Date: Thu, 20 Sep 2001 14:00:45 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Blissy's Song - 10

Blissy's Song -- 10
(M/f, inc., rom.)
by
Feather Touch


Chapt. 10


       Wouldn't that have made a dramatic ending?

        Sorry, too many lawyers in the world.  It's this way.  Writers
giveth and writers taketh, away.  But they need chapters to do it.  Thus is
born another chapter, to taketh away.  See, in passing, in the heat of the
moment, so to speak, I relinquished by copyrights.  Oops.  If I don't own
first serial rights, no one does, so no one will be motivated to publish.
It's not a money thing, to me; just common sense for once jibing with the
laws in the books.  So I reclaim all rights, while giving you to understand
that there are no restrictions on distribution, but if someone does want to
try a print edition, their interests will be protected.  This goes for all
manuscripts and all material that could be considered intellectual
property.  I hope you'll see this my way.  The writer giveth much, and
taketh little.

       Microsoft has announced a patch so the Manhattan skyline cane be
deleted from "Flight Simulator."  Next thing you know, I'll have to be
issuing a patch for Brenda.  And speaking of big M, it has been
authoritively reported that the government is remaining diligent in its
prosecution of Bill and company.  If there is any question of national
sanity it my be useful to judge the issue on the fact that the man and
company who added over a decade to American life is and are being subjected
to the full torment of the legal system, while the Muslims who smashed
things up are under the threat of a president who will hold his breath
until he turns blue if Afghanistan doesn't do what he wants.  You are a
massively fucked up country.

       I was a hideously abused child.  Others gloated at my torment.
Thanks, Mom, because now I get to enjoy the torment of others.  The thing
is, I was a nice child.  No reason to be tormented.  You fat slobs are
horrific, so it's kind of a justice thing, again, coming full circle.  What
they call closure.  And there is a faith issue involved.  I was abused by
my mother, by the school system, and by the military.  It helped in making
me the finest writer in the world.  That which doesn't kill you makes you
stronger, so the saying goes.  Hold the thought.

       There's a list of notes at the bottom of this document.  I keep them
until I use them, then delete them from the column.  One I haven't used is
"Slap to the Future."  There, I can remove it so I don't have to keep
looking at it at the bottom of the page.

       National telethon tonight.  Tom Hanks.  Tom Hanks is actually
retarded.  That movie called "That Thing You Do," is the work of an
imbecile.  He plays in a poorly written D-Day flick, and suddenly he's czar
of lumps and statuary.  Nothing is more cloying nor Jewish than some cruddy
chops of stone, a ritual memory space, for such a war as WW II.  The
arrogance of the project is the only thing to it.  Of course, if you
invented god, in the first place, how can anything be tacky after that?
And that Hanks, presumably not a kike, would play along is emblematic of
the greatest danger of the yid, and that is the degree to which he infests
dumb people.  Dumb down the schools through a scheme of dental plans and
teacher solidarity, and infest the goy trash while it's cheap and easy.  It
worked so well they needn't have linked up with Laden at Harvard to rid the
world of whitey, they had victory an inch away, all by themselves.  (Again,
this is about a seven percenter.  Harvard is the ultimate Jew school; the
senior camel driver bought a chair, and camelito patrolled his beard around
the yaad.  Draw your own conclusions.)

       The small T texan had a Muslim cleric at the Washington tear fest;
has been to a building where Mecca bobbin' goes on.  This same cowpoke
grounded even crop dusters and fire fighting aircraft in his first panic,
his damage far exceeding the damage done by the wayward jets, short term
and long term.

       Now it is known that dozens of other allah pilots and pilot type,
close to the profile, are, in the words of one reliable looking official,
almost certainly planning their next foray.  The very yellow rose from down
longhorn way is derelict in his oath to protect because he's conferencing
and holding photo opportunities, even with French trash.  We should be
hitting and hitting and hitting again.  The biggest bomb we've got in
Baghdad.  Fifty megaton bombs for Kabul, the principal city of Afghanistan
, and, sorry to say it, but symbolism is symbolism, the grand mosque in
Istanbul.  Not sorry to say it, the golden mosque in Mecca.  Tripoli.
Jerusalem.  Jakarta, so the hoards on the islands of Indonesia aren't left
with doubts about the will of allah.  Belfast.  Sri Lanka, so their
terrorists are acknowledged and served with a dignity respectful of their
actions.  That would be the first round.  It should have been completed by
September 12, 2001.  This ain't no space odyssey , folks.  If we're going
to send Woody Allen into an alley after Charles Manson and little Squeaky,
Woody's going to bleed to death, while Chuck and the chick fuck in front of
the Jew's glazing eyes and slacking jaw.  Try scuttling out of that.

       Talking with a friend on the phone this morning, and we reminded
each other of the favor Jews have done us by allowing us to die at a time
when nothing is to follow.  And to die young; to never have to experience
the hopeless seventies, worse eighties, and unspeakable years beyond,
knowing you were just going to die, anyway, and meantime you were wasting
resources that should go to the kids.  And with such pictures we get to go
with, already.  What a ripping piece of showmanship in the penultimate act.
Of course, I'd commandeer all the Imax equipment in the world, and film our
response with the best technicians available.  How many of you can guess
the title of my film?  Would you believe, "Ground Zero, Zero, Zero"?

       You get Colin Powell.  His head looks like a meatball that wasn't
dropped far enough to flatten it.  Is it a court martial offense to fart
while you salute?

       I guess flooding the subways can't be helped, just like the basement
of the Pentagon.  The wreckage is still smoking, and I presume steaming,
with great vigor.  By the time they get collateral rubble removed, it may
still be too hot to erect a pyramid structure, but, if there is any chance,
such a structure would obviously start at ground level, and the builder
might have less intense heat and vapor issues over the year or two of
construction.  At present they are sifting for evidence and wish to tag
every piece of human remains for DNA identification.  Five hundred thousand
tons.  Craziest thing I've ever seen, and I'm probably old enough to be
your grandfather.  Closure.  An ounce of rotted flesh, perhaps some teeth,
for closure.  Guess there will be closure to go around if we waste enough
time and resources, to say nothing of the human spirit, sentimentalizing
over burnt charnel.  I think I feel a little like a father with a hideously
ill son, cystic fibroses will do for the metaphor.  At a certain time, you
wish for his death with all your heart.  You are suffering, not from
disease of the lungs, but from a mindless, butt-headedness.  A lashing of
yourselves to tawdry ritual little different than lashing the old bod to a
log headed toward the bark flail at a sawmill.  May your suffering cease,
however you deserve it.

       The History Channel had a good program on quarries last night.  We
used to laugh at the Russians with their movies of the local tractor
factory.  I love tractor factories.  They always seem to make more sense
than Oprah.  I wish C-SPAN and that moron, Brian Lamb, would change their
ways.  Pre or post September, the road to socialism was plenty bleak enough
without C-SPAN and its bubble-voiced callers.  They should go tractor
factory.  They actually did, for a minute there, when they filmed their bio
of Upton Sinclair.  Part of it was taken in a modern meat processing plant
with a wonderful manager who described the business today, with footage of
the various procedures and processes used to handle meat products.

       And a note here, because it brought up a memory.  It's this way.
Upton Sinclair wrote a socialistic novel with thirteen pages devoted to
non-furtive descriptions of a packing plant.  Teddy Roosevelt's said to
have thrown his sausages out the window the morning after he read it.  FDA,
and all that stuff.

       Here is the reality of Socialist Sinclair's victory.  It's the meat
packing company just mentioned.  They spend an entire shift, eight hours,
cleaning the plant.  Every day.

       Please, all they need to do to clean the plant is to wash out the
critical machinery, wipe things down with fresh clothes, and go home.  Once
a week, give a particular room a thorough douche.  But under socialism you
have men and women doing pointless labor that wastes resources and causes
pollution, all because some Jew published some stupid book that a socialist
wrote.

       This might be a good time to remind you of the emblem of the
liberal.  It lasts a thousand years, and then a thousand more.  It has vast
strength and resilience to change.  It is dependable, durable, and will be
with us, forever.  It is the plastic water bottle.  A miracle, available in
numerous sizes, allowing us to quench our thirst in the middle of the
Sahara, if needs be.

       Tree huggers and water bottles.  Food safety, and mindlessly mopping
clean floors.  No civil liberty violations allowed, for intelligence
informants.  Woody Allen.  Would we be surprised if he hydrates his
Jewishness with trendy water?  The Third Reich may not have lasted a
thousand years, but Woody's bottle will, there, on the skyline of Staten
Island.  Liberalism is a ruthless and fatal disease, and you've got it up
to your lower lip, you stupid asseholes.

       You soldier types, if you want to follow morons as listed above,
anywhere, you're nuts.  Organize massive desertions.  Get out.  Tell the
O-corps to use hydrogen bombs to tame the Muslim world, not your blood, and
leave.  Insist that your government encourage shunning, boycotting and
harassing Muslims.  Neuter them and deport them, unless you use the
super-polygraph to separate the monsters from the merely unlikable.  Try to
imagine what they could do with a few barrels of nitrate and, say, a
supertanker at dock in an American port.  Get them out.  Use Jewish logic.
Oye, veh, they're always wailing about some absurdity or another, What if
it saves a single life?  Oye veh, indeed.

       Back to C-SPAN, before getting back where we belong.  They should do
industrial documentaries.  With the new video recording equipment, these
can be both engaging and beautiful.  Even slow motion with dazzling
fidelity.  It's amazing how many common process are beautiful when filmed
with these cameras.  Good music.  Good hosts.  Like the chap at the meat
processing plant in Chicago.  Make C-SPAN watchable.  End of message to
Brian the Bull.

       Congeala Rice.  I was going to go for it, that is typing out her
first name, but my fingers congealed at the thought.  It is interesting to
see colored folk aping their betters.  I live amongst black non-Americans,
my best friends are black non-Americans, and the last thing that's needed
is a black television face telling anyone anything, except about being
black.  It's time for the white boys to play, folks, because as Shumer
drones, so drones the nation.

       Now, on to more pleasant things after a quick sorry-`bout-that for
all the typos and copy errors.  It's the only disadvantage to Net
publishing.  No copy editor.



       Starting the car.

       How had he reached the car?  Wait, it's coming back.  The girl.  She
must have helped.  Who was she?  Sitting there, beside him.  Seemed like a
warm and friendly little piece of fluff.  A voice in the distance was
telling him to take her somewhere.  But how?  The key weighed more than an
anchor and had to go into a hole the size of a few toothpicks.

       "It's fun feeling like this," Steve thought, to himself.  After all,
he was in an entirely new world.  How should he feel?  If he could feel?
That was the rub, but, not to worry, it was coming back to him.  He'd been
drinking with this girl.  Had she slipped him something?  Didn't seem the
type, not with those blue eyes.

       Where was he meant to take her?  Or, had he already taken her?  It
would be with him in a minute, so he slowly lifted the fifty pound key, and
once he had the tip in the slot, it...

       He didn't want it to come back so fast.  Happy, dazey land was
better taken on in a lingering fashion.  Better chance of survival.  Yet
coming to had its rewards.  The girl.  She was his stop daughter.  He'd
fallen in love with her, boy, that was easy to remember, now that he
thought of it.  Yes, over cocktails.  She was smiling, gently to herself,
as she cuddled against him and watched his hand with the key.  Why, her
little fingers even helped with the final shove of the metal blade into its
receptor.  Was she being bad?  When the key was all the way in, the little
hand on his made him draw it out a quarter inch and then thrust it back in.
Why, it was almost lewd because she didn't just do it once with him, she
repeated the process.  It did help with his memory issues, Steve had to
admit that.

       "Cindy," he whispered.
       "Hi, Daddy," the girl said softly.  "Are you okay?"
       "I've already lived forever, so it doesn't matter," Steve replied.

       Cindy giggled happily and let him have his way with the car key.
The car.  The car wasn't going to make it.  What was he doing dating this
angel beside him, driving around in some dorkamungus Brady mobile?  Steve's
mind flashed over his finances.  Thirty grand, maybe a little more.  What
was the best buy?  A ten year old Jag.  Pwefect.  Cell phone, out, special
operator on , connection made, deal made, and they were off to Tarzana,
driving their sedan to an early grave.  Carol was next.

       "This is a full-blown hijacking," Steve stated, dramatically, when
Carol answered.  "I'm off with your leastest daughter, blue eyes, pig
tails, and, since she's had her turn at shopping, I'm taking my turn.
We'll be back when we see you.  Would you like to talk to Cindy?"

       The girl and her mother chatted Cindy described her new blouse in
under ten seconds.  The rest of their conversation made driving difficult,
even when one was on the freeway to the Jaguar dealer.

       "I don't think I'm old enough," spoketh the fairy queen of eight
year olds.  It was simply virtuoso.  Keeping the car in the world was a
challenge.  The minx used a perfect blend of reverse psychology on her
birth mother and had the woman coaxing her into staying overnight with her
step father.  She left out neither bear nor tea set nor toothbrush in
listing reasons she wasn't big enough.  Carol was still in the Now, Cindy
era, but it took less than a dozen to have the deal down, lock, stock and
barrel.  Steve had his operator dispatch a dozen massages, clearing his
already reduced schedule for the weekend.  They reached Tarzana and pulled
up besides their new ride.

       "You're good at secrets when you want to be," the girl said as they
viewed the new wheels, then dived into the opulent yet eminently practical
machine.  Steve had the dealer put the vehicle on a lift and bad the
technician to turn out the lights.  In the darkness he used a flashlight to
check the underpinnings, then he yelled to Cindy to start the engine.  As
the car lowered, he turned off the flashlight and opened the bonnet, had to
be a bonnet.  Using a wooden yardstick, he stirred the wiring under the
hood looking for any trace of leaking voltage.  It was, after all, a
Jaguar.

       As they prepared to leave the dealership in their new rig, Cindy
pulled Steve's sleeve.  There's stuff in the trunk of the old one, she
said, blushing.  Uh-oh, this had to be good.

       The salesman wasn't being pushy, he was just a nice guy who liked
the thirty-five-year old architect and his eight-year-old daughter.
Besides their purchases at the Galleria was a pup tent, sleeping bag, and
other outdoor impedimenta Sure looked like someone was going camping.  The
handsome male, the mint pretty little girl, and a pup tent.  The salesman
handed his clipboard to Steve without a word.  Steve signed, without a
word.  Cindy stood blushing as she looked at her Dad.  Man, shopping had
never the hell been like this before.

       Their day was going well.  Cindy loved the sleek car and its strong,
silent, electric move through traffic.  The British lion was defiantly not
suited for her chosen destinations, but her plan was not rigid.  Her dad
might not even like it, so she relaxed and enjoyed the ride, feeling like
more than eight years old.  When Steve asked her where she wanted to go,
she directed him over the Grapevine, and they sped along occasionally
pushing the machine to one hundred sixty to feel for vibrations.  Cindy
thought this was great fun, and passing vehicles that were doing eighty, at
eighty, had to be almost like racing.  Satisfied that everything was tight,
Steve soon melded into the flow of traffic and the two talked of school,
how cool it would be to eighty-six that dump, life, and the New Brady
Bunch.

       They stopped for lunch at a diner and when their dishes were
cleared, Cindy pulled a map from the alligator skin bag she'd decided on as
a replacement for the blue vinyl purse which had matched her little outfit.
No need for that all the time.  Good.

       "You're not going to like this," she intoned, holding the map in
front of her like a hand of cards.
       "Not going to like, what?"  What was there that could, by the
wildest stretch of a dot comer's imagination, be not to like?  Was she
suddenly gone demented?

       "It's not for overnight," Cindy explained as she passed the sheet
across to her step dad.

       The young female's clipped handwriting belied her tender years.  Her
lines were neat.  But now this was strange.  They ended at a dump.  "We can
use the sleeping bag, to, you know, climb over any wire fences," she stated
as if he had an idea in the world of what was going though that fabulous
blond head.

       Steve stared at his daughter blankly for a total lack of other
options.  Sure, a lot of people had been killed earlier in the month, but
there were benefits to the situation.  Open roads, privacy in restaurants,
even as small as diners.  Cindy's voice dropped to almost a whisper,
anyhow.  This always spelled massive trouble that tended to overtake one,
instantly.

       "It's going to be more than just sex with you, Dad.  It's going to
be right along with being alone with Pete as an experience in my life.  The
last thing I want is a fancy wallboard palace, or the back seat of a luxury
car.  Most of the time, it's okay.  It's how we live.  How every
nationality that comes to this country lives, so there must be something in
it.  But I want to be with you in a dirty place.  Blowing dust and plastic.
Plenty of stink in the air.  And the two of us in our little pup tent.
Symbolic.  A rose amongst the rubble.  It's the kind of thing writers try
to span when they get mature.  A man, a little girl, and a brownie tent."

       "Check!"

       "I think you're bigger than your boy, Dad,' Cindy commented as the
new-to-them car rolled over desert roads flanking Edwards.  After appearing
to consider the matter for a moment she added, "and more sperm.
Definitely.  I could hardly finish my ice cream."  She smiled shyly.  God
in heaven, she was a love.  Good thing for him she was in love, too.

       "Daddy," Cindy Brady asked after ten minutes of silence.  Deep
desert.  Steve was glad he'd taken time to check the car over and run it
out.  It should serve for the mission.  Deep desert.

       "What?" he replied.
       "How much can we do, you know, before it becomes boinking.  Like the
kids at school do it.  Faster than chickens, if half the stories you hear
are true."
       "That's not to do with boinking, the elder Brady explained.  "That's
to do with being young.  Boys can't hold their, you know, they can't hold
on.  If they're in love, they can hardly make it to the point where they
can try to hold on.  So it's probably natural that lingering passion is
rare.  Remember, you're eight."
       "Well, how about doing it too much?  Is that boinking?"
       "Yes," Steve answered.  "That's just what it is.  Dicking for its
own sake, to be a bit crude about it, with nothing to say to each other.
It's meant to be a very lonely experience, but in only befalls those who
fail to educate themselves.  Freedom for the peasant class is not a very
pretty thing, and for a female it's twice as ugly as it is for a boy."

       "But they're the people who build things," Cindy responded, doubt in
her voice.  She'd wanted to change her pleasantly vacuous dad, and she had.
       "We can keep them building things by taking all their money away
with lotteries and high taxes on cigarettes, so why throw their daughters
on the heap?  Sure, they build stuff, but they live like animals, fall for
every scheme in the book.  Watch the ads on late night television, and tell
me people you would ever care about support crap like that."
       "It's never come up," Cindy said slowly.
       "Look, sweetheart," Steve said, softly, "you want to be grown up.
Part of it is thinking.  Judging things for exactly what they are.  If you
have an ounce of pity for labor, think how union plane operators shut down
travel at holiday time so management will pay them a quarter of a million
dollars a year.  Think of the sandhogs in Boston who have set a precedent
of thirty dollars an hour for unskilled and semi-skilled labor.  How that
will effect rebuilding New York.  From the first day it was hundreds
standing while a few dozen worked, every one of them on the clock, every
minute.  Labor is worse poison than flaming jet fuel because everything
around it withers and dies.  Look at Japan.  Total defeat grabbed from the
jaws of victory, with tradeunionism as the fatal sword.  Hari-kari, or
seppuku.  They let it exist, they deserve to die.  It wall always be the
way of the world, except it can survive for short periods under favorable
conditions."

       They rode another few minutes across the ugly desert.  California.
What a joke the place was.  It was so ugly.  The beaches with their
lifeless sand, cold, gray water, and slimy brown rocks and piers.  From El
Toro to Malibu there was as much gray brown ugliness as the human eye could
tolerate and human soul endure.  The cove from "From Here to Eternity," and
used in countless films, was an ugly little kelpy dinge hole.  Ah, the
magic of the movies.

       It was nice being phonied out.  New America.  Having parted with the
platitudes and hollow homilies; being fucking finished with them, but, he
had to admit, after good usage so he'd never have to look back and wonder
at the glad road not taken.

       "Hey," he finally said, "what are you upset about.  Do you want to
go home?"
       "No, " Daddy, the girl responded quickly, "it's okay."
       "Look, Cindy," Steve said, any plaintive quality gone from his
voice, "I'm taking you way out into the middle of nowhere so we can be
together in a tent in a dump, which I hope is in fact abandon, so I'm not
exactly in the mood to talk about the next sock hop.  Labor is labor.  It's
major.  It's more dangerous, in the long run, than Arabs, Russians and
Jews, put together.  I'm sorry if you don't agree, and you may not agree
when you're twenty eight and are vice chief counsel for the AF of L and
their rotten crowd if push and pull artists."

       "It's just all the stuff they have in the books at school.  You
know, exploitation, mistreatment, violence..."
       "Cindy," Steve said, "in my opinion it's always been this way: The
family that came to this country and happily did whatever it took,
together, made it from soup to nuts in fifteen or twenty years.  That meant
staying the fuck out of bars, living pleasantly with your extended family,
and working hard.  Families that did it raced ahead light lightning.  Those
that didn't formed so many unions and were so blatant in their extortion
that every city in Amnerica has at least one great big expensive armory
built for the sole purpose of cracking the skulls of workers doing the
bidding of the union kicks.  That's the story of unions.  Driving good men
to hate them.  Being recalcitrant, confrontational and militant, for money,
and not intelligent enough to realize every raise one union gets raises the
costs of goods and services for the member of other unions.  Much better to
be dead, Cindy-pooh, than alive in Hoffa's brutal thug land.  Look for the
union label, and you'll find it on your tomb."

       Cindy snuggled closer, her left hand moving to her step dad's inner
thigh.

       "When I have a daughter," the girls whispered, "I want you to hang
out with her, a lot, and starting when she's five or six.  None of this
malarkey about a girl having to be a certain size.  I'll trust you not to
hurt her."

       "Some girls yes, some girls, no.  It depends on your daughter, Miss.
I hope that's cool with you."
       After a moment, Cindy responded.  "I started wanting to be with you
when I had my first bathing suit that wasn't a bikini.  I wanted to tell
mom that I wanted you to see me when we went swimming, but I didn't know
how to, you know, put it in words."
       "Keep improving at your present rate, Cindy," Steve commented, "and
you'll be published at ten."
       "I hope it's a story about having a baby," the elf replied with a
smile Steve knew instinctively she shared only with her middle step
brother.

       That did it.  California was beautiful.  Never mind the gravel-pit
landscape and hideous gray brownness.  (Certainly could never call it
color.)  No, it was the Golden State, after all, and a double duh'uh to
that.
       But damn, the dump wasn't much.  Closed it may have been, but
someone had set in on fire.  No one within ten miles.  That was obvious
because that's how far they could see.  Smoldering and typical.  Hey, it
was a dump.  They parked the car and Steve mentally counted to ten before
opening the door.

       Hot.  Well, that's why they called it a desert.  Those poor mules.
But the mormons had beaten heat like this to be with each others' children.
Best day in the lives of those girls must have looked about like this spot
in nowhere looked, now.

       No dramatics with the sleeping bag were necessary.  The barbed wire
had gaps aplenty, and they passed through to even more refuse and stink.
The girl seemed to want to incorporate everything from the most vapid
sitcoms to some zone beyond Nabakov in her little-girl play at symbolism.
Id and ego, yin and yang, I and chin.  Silly.  Real surrealism was having
an eight year old undoing your belt as you opened and removed your shirt to
her adoring gaze.

       There was a blanket in Cindy's ensemble of gear, and they used it as
a carpet on the sand.  She got her step dad completely naked, and Steve
removed the young female's new blouse and her shorts and panties, leaving
her to prance about in her brand new training bra.

       They began with the tent, keeling together on the blanket to set the
pins.  At times during the process, Steve was right on top of Cindy,
helping her with shoving the pegs home.  His penis was massive and hot all
along her pretty tummy.  And the whole process, standing, staring, moving
around, kneeling and working had to be repeated on the other side, then at
each end.

       Nest ready with soft down sleeping bag spread as a mattress, the
father and daughter entered, the female crawling low on her belly under her
tall, athletic father.  At the middle of the mattress they stopped.  This
must be the place.  The child lowered on her forearms, and the big male
froze above the up-thrust bottom of the girl.  Sweat glistened both the
healthy young bodies.  The male was patient, moving gently in his discovery
He let his head sagged until his mouth was at the ear of the lank-haired
female underneath him.

       "Cindy," he whispered, "if you want to call me Pete, it's okay.
I'll understand."
       "I'll probably call him daddy, Daddy," the girl replied in her soft
whisper.  Then her voice dropped so he had to snuggle close to her hot
lips.  "Daddy," she whispered lower than a mouse.  "I'm wet from him.  This
morning.  He came over from his quad and we met in the boys room in mine.
Ten fifteen, just before you picked me up.  I lay back between two sinks.
He was like a doctor.  He held me down and sprayed in me like giving me a
shot.  That was his present to you."

       The urgency of the male is more apparent now.  Perhaps a bit of
impatience is noted in the behavior of the immature female as she lowers
her face and spreads her legs to expose her inner loings.  Just as she is
pushing up, with the obvious intention of reaching to find the male, and
offer guidance, the male grunts and both his panting and perspiration
appear to redouble.

       The signal given the male by the female amounts to an almost
inaudible single utterance consisting of O, Dad.

       The male is mater-of-fact in his penetration of his child.  They
both whimper, pant and sweat as he takes his minute to fully mount the
eight-year-old girl.

       Again the couple freezes its motion.  The damp head of the female
has risen, apparently so her ear can be near the moth of her stallion.  The
male droops his head, kissing the girl wherever he can reach her.
Instinctively, the female partner rises to her elbows and forearms.
Apparently, she is offering her breasts to the male, because he continues
to hold his child in his left arm, while his right hand goes up under the
little girl's bra.

       Heat or no heat, the couple remains in this position for half an
hour, the only movement the gentle caress of the young female's chest by
the dominant male.  They say nothing but rather seem to communicate through
gentle mews and whimpers.  The observers felt, while recording this state
of affairs, that it could change suddenly and dramatically.  They were
right.

       "What's my book going to be about, Daddy," the girl is heard to
whisper, intimately.

       The male rises, still fully inside the girl.  His fingers find the
snaps on the girl's bra, and in a second he is peeling the garment over her
shoulders and releasing it to fall and cover the hands of the female child.
Looking down at it, he now molests the girls naked chest with both hands,
alternating so he can maintain his balance while remaining fully mounted.

       After five minutes of this behavior, the partners separate,
apparently signaled by a certain grunting pattern in the male, as no words
pass, whispered or otherwise.

       In a moment, the girl is on her back, her fingers laced behind her
neck, her legs spread wide.  The male looks down, now sweating and panting
like an athlete.  Taking just a moment he reaches back and retrieves the
blanket from the entrance to the pup tent.  Pulling it under his knees, he
is able to stay free of sand while he rolls the lower end of the down
sleeping bag under the buttocks of the immature female.  This appears to
make the girl spread her long, white young legs ever the wider.

       The male, hugely engorged and dripping wet, wastes no time, this
time.  In a flash, the girl's hand is there to guide him, and just as fast,
back under her neck.  His thrust to her, this time, takes but half a
minute.  As he completes his mounting, the girl wriggled tightly and
urgently against him.  The man lowers himself over the female, kissing her
lips slowly and tenderly.  The female's tender girl mouth apparently still
testes of seminal residue.  All observers agree that this taste seems to be
almost catalytic in its nature, for micrograms of biological material
involved.  Some argue that there would be a psycho somatic factor; that the
knowledge of recent events might have triggered an imaginary saltiness.  It
is apparent the female has a secondary method of enticing the male.  Again,
the modality of the tender, soft whisper is used.

       "Daddy," Cindy asked, "can you feel Pete's sperm in me?"

       This opened the rutting season.  Slowly, tenderly, at first, the
male begins his motion against the child.  Several seconds for each cycle
of pulling gently away, then returning fully.  Soon, all researchers agree,
a lessening of control becomes apparent.  Yet more perspiration, yet a
deeper and more feral tone to the rhythmic grunting.  And then a speed of
power is reached.  The males plunging becomes fast, hard and steady as a
rock.  The girl remains widely spread beneath him, as he alternately lowers
himself to kiss her and rises so both of them can look into each others'
eyes, or down along their bodies to where they are joined.

       This stage lasts forty three minutes.  The sleeping bag becomes
damp, their bodies and hair are slick, they kiss ardently and frequently,
the girl sometimes raising against the male and the male sometimes lowering
himself to his daughter.

       The event ends with the young female screaming and grabbing her
stalling in arms and with legs, the male bellowing the tent practically
down, and the sleeping bag sopped, especially under the waist of the young
girl.

	It is understood by both observers and researchers that the
witnessed event was successful.  That they provide the only possible happy
vector to a new day and a new way.

	May the force be with them.


Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx