strange world under the attic when he'd been
recruited last December into the special unit of the investigative
magistrate, his boss Judge Villeneuve, who'd plucked him out of a
shatteringly boring counter-terrorism hacking unit. After years spent
acquiring his advanced computer engineering degree while working as a beat
cop, he'd been kicked up into the judiciary police only to spend his days
eavesdropping on incredibly incompetent wanna-be jihadis. It had been
useful in polishing his Arabic, but otherwise a huge letdown from the
adrenaline of the streets. So he would have been open to Villeneuve's
recruitment into a unit that almost everyone turned down even if he hadn't
had his own affinity for its specialized brief. He'd only been part of the
team these few months but already he knew he was at home. He was good at
it.

Home was an long narrow cubby whose slanted ceiling sloped from a height of
nearly four meters practically to the floor. There was one small window
laid into this angled ceiling, a rooftop dormer-style square, and Jean-Paul
had arranged his desk so that he could swivel around his chair and peek out
of it. He had a view of the large apartment across the street where a
Brazilian billionaire kept his mistresses, and to the left, just a slice of
the swift grey waters of the Seine, rushing down the narrow chute that
tamed and directed them on this side of the fish-shaped Île de la
Cité. He could even catch a breeze off the river sometimes. It was his
appetizer-sliced view of old, stone Paris.

The office was less than two meters wide, and Pederson's desk, with a three
monitor array, server stack and laptop, took up much of it. He slid into
the French government's expensive ergonomic office chair and fired up the
machines, entering his complex password protocol while he absentmindedly
sipped his coffee. Stretching his long legs, tight from the six kilometer
ride, he leaned back, head reaching almost all the way to the wall. He
liked his little office. It was private, hidden away in the depths,
forgotten and avoided by his fellow flics.

Opening his email to see what had come overnight into his boxes, his eyes
picked out a message from Tommy Nguyen, his counterpart at
F.B.I. headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington. Tommy's overnight
mails were typically full of new info on investigations, sometimes with
evidence passed through an encrypted remote file server the Sûreté
shared with the F.B.I. He always opened Tommy's messages first.

"Jean-Paul my man, here's a new one for ya." Tommy's idiomatic english
posed no problem for Agent Pederson, who had lived between the ages of 2
and 12 in Provo, Utah. "It popped up on the Pedo-Revolution Tor board last
night and the trolls were freaking out. My prelim has identified 24p
progressive CCD standard definition. I'm pretty sure it was shot on a
Panasonic AGDVX100, so certainly after December 2002. It could have been
recorded any time between then and now. Our voice analysis has the boy as
either Dutch or German, can't quite pin it down since he's speaking in
English, but if German probably from Bavaria or the Rhine. The girl only
says a few words but we're pretty sure she's French, probably from south of
the langue-d'oc/langue-d'oïl line. It's a very smooth production, good
lighting, real pro feel, no easy giveaways. Definitely not your troll-bait
webcam selfie shit. I figured the girl might hit in your databases. Since
neither of them appear American, consider this one officially kicked over
to you frogs. You'll find this one really intriguing, I've never seen
anything exactly like it. The whole political spiel is really
twisted. Salut!"

Agent Pederson opened his encrypted FTP link to the FBI's server and
grabbed the 400mb file. He loaded the file into the custom Final Cut-based
software the French government had acquired for video examination and
rendered the file into a new folder. Then he slipped on his headphones and,
with one last swig to finish off the coffee, hit play, as he started making
notes in an open document, following his usual protocol. Over the next
hour, watching the video in stops and starts, he jotted down his basic
observations.

Video #15425-1 Length: 21.18 Video Quality: Excellent Audio Quality:
Excellent

Subject 1 Gender: M Approximate Age: 12 Hair: Blond Eyes: Blue Nationality:
N/A Language: English, accented, likely Dutch Distinguishing
characteristics: Boy is deeply tanned, no tan lines. Naturist?

Subject 2: Gender: F Approximate Age: 10 Hair: Black Eyes: Brown
Nationality N/A Language: French, unaccented Distinguishing
characteristics: Girl is deeply tanned, faint bikini bottom tan line around
the crotch, no tan line across chest. She has a mole on the left side of
her neck.

Setting: The video is indoors, in one room. Natural and artificial lighting
both. Curtained windows, white semi-transparent. Large bed, modern (Ikea?),
white linens. Walls appear to be painted wood, white. White bedding,
appears high quality. Floor is unpolished wood planking (pine?). The room
is otherwise undecorated, with only the bed and curtained window
visible. It gives the impression of a vacation home, maybe a beach
house. Audio noise in the background may be ocean wave noise, will need
isolation and analysis.

Production: The camera changes angle with professionally edited
cuts. Stable shots indicate the use of a tripod. Camera zoom is activated
during the video while both subjects are in the frame, indicating a third
participant. Audio quality is good (boom mic?).

Impressions: An extremely high quality video, of relatively recent
origin. Due to the extensive political nature of the dialogue, this video
has a feeling of propaganda as much as pornography. Both subjects show no
hesitation or nervousness, indicating a long-term pattern of sexual
activity. The subject's tans would indicate that it was created during the
summer, likely in southern Europe. The mix of nationalities may indicate a
resort town popular with northern Europeans. Great care and forethought
went into this video, quite unusual for illegal pornography. Given the
entirely indoor and barely furnished location, setting identification is
unlikely. Facial recognition is the most likely avenue of pursuit.

Jean-Paul slipped off his headphones and looked out his window at the
pretty white clouds blowing in from the west. He could feel the erection
straining the fabric of his tight selvedge jeans, and his stomach fluttered
with excitement. For a man who made his living dealing with child
pornography, this was one of the most extraordinary videos he had ever
seen.

It had started with a static shot of a bed in the corner of an otherwise
bare room. Unlike so many other cp videos. this room wasn't some dingy
flophouse or sad den of childhood poverty. The room was minimal but clean,
and the bed looked comfortable with fresh plain white linens. It was more
like the setting for a fashion shoot or a commercial adult porn
video. After a few seconds of empty silence, the floorboards creaked and
the two children came into view, already nude. They stood before the bed,
holding hands, and the boy spoke in his softly accented and somewhat
idiosyncratic english with the high clear treble of pre-adolescence as the
girl looked admiringly at him.

"Hello. I am 12 years old and she is ten years old. We are going to fuck
now. We will fuck because we want to, and because it feels good. We will
fuck because kids everywhere should be able to do whatever sex they want
with their own bodies. No one is making us do this, and we are not
abused. We are doing something we like to do and we want to do many
times. It is a lie to say that kids like us cannot fuck. It is a lie told
by the fascists in power, the police and the religious people and the other
people who want to tell kids what to do. We are human kids and we want to
do what we want. No person can say anything against us. These are our
bodies and we are doing nothing bad. The bad people are those who want to
hurt kids and fill their heads with stupid lies. Kids know better and we
say no to these lies. We fuck because it is a revolutionary act to do so
when the fascists tell us not to. We fuck to smash the anti-sex system and
for kids rights!"

The whole speech had been delivered in the slightly unnatural cadence of a
boy reading a book report, but there was a fire and defiance in his
face. It was agitprop, but it was agitprop that this kid believed.

And what a kid he was, a handsome blond boy with golden bangs hanging
across his blue eyes, which he flipped back occasionally with a turn of his
head and a twist his long lovely neck. He was well built, with a flat
stomach valleyed with abs, and a tight, slightly popped out chest crowned
by fat red nipples that matched the color of his full lips. Between his
tanned firm thighs jutted a substantial uncut dick, hanging at half staff
from his hairless crotch. Puberty had obviously started his dick growing
but hadn't sprouted a single hair. He was as comfortable in his nudity as
he might be standing fully clothed on a street corner. He was tanned the
color of maple syrup, without the slightest hint of a tan line.

The girl, younger, hadn't any trace of puberty. She was slim as a boy
herself, her flat chest unmarked by any sign of breasts other then her
dark, slightly puffy nipples. Her black hair was straight and hung over her
shoulder, and her hazel eyes were large and wide open. She was tanned
several shades deeper than the boy, as one might expect from someone with
her naturally darker coloring. Her slim hips framed the slit of her pussy,
hairless and as tightly clasped as if it had been drawn into the clay of
her flesh with a stick. Only the slightly deeper shade of her vaginal lips
drew the attention to such a chaste little sex. She gazed at the boy with
just the slightest hint of shyness, obviously admiring him, and when he
finished his little speech he turned to her and kissed her, and her pink
tongue darted eagerly out and into his mouth.

As the two children kissed, the boy's penis started to rise to attention
with pneumatic ease. He gently led her back towards the bed, and she sat
down on the edge of it while he leaned over her, continuing to kiss
her. Then the boy stood straight up and put his hands on his hips, pivoting
forward. His erection was pointing almost straight up at the ceiling, and
with a glance up into the boy's eyes, the girl leaned forward from her
sitting position and grasped the cock, sliding back the foreskin with her
thumb and index finger. She offered the boy's slit a quick darting lick,
and then with practiced ease she slid the cock into her mouth, not stopping
until her lips came against his pubis. She reached up with one hand and
grasped his tight ball sack, and his testes became obvious in their pouch,
two large marbles in a bit of tanned leather. Her other hand reached around
and grasped the boy's magnificent round ass, pulling him forward as she
blew him with enthusiasm.

The camera cut to several different close up angles of the blow job, aping
some of the common techniques of porn, including the tight shot on the
lips, the pan up to the boy's face, and an angle from between the boy's
legs looking up, the kid's hard slim thumper sliding into her mouth from
below. After a moment she pulled off and leaned back on the bed, and the
boy slid to his knees. It was her turn.

The boy pried open the lips with practiced tanned fingers and went in with
gusto, worrying the clit with the tip of his long red tongue before rolling
it into a tube and trusting into her vaginal opening. Then he switched to
lapping at the tight little cunt like a dog before focusing back on the
clit again. The girl started to writhe again, and in French she whispered
"mon dieu c'est bien ca". My god, that's good.

The boy looked up at her and asked "does that feel good?" She shook her
head yes in response. Then he asked "do you want me to fuck you?" and she
shook her head again. The boy stood up as the girl crawled back onto the
bed, spreading her knees out wide. He climbed onto the bed on his knees
below her, his tanned ass rippling as he crawled. When he was over her on
hands and knees, he leaned down and kissed her eagerly, then he sat onto
his haunches and, as she reached down and pulled apart her pussy lips, he
slid in a finger. She gasped, and he pulled his finger out and licked
it. Then he spat on two fingers and slid them in, wetting her further. The
boy lifted her ankles to his shoulders and leaned forward, lining his cock
up with her slit, and with one expert motion he was in. "Oh shit!" she
exclaimed in French. "Oh shit, yes!!" The boy bottomed out in her, and
turning towards the camera he looked right into the lens.

"See, kids can fuck too!" Then he went to work.

He fucked her for several minutes in this missionary position, then he
rolled over and she climbed up, squatting over him with her tiny slit posed
like a sheath above his slim hard bone. She lowered herself onto him and
started riding while he played with her nipples. With one hand she reached
down and pushed her clit hard against his thrust, arching her back and
moaning in a high, clear girlish voice. He grabbed her by the waist and
started lifting her up and down, his small biceps pumping with her repeated
squats. She was sliding two of her little fingers into herself with the
thrusting cock, and her breathing was heavier, until with a sigh she
shuddered in orgasm. The bucking of her hips only slowed for a moment
though, and soon the camera had her on all fours as the boy took her doggy
style, jamming his hips forward athletically, sweat running down his
flawless body, down the runnel of his tight stomach, down the valley of his
spine. He was grunting and she was moaning and breathlessly whispering
"fuck me hard, fuck me hard" over and over again.

Now his arms were around her waist, his fingers grinding her clit against
his hardness that split her from behind. The veins on his graceful neck
stood out, his ass glistened with sweat as the iliac crest flexed, his
globes elongating and then becoming circular again with each thrust, his
smooth, tanned abdomen quivering with sexual excitement. With a loud grunt
and sigh he removed his hefty boy bone from the girl's slit and aimed it at
her lower back while grasping it in a death grip. After a moment, one
little drop of clear liquid skeeted out onto the girl's glistening brown
back. Without a moment's hesitation, the boy leaned over and licked it up,
and as the girl turned around to look at him, he swooped down and kissed
her hard. She rolled onto her back and he continued to kiss her, swapping
his little load into her mouth, and inserting all four fingers of his left
hand in a cupped motion into her slit, jamming it hard while thrumming her
clit with his thumb. In a moment she squealed again and arched her back
with her second orgasm.

The kids rolled up into sitting positions on the bed, leaning back onto
their elbows side by side, and the boy looked into the camera once more.

"We are kids and we love to fuck. All kids love to fuck if they choose to
do it and it feels good. No one raped us. We do this because it is a great
thing to do and because every time we fuck we smash the fascists who hate
sex. All the fascists cannot stop us from doing what is natural for us. We
will never stop fucking no matter the fascist laws."

Speech over, the boy glanced off camera with a satisfied, knowing
smile. The girls looked in the same direction inquisitively. "C'est comme
ça tu le voulais papa?"

That's how you wanted it daddy?

* * * AMSTERDAM

	It was a beautiful spring morning, and Martin van de Meer
accompanied his three younger boys on their bicycles to school. They left
their comfortable townhouse just south of the Vondelpark, ten-year-old Hans
and eight-year-old Benjie riding their own bikes while little Marcos, age
five, rode in the front of his daddy's cargo bike. His fifteen-year-old son
Robbie and his twelve-year-old daughter Saartje had already left for
school.

The younger boys knew the rules and stayed in an orderly line on the right
part of the bike lane as commuters streamed by swiftly to the left. At the
school entrance, he kissed each of the towheaded lads on the cheek and sent
them off up the steps with a swat on their little butts. Then he climbed
back on his indestructible Gazelle and headed towards his office in the
converted warehouse next to the Amstel river. Locking his bike to the rack
in front of the narrow old building, he climbed the glass staircase above
the open bullpen of computer programmers and designers just starting their
days and settled into the large brick-walled corner office afforded him as
CTO of a tech firm. As he was opening his machines, his phone buzzed with a
message, and he was surprised to see that it was Jamie, texting him from
London.

"Hope all is well" the text read, but any direct clearnet text from Jamie
was an urgent protocol. Martin pulled the personal laptop from his sack and
fired up the heavily encrypted machine. He'd set up a special wifi node for
when he needed access on this machine at work, and in a few minutes he had
logged in, launched Tor, and opened Jamie's chat box.

"Jamie, what's happening?" he asked, worry starting to knot his
stomach. Whatever it was it was too urgent for small talk.

"Martin, a video from the documentation project has leaked."

"What? How?"

"We've no idea, but it was posted to Pedo-Revolution last night. It's
already been downloaded over ten thousand times".

Martin gasped, then looked up to make sure that no one had heard
him. Through the thick glass that formed his office he could see his
assistant, at work on her machine. She didn't look up. He took a deep
breath, letting the nervous tingling that was shooting through his body
retreat. This was bad.

"How on earth could this have happened? Have you looked at our firewalls?"

"No evidence of a breach. No evidence that anyone has even tried. I could
be wrong, but it is much more likely to have been done on purpose. We may
have a traitor."

"Impossible! Who would be foolish enough to put one of our vids on a public
darknet site? That's asking for LEA attention."

"It's already happened. An FBI IP pulled the video down minutes after it
was loaded. Worse, our man in the Quai des Orfévres tells us the file
has been downloaded from the FBI encrypted server onto their system,
meaning they've identified the nationalities and forwarded it to French
police already. It's in the hands of Judge Villeneuve's team."

"Who was identified, which video was it?"

There was a long pause over the wire from across the channel.

"It's one of the videos of Robbie and Marie Palliere from three summers
ago."

"Oh no."

* * *
	AJP Pederson sat at his normal lunch place across from the Tour
Saint Jacques, picking at the greens of his salad. He took another sip of
beer. The video had perturbed him. Over the months since joining
Villeneuve's child exploitation unit, he'd seen his fair share of child
pornography. It was part of his job, and while some of it he had found
immensely arousing, much of it had been far too sad to measure. But this,
this was different.

This video struck him as a political statement, an extremely effective kind
of propaganda for the sexual liberation of children. The very idea made him
anxious. He'd taken the job with a mix of emotions; as a man who was
himself attracted to kids, especially young boys, he had a prurient
interest, but he also felt that his proclivities would make him an even
more effective agent in putting an end to the damage and exploitation of
vulnerable children. He had mostly been correct, as his work had made him
familiar with the brutal circumstances in which many children were used for
the gratification of others. Much of the pornography that cross his desk
was about economic exploitation, just as it was with much of the adult sex
trade. Youngsters, forced by need, doing what they were told so that they
could eat.

Though to be honest, many, if not most of the files that crossed his desk
these days weren't exploitative this way. In the age of digital ubiquity,
most "child pornography" was made by the children themselves. Webcams had
brought the net into the bedrooms of horny kids everywhere, and they freely
shared their sexual experimentation with others online. Sexting was a rite
of passage, and he had the proof on his servers. Sometimes, these videos
were the result of tricks played by savvy exploiters; many a horny boy had
been hoodwinked into thinking that the sexy older girl who wanted to chat
was real, when in fact she was just a digital creation. It was sexual
catfishing, and it had flooded the web with home-produced cp.

But this video wasn't that, it was adults making a sex propaganda film with
kids for a purpose. What could that purpose be? In circulating the film,
they risked capture. They had minimized the risks, but law enforcement had
powerful tools. Jean-Paul could run the two kids through his facial
recognition software, a tool that would crawl the internet for a match. Not
just police files, but identity records, school photos, social media sites
and public photo sharing outlets. The only thing that might stand in its
way was the age of the video. If the kids had grown significantly it might
make a hit harder to accomplish. But it was an immensely helpful tool.

What bothered Agent Pederson was not the probability of his success. He was
good at his job, and he would pursue every avenue. If his quarry had made a
mistake, he would find and exploit it. No, what bothered him was the degree
to which the propaganda had worked. He had been swayed by the earnestness
of the kids, by their obvious pleasure, by the apparent truth to what they
were saying. Not the anti-fascist agitprop that the boy was mouthing, but
what both were saying with their bodies. They were pleasuring each other,
and it was difficult to see how it was wrong. The only shadow of
exploitation had come at the end, with the girl's tentative question to the
man she had referred to as papa. If this scene was staged by adults, could
it truly be authentic? He didn't know. But he knew he had to find out, he
had to put the moral assertion of this video to the test. If these kids
claimed that that their fucking was not hurting them, but that it was even
their right, then he would have to see this for himself. Speak to
them. Unravel the truth.

This meant that he would have to carry out his investigation privately. In
his official capacity he would log the video and go through the motions of
a police inquiry, but in reality he would investigate this video on his
own.

With a determined motion he finished off his beer and stood, looking up at
the gargoyle-ringed ancient tower rising from its pretty square. It was
five hundred years old, built by the wealthy butchers of Paris as the
crowning glory of a once-great church. The rest of the church had been
pulled down in an act of iconoclasm during the Revolution. An institution
once thought eternal had been demolished by change. In 1500 a man could
have taken a young girl as a bride, but a woman could be burned at the
stake for submitting to rape. How we had changed. How we might change
again. What would this city look like in another 500 years? What would the
ethics and mores of the people be then?

Jean-Paul Pederson couldn't shake the feeling that in a short pornographic
video he had glimpsed the future. He hoped he just wasn't thinking with his
cock, of that boy's tanned round ass as he had mounted the squirming,
willing girl. He shook his head to clear it and turned back towards the
Palace of Justice.



CHAPTER 2
JUNE 2015
LANGUEDOC

	Phillippe Loîc Charles Christy-Palliere turned his ancient Land
Rover down the alley lined with parasol pines that lead to the campground
and summer resort his family had owned for three generations. Le Centre
Solaire le Rocher was down a half kilometer of narrow asphalt road that
crossed the low-lying wetlands, lined all the way with the shade-casting
top-heavy pines. Curving around the edge of the salt-water etang, as he
approached the reception he swung off before the gate and around to the
service entrance, punching in the security code at the bar.

The muscular, compactly hairy forty year old with the thick crop of black
hair, long gallic nose and bristly short beard drove around behind the
centre's commercial area, with its cafe, restaurant, small supermarket and
gift shop. These businesses had opened for the high season at the beginning
of the month. Turning right at the tennis courts, he passed the sprawling
pool area. a large lagoon-like main pool with a stone island in the center
that had a several water slides leading into it, while a smaller
rectangular pool for lap swimming was offset by a wading area for small
children and a large jacuzzi. This early in the season the pool area wasn't
too crowded, though the day had warmed admirably and the sun was shining
from the cloudless Roussillon sky.

Above the commercial area and pool, past the large children's playground,
football pitch and boules ground, rose the rock. The camp was named after
the rounded sandstone cap that rose from the flat Languedoc coast like a
stone tossed by a giant. It was twenty meters high, sheer on the side
facing the swimming pools, rounded and easily climbed from the side facing
the beach. Phillippe drove on the gravel road around the rock's base, past
the alleys shaded by cork oaks and olive trees that lead to the long rows
of campgrounds, caravan sites and modest but attractive wooden beach
cabins. Le Centre Solaire le Rocher. The Sun Centre at the Rock.

His house, the biggest in the centre, was a sprawling set of connected
adobe and stone buildings that had been started by his parents and added
onto as the family grew. It sat at the seaward base of the rock, the path
to climb the escarpment directly behind the back door. He backed the Landie
into its place in the drive and hopped out, walking into the kitchen that
smelled of that evening's dinner of seafood bisque bubbling gently on the
old gas stove. His wife Mirelle was off managing the reception. The four
Palliere children only attended regular schools during the winter when the
centre was closed and the family stayed at their apartment in Perpignan,
but from the first of April until the first of November they stayed here at
the camp, getting homeschooled by a staff tutor in the mornings and having
their afternoons free to roam.

Phillippe walked down the long hall towards the bedrooms, his work boots
ringing on the Spanish tiles. He could hear the sound of grunts and
slapping flesh coming from down the hall, so he continued past his bedroom
until he came to the door of his oldest son, 14 year old Marc.

He was a handsome kid, with his father's close-shorn black hair in a
fashionable crop, hazel brown eyes below thick dark eyebrows, a strong
angular jaw inherited from his father, and a muscular long-legged
developing body that reflected his prowess on the rugby and football
pitch. The boy was in his usual state, without a stitch of clothes, deeply
tanned even this early in the season, and his large, long, uncircumcised
cock rose from his hairless pubic triangle above a brace of large smooth
balls. The cock in question was at the moment drawing in and out of his ten
year old sister Aurelie's tiny pussy.

The girl lay on her back, thin legs spread wide, hands above her head
pushing herself down from the headboard, thrusting her hips with
practice. She'd only been taking full-sized cocks like her brother's for
about a year, but she knew what to do, and she had a look of concentration
on her face as she watched the big sausage slide in and out of her tiny
slit. Her pink tongue darted out from time to time to lick her upper lip in
concentration.

Phillippe stood in the doorway for a moment and watched his rutting
children silently, absentmindedly scratching his beard. He could tell Marc
was near his nut by the furious instinctive speed of his thrusts. As his
father watched, the boy hefted a sigh, arched his long well-defined back,
clenched his brown ass cheeks, and with a few short, hard breaths came into
his sister, a moan whistling from between his clenched teeth.

"Now that you're done, come help me unload the truck."

Marc rolled over onto his back, his handsome prick popping out of his
sister with a smack. "OK dad, just let my bone go down."

"You promised me you'd eat me after you came Marc!" Little Aurelie
exclaimed petulantly.

"Work first, play later" her dad said gruffly, putting the matter to
rest. "You were supposed to put the mulch into the flowerbed next to
reception Marc."

"I was going to dad, this afternoon."

"Dinner is in an hour. When did you plan to get it done?"

"OK, I'll go now."

"It's not fair!" pouted the little girl.

"Don't worry, cherie" the impatient father pronounced. "When the truck is
unloaded I'll come eat your pussy for you."

"Good. You do it better than Marc anyway!" The teenager shot his little
sister his long middle finger and she replied with her tongue stuck out and
wagging.

Phillippe turned and walked back to the front of the house, his boy
following him out the kitchen door into the drive. Marc hadn't put on a
stitch of clothes, only his worn leather sandals. Nor was he expected
to. The Center Solaire was one of France's oldest naturist resorts, and
clothes were optional everywhere except the pool and the beach, and there
nudity was very much mandatory. As long as the boy's fuck stick wasn't
reared up in front of him like an arrow, no one would even look twice,
though truth be told he smelt a bit gamey from the fucking. Even a girl as
young and fresh as Aurelie made a distinct scent when you stuck it into
her. But what teenage boy didn't smell a bit funky anyway?

The two of them quickly unloaded the bags of wood chips Phillippe had
brought back from town into the garage, and then the boy took off to finish
his chore with the flowerbeds. All the children were expected to work
around the Centre every day. It was their family business and they all had
to contribute. As Phillippe walked back into his house, his thoughts
turning to the licking of his young daughter's pussy still slick with his
son's teenage juice, his phone vibrated with a text. It was from Jamie in
London:

Dinner reservation confirmed for tonight at eight.

Phillippe stopped in his tracks. The text meant one thing — an emergency
meeting of the Small Council, unscheduled and away from their normal
Wednesday night chats. Something serious must have gone wrong. A chill ran
down Phillippe's spine. What could it be? A security breach?

"Daddy! I'm horny!" cried the girl from the back of the house. Well the
conference wouldn't happen for another three hours, so he better take care
of his daughter first.

* * *

PARIS
     Agent Jean-Paul Pederson accessed the encrypted VPN server for the
Police Judiciaire from his home laptop, using a dummy account he'd set up
illegally. He loaded the screen grabs of the two kids from the video he'd
received that morning into the PJ's facial recognition software and ran the
program. It might take hours to find any matches, so he set it to run and
logged into Tor, navigating to Pedo-Revolution and signing in under his
avatar. Sometimes he thought half the people on the board must be law
enforcement blokes like him.

The video posting had made a huge splash, and in the chat it was a subject
of frequent conversation. Where had it come from? Who were these shameless,
brazen kids? What did all the political rhetoric mean? There were on the
board a number of users who had for some time espoused a political element
to sex with kids, and who were very excited by this proof of their ideas,
by actual kids joining their imagined kid sex revolution. This was so much
more powerful than the usual webcam jackoff videos, third world
exploitation porn and ancient pre-prohibition film stock that made up their
normal trade.

There was a German user named FKKPapa who hinted that he knew who the boy
was. Jean-Paul sent him a private message but he only responded by saying
that he had "seen him around" and was otherwise evasive. FKK was German
shorthand for nudist, and given the boy's lack of tan lines Jean-Paul went
into the archive's photo database and pulled up files of images taken from
nudist resorts and beaches over the last ten years. There was a brisk trade
on the pedo-web of pictures of children photographed surreptitiously at
these resorts, often with a telescopic lens. He opened a large set of those
pictures, prioritized them in his facial recognition search and sat back,
sipping his tea and monitoring his channels. Seven minutes later there it
was, a match. It was a still photo of the blond boy, clear as day, in a
series of HD shots. He was coming out of a swimming pool area, past a
waterslide, toweling himself and slipping on his sandals. He was talking to
several other boys, all standing around in a half circle, as unconscious of
their nudity as animals. Then he was mounting a bike, his towel draped over
the seat, and setting off down a shady narrow campground lane. Jean-Paul
switched back to the poolside pictures. There, off at the edge of the
frame, captured in mid-dive, was the dark-haired caramel-skinned girl from
the film.

Agent Pederson opened the notes on the file. The photos were believed to
have been created three summers ago. The landmarks had been identified at
the time in an attempt to narrow down their producer, but the investigation
hadn't progressed beyond that. After all, the pictures weren't actually
porn, just images of naked kids being naked kids, doing kid stuff. This
kind of soft cp was a low priority for his unit. Many jurisdictions
wouldn't even indict on it. So no one had followed through beyond
identifying when the pictures had been circulated and where they had been
shot.

They had been taken at a naturist campground along the Med not far from the
Spanish border. The resort was called the Centre Solaire le Rocher. The
Rock.

* * *

	Phillippe Palliere opened the encrypted video conferencing software
and his webcam came to life. The other members of the Small Council popped
up one by one. Martin Van de Meer came in from his bookshelf-lined home
office in Amsterdam. Jamie Cromwell beamed in from the bedroom of his
ultra-modern London flat. Marike Heydrich appeared from the garden room of
her house in Berlin, and in the fading light through the windows children
could be seen playing football on the commune's small grass yard. From a
laptop set on an outdoor table, Frank Goldberg came in, sipping his coffee
in the bright morning light as LA sprawled behind him in the
haze. Phillippe was surprised and a bit anxious to see that the Small
Council was being joined by one other face this evening. René Renaud,
the husband of Phillippe's younger sister Claire, their man in the IT
department of the French Judicial Police. There was silence on the line as
everyone felt the seriousness of an emergency meeting and they didn't
engage in their normal round of chit-chat.

	Jamie, their current Director of Security, opened the conversation
with his clipped Oxbridge accent.

"I've asked René to join us, and you will all understand why in a
second. We have a security breach, and it's serious. It may be the most
serious we've had. One of the videos from our documentation project has
leaked and is on the open darknet. It had not been modified yet to disguise
the identities of the two young ones in it, and it is already in the hands
of law enforcement." Jamie paused to allow the look of shock to fade from
the faces of Phillippe, Marike and Frank, while Martin and René looked
on dourly.

"The video was posted to the Pedo-Revolution board last night, and
downloaded to an FBI IP not long after. Then this morning it was downloaded
off the FBI's encrypted server by an agent in Judge Villeneuve's team in
Paris. He was evidently forwarded the video by a task force member from the
Bureau. This video is in the hands of law enforcement in the US and Europe,
and we have to resolve a very dangerous situation. René, could you
please tell us what you know?"

	The handsome, stubbled, curly-haired 30-year-old Corsican cleared
his throat and looked up at the camera in the spare bedroom of the Paris
apartment he shared with his wife and two young children. "The video was
downloaded shortly after nine this morning" he started in his heavy French
accent. "It was downloaded by a new member of Judge Villeneuve's team."

"Not our one?" Marike asked, referring to the agent within the Judicial
Police over which they had potential blackmail leverage.

"Unfortunately, no. This is the new agent, Jean-Paul Pederson. I started a
file on him that's already on the S drive for you to look at. We don't know
much about him. He is French with an American father, spent part of his
childhood in the States and then in Paris. He came up through the DCSP, the
uniformed police. He achieved his schooling in computer engineering while
also serving in uniform. He was then for two years at the anti-terrorism
sub-directorate before the Judge recruited him in December. He is
unmarried, and I was able to establish that he is primarily homosexual from
monitoring his home internet usage through the device I placed at his
apartment." René had managed to hack the home systems of all the members
of Villeneuve's team, including the judge himself. "Interestingly, he
spends most of his time observing pornography of young men, barely legal
kind of stuff."


"Please bring everyone up to speed on his behavior this evening, René."

"Yes. Well, interestingly, he failed to do anything except open an
investigation dossier for the video after he had received it and viewed it
on his work machine. He made some standard notes, but then he filed the
video away. Two hours ago he connected through VPN over a backdoor
clandestine account he had set up himself in the agency's system, and of
which I was already aware, an interesting red flag. There he accessed the
video and started running facial recognition software. Then he accessed
Pedo-Revolution and chatted with several users, including a man using the
avatar "FKKPapa", who claimed to have recognized the boy in the video,
though he wouldn't say from where."

"Which children were involved?" Frank interrupted, slightly delayed by the
satellite relay.

"We'll get to that" Jamie responded, nodding for René to continue.

"Then he went in and pulled a large file of naturist images and ran the
images against the video. Unfortunately, the images contained the widely
distributed set of photos that we dealt with three years ago. And
unfortunately, he found a match."

Jamie cleared his throat. "His match was to Martin's son, Robbie. The other
actor in the video was your Marie, Phillippe. I'm sorry."

Phillippe felt it like a kick in the stomach. He had been furious when the
images taken at the Rock had surfaced years before, images including his
kids. They weren't porn, but it had still felt like a terrible violation,
not only of his family but of his home. The man who had taken the images
had been discovered and dealt with, but not before he had placed several
series of images into circulation.

"Scheiße" Marike muttered from Berlin. "How did this happen?"

"We'll get to that" Jamie responded once more, "but first, we need to deal
with how we are going to respond to Agent Pederson. His behavior is highly
unusual. Using a backdoor to access the agency's servers is an offense for
which he can be fired. He seems to be conducting an off-the-books
investigation. One must wonder why. I think it has to do with his
predilection for twink porn. In other words, unless he opens an official
investigation of this video, I think that Agent Pederson may be turned."

Silence fell across the group as the all contemplated this suggestion. It
was risky, very risky. But to have one of their own inside the Quai des
Orfévres, not only in the IT department but in Villeneuve's very task
force, that would be an incredible coup.

"How would we do so?" asked Frank.

Martin piped up. "He's gay. He's in Paris. We'll use Johnny Durant and his
boys."

* * *

	Two floors above his father, Robbie van de Meer lay on his bed
nude, still damp from field hockey practice, while his ten year old brother
Hans gave him a blow job. The boy's tow-colored hair hung in his eyes as he
looked up at his big brother, bobbing back down the length of the fat
teenager's cock to his tightly clipped small patch of dishwater blond
pubes. Hans loved to blow Robbie when he was still sweaty from
practice. The reek of body odor and testosterone turned the younger boy on,
and as he sucked Robbie's cock he tugged furiously on his own skinny little
stiffy. Meanwhile, Robbie had his iPad open on his stomach and was
practically ignoring the youngster hard at work in his lap, chatting with
his American friend Mike, whom he'd met on a board for gay teenagers. Mike
was super hot, and as the boy blew Robbie, Mike danced around in his
underwear in his own bedroom in Austin, occasionally slipping the tight
undies down to flash Robbie a bit of pale ass or an inch or two of hard
shaft from the sizable seventeen-year-old cock that bulged out the front of
his cotton briefs.

Mike was cut, a well-muscled, smooth-chested high school running back with
a tight eight-pack of abs, and as he danced for the younger Dutch boy his
body twisted and flexed sinuously. He had a hard, high round ass and meaty
thighs, as well as a thick bush of brown pubes that formed a sweaty happy
trail up his taut belly. Mike had been sexting with him for a month and
Robbie was fully smitten by the big, sexy American boy with the blue eyes
and sharp crewcut. They'd jacked off together a dozen times over Skype. As
he watched, mesmerized, Mike came up towards his camera and leaned in,
whispering gruffly "show me your cock, Robbie."

Robbie smiled in response, his full red lips turning into a bit of a smirk
at the corners.

"I have a surprise for you."

"What dude, I'm so horny!"

"It's what you've been begging to see."

"No! Right now?"

With a laugh, Robbie switched the camera to front view, and in the corner
of the connection he saw what Mike was now seeing — a gorgeous blond
ten-year-old boy slurping down a hard teenage cock like a pitbull going
after a bone. "Oh fuck!" Mike exclaimed. "That's so hot!"

In Austin the American boy had pulled his eight inch circumcised thumper
from his briefs and was jacking it furiously to the images of the young boy
with a mouth full of smooth fat dick. Hans looked up under his bangs and
lifted his lips from Robbie's fat mushroom tip, giving the universal
"what's up" nod of boys everywhere. Then he went nonchalantly back to his
oral duties. The American boy was now jacking with the speed of a
motorcycle's piston.

With a series of husky grunts, the rippling young Texas football star
thrust his hips forward and came, shooting a copious load of thick white
cream out across the air, where it landed on the pile of dirty practice
gear piled on the carpet next to his desk. This was enough to send Robbie
off, and the fifteen-year -old whispered "ik zaad" to Hans, who pulled his
big brother's cock from deep within his throat to catch the older boy's
load on his tongue. Robbie always shot a hefty load after practice, and a
good dollop shot up Hans's cheek and into his tousled white-blond hair. The
boy smiled a big happy smile as his ruby tongue lapped up the seed that was
now running down his brother's shaft. Robbie flipped the camera back around
so that his face was in the frame again.

"Dude, I came so hard" croaked the Texas boy.

"Me too" replied the Dutch lad in his soft accent.

"Your little bro his so hot man. I'd love him to blow me like that."

As he said so, young Hans climbed up and snuggled in next to his brother,
looking down at the iPad. He turned his head and gave his brother a sexy,
spermy kiss, his coated tongue wrestling with his beloved older
sibling. The broke apart and gave each other a significant look.

"Say hi to Mike, Hansje" Robbie whispered. The younger boy turned toward
the camera and, with a shyness not in evidence moments before when he'd
been focused on deep throating his brothers genitals, he whispered "hoi"
and waved a little wave.


* * *

AUSTIN, TX

	Mike Davenport sat at the kitchen table with his two younger
brothers, 14-year-old Jessie and ten-year-old Tyler, while their dad put
the plates of salad and bbq that he'd picked up on his way home in front of
his three sons. Coach Davenport knuckled Tyler's short brown hair as he
laid his plate down, and gave Jessie's shoulder a squeeze. The big man put
Mike's food in front of him and then leaned over, giving his oldest a kiss
that turned into an impromptu makeout session as his tongue slid into the
teen's mouth. His little brothers didn't pay any attention, since this was
not an unusual occurrence in their house. Coach was more than just a dad to
his boys. He was also their daddy.

"Did you chat with your Dutch buddy" coach asked, sliding into his seat at
the head of the table.

"Oh yeah" Mike enthused between stuffing his mouth with pieces of
brisket. "He finally did it. He let me see his brother giving him head."

"Which one?"

"The ten-year-old. Hans."

"Well, I'm sure he sucks cock better than your ten-year-old brother" the
coach replied, winking at the youngest boy, who responded to the
good-natured teasing by sticking out his sauce-covered tongue as his daddy
ruffled his hair.

"He's cute, a total blondie. He's really good at it."

"Has he told you anything more about his family?"

"No, just that he does it with all his brothers and sister. He still hasn't
mentioned his mom and dad."

"Well, the boy is being cagey. How could there be that much fucking under
that roof if the parents didn't know? I'd certainly know if you boys were
fucking behind my back."

"We do it all the time without you dad" Jessie smirked.

"You forget, I get to see it all on the cameras" his father responded with
a knowing leer.

"Well, Robbie won't say, and I'm not gonna just ask him. He needs to bring
it up hisself."

"Smart boy. But try to find out soon. Summer vacation is almost here and if
we're gonna make a trip to Amsterdam, I need to make the arrangements."

Mike stopped chewing his food and swallowed the lump in his throat.

"You mean go over there? And, like, have sex with them?"

"Why not, if they're like us?"

"But we're not allowed to have sex outside the family" little Tyler piped
up, repeating the Davenport's cardinal rule.

"I know son. But if their family is like our family, well, that's
different. It's not something that's ever happened before, but I would
consider it."

Mike looked at his father with a Christmas morning expression on his
face. "Oh man, that would be so awesome."

"I'd get to do it with a girl!" Jessie exclaimed as the thought came to him
of Robbie's until now entirely hypothetical sister.

"You're such a breeder" Mike teased.

"You're such a faggot" Jessie replied.

"Hey, you two know how I feel about those terms" the coach barked out.

"Sorry sir."

"Sorry sir."

Coach Davenport turned to his oldest son. "Did you record your session with
Robbie and his brother?"

"Of course."

"Good. Maybe something new to post to Pedo-Revolution. And see if you can
get him to share any more of those videos he talked about."