Date: Sat, 22 Sep 2001 14:50:57 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Blissy's Song - 12
Blissy's Song -- 12
(Pedo, incest, rom.)
by
Feather Touch
Nothing should be inferred from the use of media personalities.
Chapt. 12
The last thing we need is a time out, but god-kings get bored with
themselves just as mortals do. To paraphrase Jimmy Webb, I know we need a
small vacation. In this chapter Steve takes Jan and Gregg to a family
nature camp, so let's relax and let our minds wander. Keep in mind how to
detach, at any time I'm abusing your special interest. It's easy. Just
think to yourself The god must be crazy, and shrug. You do know how to
shrug, don't you? You just lift your shoulders and die.
At ease, that would be the typical start of a vacation where I come
from. For example, having promised you a small vacation, then cautioned
you on shrugging, then blaming it on my family, I now find myself begging
your indulgence while I comply with Mr. White's edict of saying everything
you have to say. Old people. No resources of government, insurance
companies, or similar institutions should go to any person age sixty five
or older. This specifically includes Social Security, Medicaid, and all
related programs, including nursing home care, private or public. Parts of
malls should be rededicated as dying centers very much like those in the
movie, "Solyent Green." If we are to survive, all possible resources must
be used for the coming generation.
Also, all Muslim money and property in the world should be
confiscated. The money should be deposited in the US Treasury for fair
disbursement at a future time. Valuables should be seized under auspices
of the Smithsonian and The National Geographic Society along with allied
organizations. Arabs should be kept at least fifty miles from any area
deemed to be of global importance, and kept in a state of penury sufficient
to allow the safety of the world, at large. No looting of Ulster and
Northern Ireland, Jakarta or Istanbul. These bombs are merely shots across
the bow of terrorists and war mongers, in general. No animosity is
intended. As to the width of the Muslim net, it must be remember this is a
specialty of the dow fisherman who is several steps above the camel driver.
In the present instance, the net stretches from the Cambridge
cesspool of the world to Joe's Flying Service and Moe's Gym. In less I
miss my guess, scuba farms will be found as well as agricultural
enterprises run for their access to cheap nitrates and diesel fuel in bulk
quantities. At present the biggest and easiest bang for the buck would be
dropping coat hangers over high voltage switch farms. I would hope these
are being guarded with a total shoot first and let Jews ask the questions,
later, mentality and attitude, but I wouldn't bet on it. (Sure, most Arabs
would drop plastic hangers, but why take chances?)
The single biggest mistake in human history was not shelling the
"Exodus," then running the fleet through the wreckage at top speed, five or
six times. That one boat contained enough poison to end civilization.
Hell, a jittery jewboy even killed good old Kirk Douglas. If I ever write
another play I'm going to call it, "I Hear Hitler Laughing."
Now that long-promised vacation.
Dr. Catalina was the subject of the first conversation of the new
Saturday morning. Pete held Bobby gently in his arms, finally fully
mounted with the little boy. Bobby held Cindy, feeling full and hard
inside her, in spite of the slight sting of his big brother's semen. Steve
has hushed the three from their rooms and would be back at six thirty so
Marsha, Jan and Gregg wouldn't sense any sudden change in the way things
were.
"Were you really scared the first time he touched you?" Bobby
quizzed his powerful older brother.
"More scared that he wouldn't, but yeah. How about when you really
knew what dad was going to do to you, were you nervous/?"
"Same as you exactly. We must be twins."
"What about you, little mother to be. How did you feel?"
"All electric," the almost sleeping child replied, "because I can
have a baby from one of you."
Good answer. Bobby felt Peter pulsing hard inside him, and the hard
seizures of the big penis against his immature prostrate triggered Bobby's
ejaculation and he lay pumping hard into his breath warm cuddly little
sweetheart of a sister.
"Don't keep us waiting," the boy whispered as she silently mouthed
his name against the long lashes of his left eye.
The trio, without aid of alarm clock, had timed itself very well.
There was a tap at the door and a few moments later Steve entered, naked,
standing six-two with his big seven and a half inch penis huge and swollen.
He stood watching the naked children, and whispered, "Hi, dolls."
Bobby almost gasped with excitement. "Dad," he croaked.
Their faces was the first thing Steve noted. Amazing. It was
unbelievable, how closely the human face reflected the character inside.
Not jus in obvious way, sunny good and cloudy evil. But more. Their was a
glossy cheesiness that went hand-in-hand with the unread, uninterested mind
and soul. Johnny Carson. All characters on all soap operas; all visitors
on all day-camera things. A sleaziness. Howard Stern. A hollowness.
Wolf Blitzer. A tackiness. Judge Judy. A superficiality. Doctor Ruth
Westheimer. An ignorance. Ruth Ginsberg Badder. The electric Jew was
packed with this cretinous rubbish, they often worked cheap, but the
laundry room of the Brady house was not. Overnight, the childish faces had
become balanced. Dawning wisdom in with the fun. An atavistic connection
with reality replacing the wing-ding associated with posturing at school.
An overall maturity that was nothing less than super sexy.
Stepping to the cloud of dirty laundry which made the bilo-bed for
the youngsters, Steve's eyes dropped from the beautifully alive faces of
the children, down over their spooned naked bodies. Bobby and Peter stared
back at the beautiful young man with eyes of fire. Pete pushed gently away
from the back of his little brother, rolling his hips slightly to his left.
He was thrilled that his powerful, athletic dad could see what he was doing
to Bobby, and his penis surged harder than it had been when he first woke
to the urgent panting of his little sister, just before six.
The pile of laundry on the floor was a perfect nest, allowing father
tiger access to his cubs. Steve squatted over the legs of the young males,
positioning himself so they could see how huge and wet he was. He lowered
himself and molested the young boys by slowly rubbing his balls between
Pete's lower belly and Bobby's round little boy bottom. Changing his
position, Steve fell forward on his arms, spead his powerful long legs, and
eased his huge cock gently between the children just at the spot he'd
fondled their juvenile bodies with his rapidly readying man balls. He was
so wet he soon slide hotly between them. Peter removed his left hand from
his young partner's beautiful naked chest and found his father with excited
fingers. The huge maleness between their white, soft, childish bodies was
sensual to the max. As Pete found the solid bush of hair and moved to the
hot throbbing shaft it covered, his dad whispered to the children that he
was going to start saving there so he could be more like his beautiful
young boys. "Pete, if you want, we can shave each other," he whispered.
"Yes," the boy was able to croak over the pleasure surging through
the bottom of his belly where his beautiful dad was planted like a hot sap
tree.
"Will you do that in the shower to me, too, Daddy, you know, when
I'm ten." All three males answered Cindy's question and the girl smiled
warmly to have such a mature issue settled in typical New Brady fashion.
"You'll have to grow it back before you go to have our baby," Bobby
pointed out. "Or they'll think we're kinky."
Peter laughed at his brother's silly comment, and that was it.
Steve sensed a sudden change in everything. Their young bodies suddenly
went rigid, then into a serious of fast light convulsions. He wondered
vaguely if any man had every straddled three young kids and felt a triple
of hard, fast orgasms race through their tender bodies, then stopped
wondering and lay in wonder, realizing he would be spurting hard and fast
between his boys' young, smooth bodies if Carol hadn't been insatiable with
him, and he with her, for hours before sleep.
Sensing that his father had not ejaculated, and knowing Bobby was
overflowing with fresh sperm, Peter took control, easing himself from
Bobby, bringing his powerful, athletic father to the place he'd just lain,
then reaching under his dad's heavily muscled waist, he found his rampant
maleness and guided the man to his little boy, retaining a form grip on the
big cob of a shaft to protect his little angel boy brother from the violent
thrusts of a mature male entering a little boy.
Steve broke into an immediate, sweating pant. Bobby was hotter,
tighter and wetter than it was possible to believe. He prayed with thanks
that Pete's strong boy hand was there, otherwise the child in front of him
would have been raped, fast and hot.
Three inches into Bobby's beautiful round bottom, Pete stopped his
dad. Then his used a series of pulsing squeezes, trying to start at the
rooted base of the huge penis, and milking the five free inches of the now
impossibly swollen shaft entered the nine-year-old rectum toward Bobby.
Again and again he experimented with the sphinctering motion, judging by
his fathers deep grunts how he was responding to various combinations of
pressure, stroking and rhythm.
"I can feel your sperm, Pete," the young man whispered, and, as
Cindy jockeyed around to look and join her right hand with Pete's, Steve
began another long, hard ejaculation. "Here," the boy whispered to his
cute blond sister. He guided her tiny index finger to a secret place on
Steve, and the little sweetie could feel it whip quickly as pulse after
pulse jetted under the hot skin.
"Bobby," Cindy whispered in awe, "I can feel it. Each time he
sperms in you, I can feel it."
"I can, too," the boy whispered, and for some seconds the tableau
froze, panting, whimpering, grunting, and falling in love all over again.
Kissing his kith and kin tenderly good-bye, Steve escorted Bobby and
Peter to Gregg's room, and held hands with tousled Cindy, pinching her
bottom as she went in to sleep with her sisters. Four two hours nothing
stirred except in the master bedroom where Steve gave ardent thanks to a
sweating and glowing Carol for the daughters raised so beautifully and the
family she had made for them all; in short, for a fine prequel which was
leading somewhere extraordinary for them all. He should have been a trifle
smug, knowing he could thank his beautiful, and hotter by the day, young
wife with a child, but he was just happy. Besides, if things kept on their
present delicious path, the child she bore might be Gregg's and not his
own. Recalling the sharp presence of Pete's sperm against his penis, even
as little as he'd actually penetrated Bobby, had given him a hint of what
it might be like to feel his son's fresh seed inside his hot wife, and he
came to her again with a bellow that electrified even the little boys and
little girls of the Brady Bunch.
No monster pancakes. Saturday morning, after Friday and Friday
night, and already one tiresome and trite ritual down the tubes. Pete
noticed it the most, and it made the boy almost giddy inside. Kraft was
some kind of overpowering god. Those embarrassing questions, the yawning
and the voice husky with the universal and delirious sickness of lust;
gentle time together in the shower, and look what had happened. No monster
pancakes. Instead, they ate like savages, huddled around a single coffee
table, almost unable to get close enough to each other. Purrs and nudges
had, overnight, replaced the monotonous flippant smart talk. Now they knew
they'd known nothing, shared nothing. They were not going to make that
mistake again.
Steve ate with his right hand, his arm hard around his wife. Carol
was dazed, trying to focus on what was up with her tribe, and thanking
heaven, in her ignorant way, for it. Alice was new, too. Alcohol on her
breath, and a business like apology. Less banter, more sensitivity and
engagement. It was very nice. A real woman in the house with her. Was it
all the five years of money Steve had earned at a stroke (after five years,
that is)-? But why the new quiet affection. The promotion of Bobby to not
undisputed leader but beloved leader by the two youngest. Only Gregg and
Marsha seemed to retain a Brady strain, but they were apparently as
mystified as she was and were just sitting there, sitting there.
Jan, as usual, was in the middle. The new car? Demolishing a stack
of lox on bagels around a coffee table like a tribe of love-sick Bedouins?
Cindy, always a perky little dish, looked freshly minted, overnight. The
eleven year old looked at her mom and just got a puzzled but happy look and
tiny shrug in return.
Wait. Gregg. He was changing. Had someone slipped them all
chameleon pills? Dad looked sharper. Peter seemed to have turned half
tiger, hardly now goofy even as a memory. Something about Cindy, kind of
all over, but most especially that silky little girl mouth. Still silly
and fun, just less so. Back to Gregg. Bobby was now the focus of the
fourteen year old male's gaze. Bobby just looked happy cuddled against his
cute kid sister. Now he was looking at mom. Nothing. Now he was looking
at her. She reddened, embarrassed, and embarrassed, reddened more. Very
special. Like fire without the ice. And dad, the tiger prince. He
noticed her being noticed by him and noticed him noticing her, and noticed
her noticing him. Very Brady. See. Quell. He managed to mute Gregg and
Jan with cough and a stage whisper directed at both of them.
"Me Child One and Mom Child Two, there's something we need to talk
about," Steve said. New names. They were cute. Breakfast was over, so the
Bradys unbunched and Gregg and Jan followed Steve to the cellar. Was there
a lingering scent from the children? Probably not, but, for sentimental
reasons, he hopped up on the two side-by-side machines, and boosted his
fourteen-year-old son and eleven-year-old daughter up beside him, Jan on
his right, Gregg on his left.
"Guys," the father began, "this is going to be short and sweet. We
have a new member of the Brady family. I haven't met him. So far, only
Peter has. His name is Kraft Catalina; he's a med student Peter met while
he was at camp in August. They became special friends, and that friendship
has begun to make some changes in the family, as you may have noticed."
Both children nodded, affirming his assumption that the new Jaguar had not
gone unnoticed.
He went on. "The key part of what Dr. Catalina has given the Bradys
is a new sense of each other, of how lucky we are to live with attractive
young partners. Only there's more. Ho much fun it is to live with
attractive -- literate -- young partners. You've notices Peter and Cindy
have been spending lots of time together, and are often off by themselves.
Most of that time they spend reading.
"But there's more than just having a head with a little to talk
about. There's a physical side to the new life Kraft has brought under our
roof. A freer way, physically speaking. Being less uptight.
Appreciating, for example," and here he pinched Jan's knee, "your brother's
waist line. The beautiful shape he keeps himself in, even when his
attitude and mannerisms are not quite as gentle, patient and friendly as
they might be, under more favorable circumstances.
"Now," Steve went on, "in a short time we'll be moving.
Compton-Watts. The hell out of this soccer knocking, white bread
wasteland. Alice is working on that. In the meantime, for this weekend,
I'm taking the two of you to Plunkett's Tame Animal Kingdom. It's a family
nature camp, two hours from here. We'll be staying at least `till Sunday,
after that's, we'll play it by ear.
"There is no pressure on you to go. If you do go, you can hide out
on your own and you'll have full freedom over who you choose to be friendly
with, if anybody. You can have private rooms, it's a larger place, or we
can share.
"As a final note, you'll both be leaving school. The Jews made you
the way you are, and you're going to have to change or be excluded. No
more school. Instead, we have a very Brady project we're all going to work
on.
"Jan," Steve said to his step daughter, "for sake of your mom, we're
going to San Philippe. Camping on the beach. She'll know about the
Plunkett, and what happens to the two of you there, soon enough, but I want
to be the one to desensitize her in my own time and my own way. Jan, she's
your mom so you can object and be heard."
The girl was confused. Gregg a butt-head, or Gregg a stud, who
cared? Being off at a camp with her step dad? What was he talking about,
object? And god, the voltage was getting high, shaking her as she sat on
the dryer, a nature camp.
Rooms. He'd said something about rooms. Her nipples had swollen so
that her chest ached. She was with two males, and so she glanced down at
them She'd been right. She was with two males. Too bad a girl couldn't
vote like that. "I don't mind staying in the same room with you guys if
you want me to," she whispered.
Slowly the three slipped to the floor. The males turned their backs
for a few moments while and all headed up the stairs, not quite charging
back into the warm center of their on-the-market home.
Carol dropped them at the airport, where their Monterrey adventure
was meant to commence, then kissed them good-bye and was off girling with
Marsha. Her last weekend for that nonsense, Steve thought. If the mall
died with out them, you just had a dead mall; if they lived for the mall,
you ended up with dead people. Marsha was seven-tenths, plus, gone,
already. Hmm. Would the others want to follow the flight of the fashion
bee? He shelved it as an eye-on-the-ball issue. Gregg. Almost a twin of
the wifty fashion plate. But with that superbly athletic body under the
wifty polyester, there was a chance. Memories of the thoughts he'd had
with Carol, and the slight sting of being with Bobby made him look with
heat at the boy. He'd make that chance.
From the airport, they took a bus. They'd be riding busses now, a
lot. One car for eight, and Alice, was it. New Bradyism. The bus rode
them down to Palos Verde's Estates, a huge ramble of a mountain, with a
countryside much like Montana. If the Muslims were mad at anyone in the
miles of rolling hills, the firestorm could get intense.
There was no sign, and they might as well have been arriving at a
private residence. No one offered to be their server, their porter, or
wipe them in any way. The males were sent to one clinic, Jan, to another.
It was embarrassing to be examined and polygraphed, but there it was.
Something to talk about over dinner, plus, it would only happen this first
time, with unobtrusive spot checks if they chose to retain membership.
The place was stove bolt simple. Colonial Caribbean architecture,
the world's most beautiful. Their room, definitely shared, was separated
from the next by just beaver board rough nailed to the framing. While it
wasn't a basket, there did seem to be a number of holes in the wall
material. Plus, how sound proof could it be? Room 275 was on the second
floor. There were holes in the floor. That meant. They looked up. There
were holes in the ceiling. Room 175 got gypped. Maybe they paid less.
Furnishings consisted of numerous mirrors, neatly leveled and
installed, but sort of here, there, and everywhere. Futons and bean bags
were strewn between a pair of proper chairs. It was cramped. It was
dirty. The walls were so deeply stained there were protruding rivulets,
some petrified, dry and flakey, others, tacky to the touch. One was fresh.
White. From waist height for a tall male, continuously to the floor and
even puddling on the floor. "They must accept Afro Americans here," Steve
murmured to himself. Adding, "hope so."
The smell defined funky. Intensely embarrassed, Gregg and Jan tried
not to examine the wall to the adjoining room and try it as the source of
the feral musk. They almost giggled at their efforts to be good and Steve
looked on in wonder and with hope. They were a pair of beauties. Given
brains, they could chomp down on the life in a New America; appreciate it,
however dangerous, as a challenge utterly lacking from the landscape just
scant weeks before. If the danger proved insurmountable, at least they'd
have these times and leave with full knowledge, no pages un-turned. Musing
further, Steve ruminated that if Marsha didn't stand up to be counted,
there was going to be a page turned that no one wanted to read. New
America, New Bradys. No place for fools, in either. He almost chuckled
aloud at the thought. Life was going to be hard.
The sheets. The bed. Never had such a small room had so much to
offer. It was, Steve knew, an architectural wonder. Structure wise, it
was island hut on the cheap, but a box could contain diamonds or sawdust.
There was an ounce of marijuana in a plastic soap dish on one of the
two-by-fours, suspiciously near the fresh stain draining to the floor.
Graffiti, everywhere. And the sheets. Filthy. The bed. It would squeak
if a mosquito landed on the pillow. In short, the place reeked of broken
rules, and made its tenants ache on entry. Eat your heart out, Frank Lloyd
Wright.
The trio unpacked. Almost instinctively, they removed their clothes
with extra care, placing them neatly in the drawers of the trashed out old
dresser. Staking their polite little claim in heaven, as it were.
Stalling to catch their breaths, at the same time. Last drawer closed all
three stood by the bed as if turned to pillars of salt. Nothing chemical,
nothing biblical; just which the hell way to go. One way was the veranda
which swept each floor of the three story building. In the courtyard, the
pool. It could be heard. On the walls, all those holes. More holes in
the floor More voices from the pool. The weed on the frame member. And
the bathroom. What the hell was that going to be like? Well, how about
that, a half bottle of scotch lying in the dirty, but not filthy sink.
"When boys miss in this place, they really miss," Steve thought to himself
as he surveyed the copious layered splatter surrounding the fixture.
Seeing the hot mess, Steve whispered to Jan. "You sure you want to
be cooped up with two males in a place like this?"
"Is that from boys," the preteen asked, nodding in the direction of
the dirty commode, and glad the subject had been broached.
"It's sperm, darling," he whispered. "If it starts down low, it's
probably from a boy, and if it's higher, that's probably from a man, unless
a man is holding a boy while he sprays."
"Or," Gregg pointed out, in a husk, "a mature male could have his
legs spread way apart, you know, so a child could do what he wanted to the
man."
"Is that true, Dad," Jan whispered, no trace of skepticism or
challenge in her voice but rather just wanting to hear her beloved step-dad
speak.
"Yes, darling," the young man said. How her face had changed,
already. Gregg's, too. Gone goofyless in minutes. Joan Rivers was
obsessed with accessorizing. Maybe she had a point.
"We'll leave you to change, doll," Steve whispered, pleased to see
Gregg's responsiveness in taking the hint. "Tell your brother which suit
you want, and he can hand it in. I'm off for some ice so I can get some
scotch into my growing children."
"From these glasses..." Jan almost began out loud, then dropped two
notches and buried the thought. A little funk never killed anyone and it
saved an absolute fortune in gratuitous cleaning. Wow, this new life was
going to be absolutely beyond all beyonds terrific and sensational. So
good in fact, she called to her mature step brother, "Any suit you want,
dude; your choice."
"And if I come back empty handed?" he chided, gently, actually with
a giggle in his voice.
"I'll tell our dad," she giggled in return, thrilling the male youth
with deeply assumed sisterhood.
Game over, he chose a light tan. He wasn't designery, but it stood
to reason he color would complement her hair and show the very carnal
whiteness of her eleven-year-old girl skin. The bra had actual heft in his
fingers as he picked it from the dirty, broken drawer. The panties, too,
were conservative. Virginal. Hey, he didn't even know. Here he was
picking out her suit, feeling she'd want to be modest, but maybe she was
hot. Been with lots of guys. Wanted to show herself, no prudish stuff.
Or was he thinking for himself? How he wanted to see her, when she came
out for him to look at. Man, this was as bad as picking a combo for the
hop, back when they'd been Bradys.
"I'm getting optimistic," came the gently teasing giggle.
Okay, the brown one. He turned and there was a naked arm extending
through the door. "I hope this is okay," he mumbled, scared witless to
come within three feet of just her freaking hand. She accepted his
offering and peaked around the dingy, cheap door. "Gregg," she said, "you
look hot. I'm glad you're my brother and I'm glad you're here."
With that, she closed the door without setting the flimsy hook lock.
He could hear her whistling happily. Why not? At least six mirrors strewn
about that snaky little toilet.
Gregg went out on the balcony and looked down at the pool. Cripes,
he thought, this place could be in hick city. No thongs. No strings. No
Speedos. His choice for Jan had been perfect, and a lot of the girls were
wearing one piece suits. Apparently showboats weren't tolerated by the
Plunkett people, though they seemed to have no prejudice against lean,
attractive people with friendly, intelligent faces. Mix from six or seven
years old, just a few, with a preponderance of pre-teens and young adults.
As he thought of what Jan was doing in the bathroom, he found himself
sensationally glad the guys around the pool were wearing conventional
suits, and turned back into the room, after acknowledging several friendly
waves, to put on his own.
The fourteen year old was just about to strip, when he remembered
all the little holes in the walls. He blushed for his step sister, there'd
been holes in the bathroom, too. Was she being ogled. His boner, more or
less huge since sitting on the washing machine, was now doubling, or so it
felt. First, he wanted to just strip and stand there. Listen for any
faint telltale sounds from behind the cardboard walls. Second, he wanted
to wait for his dad. Third, he wanted to wait for Jan. Fourth, he wanted
to die on the instant, so nothing would ever change. Fifth, he wanted to
cancel the fourth wish, because his dad was back. Footsteps decisive down
the hall, flimsy door eased open. An ice bucket that looked like it had
been to war, and not survived. This was the strangest place. The pool was
spotless, surroundings, beautifully tended, the dining room looked
outstanding, the people were neat and crisp. But the rooms were funk city,
down to dirty bottles of liquor left in unclean sinks and half destroyed
ice buckets. A place for the dirty side of clean people? Who knew, but it
sure gave the institution an atmosphere Holiday Inn never dreamed off.
Maybe one of their executives should stay at a Holiday Inn Express. After
all, the Tame Animal Farmer wasn't smarter, he just felt smarter.
Steve entered and stood looking at Gregg. Extended the bottle to
the boy. Before, he would have made with the grins, used his face like he
was trying to animate a producing Jew, and waggled himself half silly in
the process. Now he just smiled, happily. A monumental bridge had been
crossed, probably in the nick of time. That quiet, happy smile said it
all, and the slow and matter-of-fact way the boy tilted his head back to
drink from the jug set the new image in stone. Swallows over, Gregg tapped
on the bathroom door, averted his eyes, and opened it. "It matches your
swim suit," he said, handing the bottle to Jan.
"My mood, too," the girl chirped happily. There was a lull, then
the bottle came back out, a healthy inch lower. "You guys smoke a joint,"
Jan called. "I'm going to take a long shower and think about stuff."
"Are you happy, doll," Steve asked.
"Dad," the girl responded through the cheap ha-ha door, "I'm trying
to work myself down to that. It will take some effort."
"Where there's a will, there's a way," Steve resounded, returning
the eleven-year-old female to her privacy and apparent reverie.
"Want to share a drink with me," Steve asked his son, very quietly.
"The glass is in the bathroom, Dad," the boy said.
"So it is," said the handsome young man. He tilted the bottle for a
heavy swig, then placed the bottle on the crummy little desk. Gregg was
just feet away, watching, trying to understand. He approached the young
teen, gently took the cheeks of his now beautiful, human face. The child's
eyes got round and scared, but he let himself be led gently craning at the
last to meet his father's lips. There was a little horse nibbling, god,
that was like chewing a really tiny electric fence, then a yielding and a
hot gush of alcohol. Bad scotch. Lucky he was sharing it with someone he
liked.
After the traditional coughing and sputtering that went with the
strong fluid, he asked, "Can we make it a double?"
"They'll make more," Steve whispered, confidently.
The boy actually grinned at the joke, and, amazingly to both of
them, they bonded all over again. They had their double, a longer, more
intense togetherness, then tender parting. Gregg dropped to his knees at
the bathroom door, opened it, and slid the bottle with two inches in on the
floor. "They'll make more," he said, repeating his father's inanity. "So
I heard," came the lilting response.
Gregg has a furtive side. Sometimes, when Bobby and Peter were
asleep in their top and bottom bunks, he'd slide out of his to find a sock
or a pair of underpants. Then he'd lie very quietly with himself, trying
not to shake or pant out loud, until the sock or underpants were wet. He
never forgot to give them a quick rinse in the morning, and hide them until
they were dry and could be cycled back into the laundry routine. It was
really sick to do that, but he sure wished he'd done it at least in the
last few days. And it had been a week. He groaned inwardly at the
thought. A week since he'd cum. That's what the kids called what he did
while his brothers were sleeping.
The shower was running now. How many eyes were on Jan as she
bathed. Was she letting them see her breasts, or would she be too young,
and bent over, concealing them with her wash cloth? The Plunkett operation
seemed to have been designed around issues. Perhaps the formula was
simple. The more you had, the happier you were to be there, besides, where
else were you going to take them?
Another example. Changing. Gregg wanted to change with his dad,
listening with him to the girl in the shower, imagining with him what men
were seeing if they were spying through the holes. But do that? He was so
hard, and had been so long, there wasn't enough ice at the poles to make
him okay for his dad to look at. They said they'd found frozen water on
Mars, but it seemed a ludicrous amount of time to wait to resolve an issue
that was the very definition of here and now.
Steve's thoughts were identical to the young teen's. The boy had
come a thousand miles, in hours, but, probably at the wrong word or least
sick gesture, could rocket back two thousand miles in less time that it
would take him to dash down the hall and out the front door.
On the other hand, mouth to mouth intoxication hadn't prompted any
more than surprise. Plus, one wall of the shower shared the room. Jan was
probably looking. He might lose the boy forever, but he wasn't worth
keeping, the way he had been, and the road ahead was the road ahead, carved
six feet deep in granite. That was about right. It was a grave moment.
Would it be a pit, or a tunnel?
"Gregg," Steve whispered, coming to stand a foot from the boy,
"while I was out getting the ice, I passed an open door. There was
something going on inside. Do you want me to tell you about it?"
"Yes, Dad," came the response.
"Okay," Steve said, "I'll try. There was a man in the room, about
my age, but with a short blond brush cut, and a hard body, like an English
footballer. He was very handsome and he had somebody with him. Okay?"
"Yes, Dad," Gregg replied, with real patience, giving his father his
moment, listening. How new and cool was that?
"The thing is, Gregg," Steve said, "it wasn't a girl."
"Lots of hotels allow pets," Gregg responded, deadpan. "I mean,
look at this place, really..."
Oh, for the beloved wry fun and gentleness of sharing splinters of
the absurd. He remembered Cindy's nonsense over her first drink in a club
environment.
Bottle or no bottle, that deserved a kiss. And suddenly they were
there. Slowly at first, then with a mature ardency which lingered itself
slowly to hot passion. For minutes, slowly, gently, tenderly, fast, hard,
and even a little-bit rough, then two bowed heads, side by side, and
whispers which couldn't be heard an inch away. Father and son stuff.
"Daddy, why didn't the doctor put me on the machine?"
The voice rang in from the next room.
"Because you're only five, angel," came the reply from a young male
voice.
There went the neighborhood. There went the plans for the evening.
There went everything they knew of the world, just as the good people at
Plunkett intended.
Galvanized to the wall behind the sad-sack spring bed, they yet made
a moment for each other. Steve's fingers went to Gregg's top button. "It
doesn't have to be this way. We can find other partners," he whispered as
he began to open the shirt of the young teen, now on his tiptoes.
"Dad," Gregg whispered in response, "do you remember the swimmer.
Paul Kidder. He was nineteen?"
"Of course, Gregg," Steve said, "why."
"He used to baby-sit for us, right?"
"Sure. Lots. We always got him, because you liked him."
"Dad," Gregg responded, "one night I accidentally forgot to bring up
a new shampoo from downstairs, so be brought one up. It was just after I
was eight. When he saw me in the tub, he stayed in the bathroom and locked
the door."
Gregg's hands were working now, as fast as his young father's.
Shirts off, shoes, and socks, then their slacks. They stared down at each
other, then, with his arm around his son's still slightly girlish waist,
Steve moved them both to the bed, where they slowly knelt, and leaned
forward against the wall. With a little jockeying they each found a
comfortable hole. Steve covered his son as a stallion does a filly, and
looped an arm under the teen's belly to help him get really comfortable.
As they stared through their respective pinholes, they were father's chin
and lips an inch from boy's tender ear.
"Why did Paul lock the door?" Steve asked as they focused on the
neighbor's room. The Plunkett consultants had chosen with "Tame Animal
Farm" for the property. The handsome father had his daughter, maybe six at
a stretch, on an inverted trash basket, and they were slow dancing in
place, right in the middle of the small room.
"He wanted to get in the tub with me."
"Was he gentle with you?"
"Yes," the young male whispered.
"Did you like him getting in with you?"
"Yes," Gregg said.
The girl was a brunet twinkle. Her dad was super blond, very tall
and Nordic. Both were slim, and swayed like willows.
"The machine is for safety, Kelly," the young father explained to
the tall six year old. On her perch, the came against him with her left
temple just at his lips. "I don't think even Plunkett management considers
you a threat."
"What kind of threats, Daddy?" the girl asked, looking up into her
father's tender eyes.
"If there's something wrong with somebody, Kelly, the machine says
so. If someone is a criminal, or has a rough way, or is a pervert, the
machine sings out loud and clear. What that means, sweetheart, is that you
can go anywhere with anyone and do anything you want. Male or female, old
or young, nobody will make you do anything you don't want to. They won't
even ask. That's up to you, because you're the kiddo and you rule. See?
They didn't even put you on the machine."
The child giggled happily at her father's explanation. Good
management techniques are even noticed by children, one of the small
rewards for practicing them.
"What if there's an old man, like sixty, and I want him to read me a
story. If he has a room like this, can I go with him?"
"No, darling," the young father explained, patiently. "You have to
play by the rules, too. If you go to a man's room, or anybody's, they are
going to want to touch you and kiss you. Men can't help it, and a lot of
the females here are the same way. If you like an old man, and you'd like
to be with him, and let him take your bikini top off, then you can go with
him. He'll never hurt you. But you do have to be good, and choose
carefully, and then at least spend some time, like an hour or two, letting
the man do what he wants. It's probably not right, but it's definitely
nature. And don't forget, if anyone ever did try to do anything that made
you even a little uncomfortable, all you have to do is yell out. Just
don't do it too awfully loud, or you'll start a stampede that could knock
the place down."
The girl made a face up at her handsome dad, and he leaned for his
kiss.
It was almost enough to paralyze them. Steve and the boy under him,
his lean, handsome son, Gregg. Newly improved with friendly face. Prayer.
What kind of message did anyone need to send to god, at a time like this?
But it wasn't to god they were praying. And alert the Brady girl was in
answering their summons. Suddenly she was there, nibbling her way between
their male bodies clad only in white jockey underpants. She felt
overdressed in her two piece, but apparently wardrobe was uppermost in no
mind at all. Why, that wasn't very Brady.
Now a handsome young adult and two beautiful child faces shared a
square foot of the wall on the far side of the squeaky bed. The males
covered their young virgin from either side, Steve on the child's right,
and Gregg to her left. Both males held the eleven year old by the
nakedness at her waist, their male hands seeming to lead each other in soft
games of gentle tag. It felt beautiful. Doesn't matter who you ask.
Beautiful.
"What happens if I start screaming that I love my handsome boy
daddy?" the girl queried as they continued their slow swaying dance.
"The daddy would die of happiness, right then and there, and you'd
have to find an elephant with a magic troll to ever read you another story
if you live to be a hundred," the wise dad replied.
Voyeurism may not be the most admirable human trait on the list, but
one thing it does do is occasionally give people a transcendent moment of
sharing thoughts and feelings with others. Such a rare moment was
happening, because Steve, Gregg and Jan all knew exactly what the tall
rugged looking blond dad was feeling.
Kelly was dressed in a white party frock. She had an absolute cloud
of very light brown hair framing the softly beautiful big-eyed oval face of
a young woman. Not the look of a woman, she had to be looked at to see a
simple serendipity of cheeks and eyes and lips and delicate, fragile
girlish chin.
"Jan?" Steve whispered.
"Yes, Dad?" the girl whispered back.
"Gregg was starting a story. I want him to finish it later. Try to
help us remember, okay?"
A girl might remember. A male? No way. Not with what was going on
in the next room. If any of them remembered to eat, it would only be
because the rotting carcasses of the other two were drawing a huge number
of flies. But a girl? A girl might remember.
Jan brought pheromones. The male's relationship was biological
incest, therefore they were neutral in that department. The female was
related to neither of them, chemically, and it made a difference. Kind of
subtle, when Steve analyzed it. The scent vector would tend to both draw
and keep siblings apart, assuming a village environment. Yet it wasn't an
absolute thing, at all. Sort of a steering mechanism for genetic variety,
not a rudder. However one sliced it, the girl child and her juvenile musk
were welcome.
"So, Daddy," the brown-haired, bright-eye said, "we're here to troll
for elephants."
"That part's over, darling," the handsome man said.
"So the magic part begins?" she chirped, happily.
"I hope you think it's magic, Kelly," the man whispered.
"If it makes a baby, what else could it be, Daddy?"
Well, the girl certainly seemed to be at the right place. No focus
group was needed to figure that one out. Right partner, too. And then Jan
move to hip her dad, a spring squeaked, and the pixie turned toward room
275. All three voyeurs recognized her instantly as the little actress who
left breakfast cereal in her dad's pocket, because it was good for his
heart. They'd seen her many times. Full face, she was a raving beauty.
Extraordinary. Pretty, cute, beautiful, young, small, mature, big, all of
them, and then the eye found the casual abundance of her crowning glory and
came to know what the cliché was capable of meaning.
"We didn't come here for that, and you know it," the young man said,
reaching up to pinch her pretty chin."
"I know, Daddy," she responded, "but a girl can dream, can't she?"
"Why are we here, Kelly?" her father prompted.
"Because I want to be an actress. To be an actress, I will have to
spend a lot of time alone with adults. Adults will sometimes want to do
things with me. If I'm going to have a pretty smile I have to know about
the things big people will want to do with me, ahead of time, so I can
avoid... what kind of situations, Daddy?"
"Compromising, doll."
"Know ahead of time, so I can avoid compromising situations."
There, she had her line. The smiled happily and so did he.
Looking pensive for a moment --god, was that beautiful -- she asked,
"How about situations that aren't compromising? We haven't talked about
that."
"Darling," the father said tenderly, "you are going to be around
many hot, virile young males, and some interesting older ones. Women, too.
Your potential for uncompromising relationships is, well, to put it as
precisely as possible, awesome. Intellectual writers and researchers, to
biker grips, to cute cast members, to adoring fans."
"It sounds like a huge salad bar, without the salad," the girl said.
"That will do just fine," the handsome man said. "You get to pick,
and you get to choose, and it's salad, it's not going to get cold. No
hurry. What you want to do is find a particular one you like, and order a
lifetime supply."
"How about if I already have my lifetime supply," the cutie
countered, "and just want a little variety to remind me of how good he is?"
The smartest dad in the world couldn't think of an answer to that,
so Sven Grunwald didn't bother trying. Rather, he set to work unbuttoning
his daughter's pretty dress, first, by reaching in back, then, as the girl
pirouetted on her perch, burying his face in the delicious brown foam as he
worked the buttons down to the tender waist. Kelly shrugged her straps
free as her dad finished with the last button, and the white confection
fell around the overturned wastebasket, rendering it a vase for a single
beautiful bud. With another girlish gesture, the child's slip fell down
over the puff of a dress, adding to the illusion. Sven quickly peeled his
jersey off, tossed it on the bed, then followed by getting rid of his
shoes, socks and slacks. He was wearing boxers and was hugely tented as he
again stood behind the six year old, now dressed only in simple white
panties.
Father first touched daughter with his handsome Nordic face, burying
it in the child's magical cloud of light brown har. Cindy will be jealous
if she ever sees Kelly, Jan thought. All of them watched, panting lightly,
as Sven's strong hands came gently the the sylph's slender waist, where he
held her with a feather touch.
"That tickles, Daddy, let's dance, again."
She turned to the man. He stared down at her for long moments,
then, slowly brought her bare chest to his own, left arm out, right arm
around the childish waist. As they swayed together, he lifted clear of her
festooned waste basket and swung her to the bed, laying her one her back,
hardly a yardstick from the burning eyes at the wall. Sven adjusted the
little angel, placing her pretty little hands behind her long slim neck,
then taking off her patent leather shoes and tiny white socks. For several
minutes he molested the child, running his finger's over her bare chest,
over her belly, and up her inner thighs, almost to her panties. Kelly lay
staring hotly at the man and panting gently.
"I'll be right back, darling," Sven said, leaning to kiss the tiny
nipples pink in their field of soft, white girl skin.
The strapping athlete went to his back pack and dipped out candles,
a lighter, glasses, and a bottle of port. Drawing the tired old shades and
closing the ragged curtains, lighting the candles, and turning out the
lights, he converted room 273 into what might have been a mountain man's
cabin of a century gone by. Little Phoebe, captured by Blacks McGee. A
name too dark to be singular, now about to ravish the child he'd dragged
from the wreck of the stage.
Jan realized it wasn't necessary to embellish the scene before her,
and stifled her inner voice. At least it was singing a different tune.
No the child glowed in the soft yellow light of wick and burning
wax. "Sit up love," the tender you father said, and the girl did, sliding
back, so her shoulders were against the wall at the head of the bed. For
some moments her head was in the periphery, just her slim body visible.
Sven sat on the bed beside her, handing her the goblet of ruby alcohol.
Extending his glass in his left hand, there was a clink, and he raised his
to his lips, gently fondling his daughter, who was learning to arch her
back to show how much she loved what he was doing to her.
"Jan," Gregg whispered softly, "would you let him do that to you?"
"I like what's on the channel," she whispered back, "and I love the
men I'm watching with." Gregg was glad she didn't say `no.' That would
have been crazy.
The drinking scene went on for ten minutes. Finally the empty glass
appeared and the tall blond male stood and carried them out of sight. When
he returned, he was naked. Steve felt the teen boy and preteen girl
beneath him start in shock, and hugged the boy's bare chest and girl's bare
tummy.
Sven's penis jutted strongly off to his right. Slim, and very long.
Over eight inches. "Oh, Daddy, came a sigh thick with childish lust, as
the male came to the side of the bed and stood over his little girl. He
knelt to her, and placed his hands at her little girl waist. He bottom
rocketed high off the thin, cheap mattress and the athlete pulled her
panties down, dropping them out of sight. He had to actually push gently
on her soft, young tummy to get her bottom back on the bed, and once he had
her that way, he fondled her, gently spreading her legs as he did so. The
instant she got the hint, little Kelly threw her knees so wide she kicked
the wall with her left ankle, startling the bejesus out of her entire
audience. It was unintentional, and did nothing to detract from what was
happening on the bed of 273.
Sven knelt beside his child, rubbed his swollen penis against her
lily-white belly, and then eased her lower on the bed. He curled up beside
her and whispered to her while he molested her with the fingers of his
right hand and rubbed his erection against the widely-splayed girl leg
being thrust instinctively and wantonly against his hardness.
"Darling," he whispered, "if you're with a full grown man before
you've grown a little, yourself, I want you to play a game with him,
instead of letting him try to get you pregnant, okay? A big man can hurt a
girl your age, even if he loves her, just because of size issues. When you
get older, it won't matter, but now it does."
"Would it really hurt, Daddy, if a man did that?"
"Yes," Sven said. "It would hurt even if I did it, and you love me.
If it was just any man, your body wouldn't get we from being molested, and
you would be dry, you know, inside. You've got to be careful, darling.
Especially until you're eight or nine. After all, girls have babies from
the same place a man spills his seed, so it's only an issue for little,
little girls."
"Cats have kittens, Daddy," the young beauty pointed out. "I'm a
lot bigger than a cat, and your penis isn't that much bigger round than a
kitten."
"You make a beautiful argument, Kelly," the man said, tenderly.
"Maybe later, after we've been to the pool. Tonight, if you want to sleep
here. But right now I want to show you the game, because it's a good way
for a girl to get to know a male, without taking him inside you."
"You've got to promise about tonight," she said, not petulant, but
meaning business.
"Darling, if you really want to be with me that way, we will try."
"We will succeed," she whispered, a gentle assurance and promise in
her voice. "So, tell me what the game is."
"It's called sticky donut," Sven said.
"Sounds sweet," the girl commented.
"Sweetest in the whole world," her dad promised. He was not
exaggerating, in the least. Gently coaxing the child, he maneuvered until
she was lying on her back, fingers laced under neck, and he lay on his left
side so his huge, hard cock, with its pronounced right bend, was against
the middle of the baby tummy. Kelley's right leg was lost amidst the
muscley legs of her lover, so she lay innocent and fully exposed.
Sven masturbated his daughter for a few moments, making her buck her
hips, loll her head, and sight. Then his hand trailed off her and onto
himself, to his huge boner. He began stroking and the little girl lay back
in a daze, sensing her male was doing something exciting, but to
overwhelmed for the sit-up it would take to see exactly what was happening,
what her daddy was doing as he lay panting and sweating so beautifully
close to her naked young body.
"Sweetheart," Sven gasped in a horse, sick whisper, "what I'm doing
is masturbating. That's what I was doing to you a minute ago. Both males
and females do it, but usually in private. It's also called jerking off.
That's what I'm doing, Kelly, I'm jerking off on your body. Pretty soon
I'm going to start climaxing. They call in cumming. There's going to be a
lot of sperm when I ejaculate. That's the grown-up word for it. I'm going
to spill it in a big puddle around your belly button. That's the donut."
"But Daddy," the girl asked, "if it's on my tummy, how can I reach
it. I can't lick a donut on my own tummy."
"I'll help love, if that's what you want," Sven groaned. None of
his watchers could comprehend how he managed speech, at all. He must
really love his little girl."
"Is it now, Daddy?" Kelly asked because she sensed her beautiful
dad losing it. Not waiting for an answer amidst the grunts, whimpers and
loud springs, the girl did her sit up, and looked down over her bare
stomach. Her dad was huge and purple and swollen and hot against her
pearly little mink belly, and he was doing it. It was so beautiful, she
jammed her elbows to the bed, the better to support herself so she could
watch.
Sven managed one last choking whisper. "Sperm," he gasped, "looks
like sugar syrup. That's why it's called a donut."
Kelly was glad of the explanation. What her boy dad was doing on
her didn't look anything like a donut, Mr. or Mrs. He was getting the
white -- she knew it was sperm -- all over her, not just in a neat circle.
And he was using way, way too much. Hadn't he ever been to a donut shop?
I mean, sure, they called it Dunkin' Donuts, but that didn't mean you
dunked in a pot of sugar syrup.
"Oh, Daddy," she whispered, "there's so much. If Mommy was here,
she could have a lot, and I'd still have a lot."
"That will happen, love," Sven whispered between shudders that shook
the wall, "she loves you just as much as I do."
Finally Sven rose to his knees, crouched over the girl, who was
again lying flat, they way her father had adjusted her, and his tongue went
into the fluid on her stomach. He came to her face and she smiled in
delight, sticking her own bird-like tongue out to take his gift of seed.
"Oh, Dad, she sighed happily. "You think of everything. I'll never stop
smiling now." She accepted his salty offering, and the trio in 275
collapsed slowly onto their own squeaky, nasty bed.
Steve felt Jan's hand slipping inside his briefs. "Sorry, pet," he
whispered. "This is going to be the most special day of our lives. It's
going to last until midnight.
" Pool. Pool. Pool."
Gregg and Jan moaned to themselves. Moaned with aching. Sweet
harmless aching. As they made ready to leave the room, a gentle slurping
from behind the wall had become wanton, loud and urgent. It was definitely
time for a dunk.
d
White flag. Last lap. How the chapters go by.
Let's start with the world's stupidest question. Go ahead, look away
from the monitor for a moment at see if you can beat me to the punch.
There's a peerage in it for you, if you can. Okay, back to the world's
stupidest question. It's short and simple. It goes like this: Has
Seinfeld enlisted yet?
Would you like to hear about Osama Bin Laden day? The story goes
something like this. The twin towers become a massive tourist draw. Even
the stupidest Jew in New York finally realizes what an asset the natural
monument is. Bygones are let go, all is made up, like Japan and the US,
and low and behold, September 11, 2010 is designated Osama Bin Laden by
acclimation. It's called leadership folks, and it has nothing in the wide,
wide world to do with sifting half a million tons of organic slurry for
blobs of evidence or plunketts of identification.
The telethon finally occurred and it was New York crud for all the
world to see. Endlessly imitative, self indulgent and plain old ugly. One
driveling snarl, if that's not an oxymoron, after another with but a single
title needed. "How Bleak is My Ballad."
Dylan the jewboy. Boy, that was a classic. He tempted with
absolution. "Bridge Over Troubled Waters." Oh, children, even two
thousand miles away I could sense how desperate the audience was to loose
themselves, just for those minutes, in the familiar strains and cadences.
To sigh aloud with the big riff the brings us with such sweet power to
"Sail along, silver moon."
Not from this jewboy. Event, eshment, Bobby's camera to play in,
everyone go away. For those lucky enough to miss this retread, he
tinkered, doodled, noodled; played with the grace and toyed with the tempo.
Ugly and awful. Quintessentially, kike.
Aside from kikes being kikes, it was niggers being niggers. A
whoopin' , a trillin' and just a scattin' away through "God Bless America."
Turning it into a vacant lot in East Saint Louis.
And how did it end? With a jewboy running the lens all the way
forward on Willie The Deceased Nelson. There you are, America. Read `em
and weep.
Listen at the end of this hour of intestinal output. Remark to
yourself upon the speed with which the audio pot is dropped at the last
second of production noise. Listen to that solitary cheeseball whistling
for a third of a second before it's muted to a null. Kind of says it all.
I don't encourage reader mail, but I find myself needing an answer
to a question. What the fuck is a Brittany Spears? Does it trot, sashay
and prance on a stage, spronging huge gallumphs? Does it warble and coo?
Does it make funny talk come out of its face? Does it have tittus for the
spermus of boyus? All I know about Brittany Speers is that if you happened
to be looking for the king of the Jews, try its agent.
Dale Earnhardt, eat your mush-mouthed, ridge running, slave
whipping, Klan-cloaked, dead ol' heart out, heah, boy?
Now back to the mecca mushrooms for a minute. Try imagine working
for The New York Times. Knowing, at night on your pillow, if you lose
track of the thought during the day, that somewhere, a semi-trailer truck
is being loaded with ton after ton of cheap fertilizer. Knowing that truck
is headed somewhere. Knowing the driver of that truck, whatever his
appearance and apparent attitude, is innocent until proven guilty, that he
may not be proven guilty, even if there is a trail of blood; knowing it is
strictly against the lines of law in the book to profile any resident in
any way, and, finally, knowing how tempting Time's Square will always be
with the higgledy -piggledy stacks of tacky plastic signs advertising a
Yiddish cultural center.
Sleep well, my journalist friends. I did my stint on the DMZ back
in '68. The enemy often came. Yours will, too. Then you'll finally
sleep, be at peace, and sleep, oh, yes, sleep.
Ah, the checkered flag. Checkered flag, empty mirror. How's that
for driving?
(By the way, guy chewing gum during the finale of the above-reviewed
Rocky Jewpower Picture Show, you're busted. Also, I hope cast and crew had
the presence of mind to grab a candle or two, each, on the way out. You
will be needing them.)
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
P.S. Just another mention of Windows ME and Word XP. This work would be
impossible without the beautiful companionship of this work of art.
Sometimes I think it writes while I sleep. It is a miracle, and it takes a
god to know the real thing. Eat your heart out, Bernadette.
xxx