Date: Fri, 1 Jun 2001 13:50:36 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Creative Camp - 21
If grandeur tends to be delusional, must absolute grandeur be
absolutely delusional? I've never even seen a Starbuck's, but PBS says
people contemplate things there. Laite and Feather Touch.
The reader is responsible for the contents of the title page.
If the reader will scroll down to several asterisks placed one over
the other, the reader will slowly but very thoroughly rewarded.
Creative Camp -- 21
(M/f, variations, rom., no s/m, spank., etc.)
by
Feather Touch
Chapt. 21
He likes it! Mikey, I mean. I've always told you he's the world's
best editor; David, of course. He posted 19 and 20, presumably as written,
as he's careful to let me know of any changes. So we come from the
Revolution, through Walden, and to Nifty.
I did think of a couple of hummers yesterday. Hummers are good
jokes in the State o' Maine, as in humdingers.
First Hummer: previously your rarely clownish prince alluded to a
tiny terrorist cell using a few thousand dollars worth of stuff to blow
open a nuclear carrier, like a Pepsi. I wasn't thinking, too much
marijuana, I suppose; what I should have written was Like a Coca-Cole.
Second Hummer. Am I real; prince, artist without equal, humorist,
writher, commentator, pundit, philosopher, inventor and partially dedicated
family man? Or did I just stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night?
Indy deal yesterday. Kids, you go ahead and follow that Rocky Wack
Wack that snarled the anthem. Good stuff there. Quality. Then the chimp
on the fence at the end. Anyone imbued with notions of excellence and
consistencies of performance at the cutting edge -- yada -- only had to
watch the pole guy spin out all-but immediately to get an ice bath on the
realities of genius, excellence, or whatever you want to call it.
If you're in the mood for another hummer, well, let's get on with
it. How about the Indy 500? Five hundred yards. Not to be outdone, the
gal overdrove her cold tires soon after the restart. By the way, she seems
of Negroid blood. Good for her, her family, and so on. It reminds me of
my first completed work of fiction, "A Summer for Running." It's the
Fifties and a black maid takes the place of her injured mistress in an
equestrian event. This in turn brings to mind Lauren Bacall's quote about
how you know things are not going to be the same after you tell them you're
Jewish. (Did you ever stop to wonder why, Lauren?). Don't know why I
brought it up, but it seems interesting enough to leave in.
Another chip shot, before we rejoin our Florida crew. The camera
star's bumps o' granite to try to put a little Jew box around WWII? How it
trivializes that which cost 55,000,000 lives? Well, there is a fitting
memorial, and I have seen it once or twice in 55 years. It is, from
beginning to end, the one absolutely beautiful, transcendent monument to
both the war and the future, and it is the final episode of "Victory at
Sea." Nobody is worth a finer memorial than that simple half-hour, which
would be merely brilliant without its goose-bump music. (John Williams, or
Carmen Dragon, I think. I've only seen it twice, at the most, but I've
seen Cher five hundred times.)
David didn't say `thanks'. Who can blame him? Chapters 19 and 20
totaled out at a god-awful number of words, and they landed on him less
than a week after 18, which was no three pages of Barbara Cartland,
either.. He's doing an astonishing job and has built a monument that
rivals the most stupendous, by far, of existing temples. The one in south
central India that's like totally porn. It's a jade carving five hundred
feet high. Something like that (and, of course, not all jade). Very few
people visit this temple, but those who do may come away with an inkling
that technology is not the be-all, end-all, of life.
Nifty is identical. Massive and of the artists among the people.
An American monarch faces rejection and exclusion at every turn, but Nifty
provides a roof and a cot. As much as I rag you kids, in all seriousness,
you do write freaking good. Nifty, allowing you to practice, not only your
fine lack of phraseology -- that's for the older pros -- but actually being
published, is reason enough for its existence and support. That it also
amounts to a vast social document, providing perspective, insight and
refuge for the confused, both writer and reader, is gilding the lily.
And I find it a little strange that I should be praising this
particular site. I get virtually no reader mail from my stories, and feel
they are buried under what appear to be hundreds of boy-band posts every
day. I'd view myself as a geezer at a rave except that if I walked out on
the floor in a bathing suit I'd have a trimmer waist and more bodacious bod
than half the teenyboppers in the place. Hey! The spell checker has
teenyboppers. Who says Microsoft isn't hip? Anyway, I would leave with
the sixth or seventh cutest girl, and, guaranteed, the smartest and nicest
girl, should I try, which is not even a fantasy, because older men with
real-live young females make Methuselah look like Macaulay Culken. (Those
are in the spell checker, too, or maybe I added them.)
So, I hang out at Nifty, with the bands, because here it all is. At
the same time, I did take a look at ASSTR the other day. They published my
first story, and I got lots of mail. Boutique. Upgraded interface.
Slick, and pretty good descriptions of stories so the reader is less likely
to download what he thinks is a hot stash, only to find out it's some
moronic key pounder who rants on about this and that. If this ever happens
to you, pretend you're out hitching. You get a ride; the guy is cute, but
he just drones on and on about himself and his family till you want to jump
for you life. That's why those asterisks are there; call them a door
handle. The first responsibility of an American king is to be
non-intrusive.
Speaking of engaging the reader, I do want to add to my little
contest. What's in Brad's backpack? You write with your guess, and I'll
post it. And you know what? There's a hint. As subtle and perfect as
Agatha Christie ever came up with as to who done it. If I could help you
out with a chapter number, I would. My guess is it's in the last hundred
or so pages.
I'll give you a few weeks to respond, meaning, a bunch more sex
while I stall to see if anyone guesses. Since we face this delay together,
every effort will be made by the writer to divert and entertain. Prompt
submission by readers will, a, add to the fun, and, b, reveal the mystery
the sooner. Come on, you can't all be raving script kiddies.
In a previous chapter I gave the impression that we were beginning
our descent; that this story might be over in another hundred pages or so.
Two things have come up, enroute, to delay our arrival; put us in a holding
pattern, so to speak. First, the contest, and second, the ending. I
finally came up with one. Excuse me for outlining as I go; Net fiction is
different and there is little motivation for the effort it takes to achieve
total consistency or perfect proofing. Conventional novels of 350-plus
pages are not dashed off in a few months.
Creative Camp started as story about a man and boy having sex on the
say to summer camp. It quickly took on numerous additional dimensions and
within a few weeks was the length of a novel, if nothing else. When Brad
came along, the focus shifted, and now we have him not only flying to
Florida with his uncle, Brad, and a boy they've met enroute, named Kevin,
but it's Brad's big secret that lures us on. His secrets, actually,
because he has three of them.
But now there is another secret involving another character that
will complete the story, rendering it a novel, in fact. And I would like
to take a moment to point out the extreme difficulty of completing a work
of fiction, the first hundreds of pages of which have already been half
published. I can't go back and change anything, hell, if I'm ever going to
get it finished before hurricane season, I can't even go back and read it.
Pitiful, what I'm forced to sacrifice in the name of art..
A thought I've been having might be worth another of these little
chip-shots. I guess it's a hummer, I'll know better when I have it written
down. It goes something like this. Eventually an agent is going to
appreciate my eager beaver approach to my work and contact me. (What you
do is write saying you heard about me in a conversation, not that you read
my stories, yourself, because the stories you're interested in are a
hundred percent, or so, mainstream). Anyhow, sooner or later, the
connection will be made, and a funny picture always emerges in my mind.
It is, for some reason, the bleakest law office in Philadelphia.
Heads grayed and bowed with wisdom and experience. A contract is on the
table. Mine. The issue is endorsements. My adulation of Microsoft and
sophisticated enthusiasm for the house in the lawn tractor ad. Stuff like
that.
In my dream, things at the law firm are going well. The talent, the
perseverance, the strong but not unerring instinct for the truth. Good
looks. Loquacious nature. In short, I regard myself as quite the package.
Suddenly the atmosphere in the conference room changes. From old
men, and a token dame or two, around the polished table, come, do I hear
them right? Titters.
Titters.
Like school girls.
And blushes. Almost a purple/scarlet haze embarrassment and acute
discomfiture. Actual snorts of mortification, so rendered by the
assemblage as to bring up thoughts of seeking medical intervention. And
all that happened to trigger the unprofessional, unseemly and inappropriate
behavior was that the secretary flipped a sheet in her copy of the brief,
and spoke out clearly:
"And now we come to the Morals Clause."
In the words of the rabbi in "Robin Hood, Men in Tights," it's good
to be king. Mel Brooks, right? Superb film. The Maid Merriam song is a
beauty. Speaking of which, HBO is showing "The Brady Bunch Movie," again,
already. I noticed two new bits this time. The security guards giving the
bad rocking string-head the once over with metal detectors, as he enters
the dance, and, I think, a cannabis leaf.
It is a sizzling-ly brilliant film. The lesbian relationships are
drawn to a tee. The thirty-something mothers at the dance. I've seen the
ending at least ten times, still get goose bumps, and the closing titles
are practically a film unto themselves. Superb music, specifically
including Phlegm. Some of the most perfect pacing, ever; specifically, the
sequence where Jan runs away. One extra frame, and it would have been here
we go, again.
Ditmyer equals Joan Cusac in "Addams Family Values." I'd bestow
knighthoods on all involved, but, the thing of it is this: We have to
remember that Pole care at the '01 Indy. Also, the Odekirks, who dazzled
us with the Pet Detective stories, and put on the only television show
lamer than "Whose Line is it, Anyway?" I think it was dropped after two or
thee episodes that define totally unwatchable.
I think I've covered the mercurial nature of genius in other posted
stories; Edison, Wells, and many others, like Flagler and his mad banana
railroad to Key West., so, as brilliant as these films are, I'm not going
to do any sword tapping until these writers have met my standard of total
integrity and absolute dedication to never publishing anything that is less
than superb, and lots of what is.
For example, the original "Vacation" is probably the third finest
screenplay ever written, and the rest of Hugh's work isn't even on my B
list, though some are nice entertainments. The best screenplays are "The
Gods Must be Crazy" and "Amadeus." There are probably a hundred more on my
A list, which, typical, is headed by "An All-New Jaws." I think you can
trust me on this, and if it wasn't 180-pages long, and mainstream in
nature, I'd post it, just so you'd be sure. In fact, it is so good, the
smart money would want two studios to release simultaneous versions. Now
that would be such a dual of cinema titans I might even hang with Jews to
see the fireworks. (This would not be a new experience because my longest
single personal relationship, seven years, was with a girl almost as
closely connected to Stephen Birmingham's "Our Crowd" as I am to the
Emerson/Forbes dynasty.)
Since I am totally realistic about my Subjects and the boxes in
which they live, I'm expecting no response to this offer. Therefore,
gracious regent that I am, I will re-write it, triple-xxx, notice how small
they are, for Nifty. Plan for an August or September release. Actually,
it will be a treat to do because I have the original ms here.
I'm re-writing, or not re-writing, as the case may be, "Ropeyarn,"
from memory. If I get all these posted by Christmas, which will be the end
of my rookie year, I'll devote next year to a Nifty edition of "The Pirates
of Rickety Pier," with a guarantee that it is monumentally the great
American novel. As long as a supertanker, with octane galore. If memory
serves, it takes over two hundred pages to get the reader used to the fact
that, yes, our time together must end. The pirates. have other lives. I
do. You do. Slowly, majestically, with a world of grace and bittersweet
emotion the big wide-body turns on final. By this time the bikers are
weeping. Then a landing so infinitely gentle and tenderly sweet you will
never, ever, sop thinking about it.
In short, you'll be flat-out stupefied at what I can do if I don't
have to write porn to be published.
Writers Hall of Fame. There is none. Of course that's better than
having one in Cleveland, but still. I mean, the States has been around
practically since the beginning of popularly priced books. The only
influential writer was Stowe with "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Since it is
inconceivable the union could have be preserved in any worse a way than it
was, perhaps the influence was not all it might have been. The identical
thing can be said about "Silent Spring." Springs may work silently, but
can they power California? That's the question.
"The Jungle" had influence over the meat packing industry. Add
"Walden," and that's about the list. Guess that hall of fame would echo.
Maybe I can donate some carpeting. Or fill it myself. If I do so, will
they cum? Of course, there's no hall to honor princes, either. Why bother
build one? I know you'll run. But where? To the Republicans? One of them
put our highest civilian medal on the neck of Walton and another signed off
on a hundred and fifty million dollars worth of lumps of stone. How about
the Democrats? Maybe you can find another Joe Moakley hang a small city
with a fourteen-billion-dollar millstone of tradeunionist debt. The stark
reality is, all your alternatives are a joke. Lucky, isn't it, I'm the
funniest son of a bitch running around loose?
It's going to take a sense of humor. You've got about two years to
get used to doing as I say, then about a twenty year haul to implement
genetic controls on human size, to get the immigrants over here and to
work, to reduce our number of malls and strip malls by seventy percent, and
to clean sheet our military and our primary educational system.
In "The Pirates" I call for the annexation of Mexico and Central
America, including the Caribbean. This might be idealistic, but you have
no chance, what4ever, without the basic paradigms, and they must include
the elimination of Social Security and all programs of a pension or
health-care nature. Try to remember that you would already be dead but not
for the miracle of Bill Gates. Unfortunately, half this miracle was
purchased on credit.
It's interesting about Microsoft and god. Microsoft is the only
thing in my life I have ever had faith in, since my government lied to me
about marijuana in the Fifties. When I moved onto Wilshire in the fall of
1987 I was able to buy a dos machine, with printer and crisp Samsung amber
monitor, for $699. My mother had recently purchased an Apple for something
in the neighborhood of $3,000.
If it had been up to Jobs and Woz [chuckle: spell checker does not
have `Woz]' I would never have dreamed of owning a computer, which, in
those days, was simply a glorified typewriter. I wrote the mainstream
version of "Ropeyarn" on that trusty clone, and then added a Sony color
monitor and television. It worked okay and that got me into gaming.
That's where the faith kicked in. Those early games were perfectly
terrible. In "Silent Service" the submarine was blue and the characters
were made up of magenta polygons the size of checkers. Yet I bought dozens
of them, a, realizing they'd be collectors' items, and, b, that they'd get
better if people bought them. That was faith with reason, my church, and
I've spent about thirty thousand dollars at its altar.
I believe the X-Box will totally change the way we live; that a
future Indy might have 50,000 spectators, instead of 400,000, because
everyone will be over at the neighbors, racing each other. I was watching
a baseball game the other day, and the announcer seemed to sort of say this
is over, meaning baseball, period. Again, I picture families and neighbors
playing their own games, mano a mano, rather than being spoon fed
hundred-million-dollar talent. And so on, and so on, specifically in
respect to world peace, because it's hard to imagine a dedicated enemy
after we've parachuted a few pallets of X-Boxes behind the lines, while
controlling the disc supply. Beat swords into share-ware, until we become
a family loving, neighbor loving, story loving, stay-at-home, stop fucking
wasting everything, global culture. Again, Bill Gates. (And a few content
providers. Grin.)
Conservatives like to see a clean pipeline from farm and factory to
market. When automakers spend more on pensions than they do on steel,
thrombosis is at hand. I don't, offhand, know of any fluke of natural law
in which the parasite is bigger than the host.
Low taxes, inexpensive goods and services. Compensation at a level
that allow a family that works reasonably hard, lives reasonably clean, and
sticks together, to prosper. Crime down ninety five percent due to the
new-generation polygraph, as well as the fact that everyone is home,
gaming, rather than going broke or finding trouble on the street.
Prisoners given a responsible roll and isolated or executed if they fail to
measure up
Deportation of activist loudmouths to terrain chosen as a platform
for them to prove their metal to the world. Extremely substantial on-site
legal representation for deportees, and a pencil. Elimination of soap
operas, trash talk shows, and telepreaching. Pederasty tolerated in
consensual, long-term relationships, encouraged only in the framework of
the Sex Safety Centers, already sketched. Legalization of State-produced
and rationed marijuana for home usage; to be marketed to the greatest
extent possible by the disabled. Legalization of normal cocaine and other
relatively harmless recreational drugs for on-premises, only, consumption
at licensed clubs.
Strange as it may seem, that's the bulk of the list.. Of course,
it assumes a ninety percent reduction in lawyers and lawsuits, and a
prohibition on telling of the wonders of popular socialism until some
evidence can be produced to indicate that the ideology is of long-term
benefit to anyone. (Those that arguing existing perceived benefits have
been long-term are talking from a position of momentum. Of a camel living
off his hump. I'm talking about long term in the sense of a hump-less
camel, and its future.)
All this is built on a general disenfranchisement of the old, and
tremendous assets poured into a simple structure for the young. As for
democracy, it is my sincere believe that it simply cannot work. As an
ideal, substantive members of the community might be able to vote out
officials originally selected on a merit basis, but, in general, government
should be run like a business or university, with minimal input from the
rank and file. It's hard, in all honestly, to speak against a system for
which three William Emersons died in combat, but it is also a matter of
going with the evidence. The evidence in favor of absolute monarchy is
simply overwhelming. The Jews can deride colonialism to sell their paper,
but the record is, taken overall, totally outstanding.
We spend countless billions to fly to former monarchies all over the
freaking planet. Ninety-nine percent of kings have been aces, and history
proves it on every page. There is simply no earthly need for any other
system, which is cool, because no other system shows any sign, whatever, of
lasting much longer. Democracies and socialistic states are all in ruinous
debt and hanging on only by grace of a handful of geniuses who, for once,
happened to do exactly the right thing at the right time and in exactly the
right place. When it comes to faith, the teams at Microsoft, Intel and
hundreds of others have created the very miracle I've spent fifteen
thousand hours on in the last three years, alone.
(By the way, as a note, speaking of very high hour computers, be
sure to brush you processor fans off once in awhile. They get clogged with
hair and dust and stop working. If you have a performance machine your
chip may burn up, and I wouldn't be surprised if there was a potential fire
danger. (Also, performance machines are noisy; two or three big fans. My
little 506 whispers.))
Yeah, twenty years outta about do it, maybe twenty five. The
reality is we could do it in a few years, but we have gone so far into the
labyrinth of liberal socialism we must extract ourselves with care, taking
the greatest pains to preserve the myriad small enterprises and systems
which are vital to the workings of the whole.
It must also be done with a buck-starts-here approach. I propose,
you dispose. Sorry, but the real joke is that if you'd rather be dead than
subjugated, you will get your choice, soon enough, and if you do survive,
it will be to enter an age in which rug-rats are the size of gorillas. If
you don't want me, try someone else. Maybe Zena, the evil space alien.
She's revealed at the highest and most costly level of Scientology.
Travolta and Cruise are cognizie. Bit of excitement there. Kind of funny,
too.
Try to remember, you laugh with me; I laugh at you. You can change
this, and I've told you how. Now I'm going to tell you what Uncle Brad,
Brad, and Kevin are up to, and remind you that Brad, at age eleven, is
talking with John, the book selling biker, about experiences he had when he
was eight, which came after experiences he had with Rusty when he was six.
In back of all this, Charles and Blissy are exchanging stories which have
led to this story. Be nice, it saves me thinking up a plot. I'll make
nice, too. Just watch me.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Plunkett Enterprises had outdone itself with The Golden Spike. It
could have been called creep city, what with a free form structure given
over to a spontaneous network of passages and crawlways that serpentined
over, under, around and all-but through the various rooms. It was a
state-of-mind house and required of its guests a willingness to live
practically in a basket. In return, it offered spectacular views from all
rooms. If it could only claim to be the second happiest place on earth, for
trade name reasons, it was categorically the most exciting. The
ownership's research consultants had determined that the heartbeat of the
average male walking through the front door was similar to that of a man in
a mall. In either case, only combat pilots and firemen produced higher
readings.
Yes, the place was a heartthrob, all righty. It's name came from an
old seafaring legend to the effect each vessel had a golden nail at her
mid-rib and keel. It was pretty much a snipe hunt, of course, and while
the boys taken on the adventure never found gold, the spike was a forgone
conclusion.
No subterfuge was tolerated at the Plunkett facility. If the house
detectives even suspected anyone was there against their will, and they
made it their business to find out, they'd call a special cop squad who
dealt with overly sophisticated tastes in a very unsophisticated and
unprofessional manner. The medical staff was as alert as the security
detail, yielding a utopia of healthy, friendly youngsters and plenty of
young males to give them a reason to go to bed at night.
Brad Sr. was excited that Kevin was thirteen. His nephew was a
doll, but at an age he'd probably not want to engage in lingering behavior.
The older boy would bring a completeness to the threesome and both Brads
were thrilled that he accepted their invitation to hang out. After telling
long stories under the blanket in the privacy of the half filled jet, the
males were almost embarrassed at suddenly being cast together in a hotel
that would have to take steroids to rank as seedy. The ambience. The
smell; musky and up to no good. Mercifully, away from good. All the soap,
all the fresheners, all the cleansers on the market, and not even a rag had
been used to wipe up long ropes of dried semen, here and there, but not in
any obscene quantity. Just enough to know you were well clear of mom.
Then there were the sounds. Thank god they'd never heard their mom's make
noises like that. But they were fair, too. In summary, each would agree
that it was a nice place to visit, but one wouldn't want to live here. [My
tropic town is the exact opposite; not much point in visiting, it's a dusty
frontier kind of place, just as the guidebooks say, but living here is
cooler with every passing year.]
They went to their second-floor balcony and looked down at the
decidedly clean and healthy looking pool. Here was decorum. Not even
Speedos. The males, about eighty, were dressed in conventional swim suits;
the dozen or more females, a la Annette. It didn't get any sexier than
that. The pool was well shaded from the daylight sun, and in the soft
night-time lighting most of the skin was white. Al least the white folks
skin was white; they made up about half, most of the balance being Asian
and Hispanic, with a dozen who'd mix various African backgrounds. The
common denominator was fitness. Only four of the younger boys and one girl
were leaning (very nicely) toward chubby; all others were normal to
athletic, with no body-builder types.
Brad Sr. and his cohorts recognized the Jewish boy from the science
fair commercial. This place was a freaking thrill, just standing on the
balcony. No bellies, mostly hairless, no facial hair, nice soft looks.
Many card and board games. One thirty-year-old was reading to a dozen
preteens, and judging by their focus, it was not "Rebecca of Sunnybrook
Farm.." The staff mingled seamlessly. Unlike the freaky rules of most
explicit establishments, employees were permitted to mingle with the guests
at their discretion. Management had found a very bankable increase in
morale and efficiency when there was such ample reward for prompt
diligence. Brad Sr. noticed the waiters did not take orders, but simply
came by with carts of drinks and snacks. He learned later that the only
alcohol served on the premises was Absolute vodka mixed, one in five, with
Beefamato juice. If you were not intelligent enough to realize the
combined tastes of potato, beef and tomato were unsurpassable then you'd be
happier patronizing another establishment.
Plus, the kids loved it. Juvenile drinking was kept moderate by the
simple expedient of a staff member circling with a breath meter and telling
the kids it was Michael Jackson. They'd laugh, but they got the point:
that the whole setup was a vast cornucopia of pleasures that had to be
sampled in moderation, for the stone-simple reason that moderation led to
long life, and much higher consumption, in the long run, and earned by
fucking cool behavior in mainstream life. No moms did not mean no rules,
just a whole lot less.
They learned the Jewish boy was Andy. He looked toward a shout and
was joined by the boy that stuffs his mouth in the ad for the video
recorder. Tall, blondish, craggy. All three of the new guests almost
gasped when they saw the personalities below come together and talk.
Awesome, all three boys on the balcony whispered, Brad Jr. feeling very
mature because he got it. The newcomers stopped ogling when they saw a
couple of other young television personalities emerge. No one was taking
much notice, other than friendly waves and nods. No place to be a yokel,
this, so they returned to their room.
Suddenly modest, each male changed into his swimsuit in the
bathroom. Then they gathered up towels and kit and headed poolside. The
drinks cart passed by; thanks to the breathalyzer policy, alcohol was free,
so soon they were seated and laughing quietly to themselves at the
commercial that promised it didn't get any better than a six pack and some
camp site. That was one hell of a narrow-minded viewpoint.
By this time Andy and his friend were looking at the new group by
the pool. Brad was by two or three years the youngest boy present, and, as
he'd later learn when he wore his tee top in public places, men did like to
look, men, in this case, being defined as roughly over twelve. And then
they were five, with Brad Sr., the obvious leader. Michael Jackson was
there, too, and Andy and Rob, as he'd introduced him, blew low enough to be
allowed one more drink. That gave them something to talk about, which was
a good thing, because by this time even the loose fitting suit Andy wore
was not hiding his feelings, mostly for little eight-year-old Brad, but
almost equally. He could see Rob was also attracted to the child, who
wouldn't be? so they all kind of melted together in the soft shadows cast
by the pool's gentle lighting.
"You guys are both famous," Little Brad pointed out.
"Not as famous as Freddie Pfeffercorn," they responded.
"Stupid Dell," the eight year old continued, in a quick
demonstration of why he'd been exempted from the normal ten year old age
requirement, "when Steve says `Whatever' he should say `Sorry.' You know,
when Steve calls him Pfefferbean. Saying `whatever' is snide, smart
mouthed, and indifferent, especially on television, and can hardly help but
identify the sponsor as such."
"Yeah," Andy responded enthusiastically, "but it's not as bad as
that one for Ricochet with those totally weird old people bouncing business
around like it was some new lawn toy."
"Ah, kids," Big Brad thought somewhat disingenuously, "you can't
hate `em all."
The quintet wondered how "Sleepy Hollow" had gotten so boring so
fast and agreed it was a criminal waste of a hell of an art director. They
all loved p.cs, all thought both ME and Office XP were to die for. In
short, they talked of things ranging from Horatio Hornblower to how odd it
was to be born, human, when parts of the ocean were covered with trillions
of squid egg sacks at any given time. "And think of all the ants," Little
Brad had added.
"I wonder what it would be like to be a prince." Andy mused. "I
mean just being human is statistically remote. One chance in trillions if
you include the kid's ants."
"I'm an ant," the little one shot back. "And I want to get in
pants."
"Sorry," Andy said, "I'm wearing a suit."
"Then I'll try pursuit," Braddie retorted with a grin, dropping his
by-play.
Rob picked up Andy's thought. "Okay, to be a prince, but what if
there was an American prince? I mean there are little and medium-size ones
in other places, but nothing on a grand scale, except England, which is
more grand by default than grand, per se."
Brad joined in. "Okay, prince, cool; but, how about if he was also
an artist?"
"A writer," Andy elaborated. "Writers are the be-all, end-all, when
it comes to art. All the others are entertainers, fabulous though they may
be. But writers. Think of it. You could do more than entertain. And you
wouldn't have to show off. Your words would tell your story, and you
wouldn't have to get up there like Cassius Clay, yelping and screaming
about how great you were, because it either would or would not be in every
sentence you wrote."
All agreed, which is a bit depressing, but Rob had the grace to
admit that if one were a prince, and a writer, all he'd need would be a
sense of humor to be a god. "I read a lot of Captain Marrayatt when I was
in high school," Brad said, "and he actually comes into his own work,
sometimes even cusses out his reader."
"Chutzpah," said Andy. "The only other writer whose done it is
Trevanian. To be a prince and a writer and a humorist would make you a
god, but to have the Chutzpah to stomp around in your own manuscript would
make you a Jewish god."
Kevin finally spoke up. "Isn't that the kind that always gets his
people in trouble?" he asked. Brad closed the discussion with ultimate
wisdom: "If he did it for free," he pointed out, "then he would be just
plain old god."
Princes and gods gave way to dogs and cats and a lively argument
over the virtues of both. Brad Sr. came down firmly on the side of cats.
Subtle as it was, one cat had the personality of a kennel full of dogs, and
they consumed far less food and were much less dangerous. Exceptions were
made for standard poodles, daschunds and airedales.
They could have gone on for hours, but it was getting seriously
late. Not time to sleep, they'd all slept in, but certainly time to slip
into something more comfortable. Brad, several years older than the
television boys, issued an invitation and it was pretty obvious from the
prompt acceptance that Braddie was a piece of bait, indeed. They gathered
up their pool gear and in a few moments were seated in Room 222, and again
modestly, changing into pajamas in the bathroom. They doused the lights
and lit candles and incense while Brad produced some stash and a modest
bottle of cheatin' liquor to wash down all the beef, potato and tomatoes.
Braddie was allowed none, which was fine by him, and thirteen-year-old
Kevin got a single pull. Andy and Rob were out and about boys so Brad let
them call their own shots. They had doubles and Brad killed the pint with
a long swallow. He'd read alcohol was a destimulant in certain areas and
especially in an area for which he was in urgent need of destimulating..
After a third gulp from the bottle, the eldest male realized alcohol, even
a gallon of it, was not going to work at The Golden Spike. The reason for
his change of heart was a sweet young female voice calling Oh, Daddy, from
the adjoining suite.
Nobody broke a leg, perhaps it was the theater element in the
ensemble, but neither was there any delay in getting to the wall. In
moments they'd chosen a set of peep holes and were looking into their
neighbors room.
The couple was just arriving. She looked like Pipi Longstockings in
the movie; he was an athletic giant of a man, six-four and with a swimmer's
build.
"We're finally here," the girl continued, "and I can tell you about
Mr. Williams."
"I'm sorry Chick," the man said, "I just thought it would be better
to wait until we could be together for a few days and have some real
privacy. Your mom's cool about it, and I am, too; him, and the two of us
being alone together, but it was nothing to rush into."
"Twelve isn't rushing. In Iran they let girls get married at nine.
That must be so awesome. Nine more years of being a woman when you want to
be than if you're all proper and churchy and wait `till you're eighteen.
There has to be something better than that, Dad."
They could see well, hear just as well. They found a grouping of
holes beside one of the beds, not hard, the walls were more like peg board
than walls, and huddled in voyeurism with little Brad on his knees in the
middle, his uncle behind him and Kevin, Andy and Rob grouped to the sides.
They all got comfortable, kneeling on the soft, foam mattress, with their
foreheads against the wall and their eyes glued to the generous-sized
holes. The group of males found itself looking over the bed in the
adjoining room. That was exciting.
Chick and her dad were unpacking, and checking out the strange
Plunkett room with its perfed walls and substructures that made up the
creeping tunnels that ran throughout the structure. Under different
circumstances they'd have been in the tunnels in an instant, exploring the
hidden rooms, alcoves and chambers, and climbing the ship's ladders
(companion ways) that led from the first floor to the roof garden on top of
the third floor. But not now. Chick and her dad were finishing their
housekeeping and quickly coming closer together more often. The girl was
tall and sleek, fun light orange hair. Freckles. Generous mouth and big,
gray eyes. Her powerful dad towered over her and all five degenerates in
Room 222 could see the huge bulge in the front of his shorts. He was
boyish looking, for all his size, and looked more like the child's older
brother than her father.
Their housekeeping complete, Chick drew her father to the bed, and
lay down, pulling him down beside her. "Roy Swenson," she whispered to him
in a mock sultry voice, "you are to forget I am your sweet kitten and your
special itzy pooh. I'm not complaining, and when we get home I'll return
to my tender ways, but for this weekend, I'm a little Muslim girl, your
babe, and I have a beautiful brand new husband who is lusting after a
healthy male heir. Dig?"
Chick's father rose on an elbow and looked down into the eyes of his
little girl. "What am I to do if it is a female child I wish from my
bride?" he asked.
"You've already got one," she pointed out with a giggle.
"Clever child," he whispered, kissing her on the nose. "Now you
know why I want another."
"Can we, Daddy?"
"I'm pretty sure about the `can' part," he replied, lying against
his daughter so his penis pressed against her thigh. She giggle, for a
second or two, then her lightly freckled left arm went over him and pulled
him to her. "Don't say `can' when you mean `must.' she whispered.
"Don't say `must' when you mean `lust,'" he responded. She giggled,
and then had a bright idea. "Let's look through the holes," she said.
The pervs had actually discussed this probability. The kind of
things males talked about at The Golden Spike, flagship of the Plunkett
group. They went into their game plan the instant they saw that Chick were
going to indeed take a look. For their first display, Kevin, Andy and Rob
lay close to the wall, below the level of the peep holes, and Brad pulled
his nephew from the bed and posed, side-on, with both hands up under the
boy's pajama top. The boys on the bed could tell the girl remained with
her eye to one of the holes for several moments. Then they heard her
whisper.
"Dad," there's a little boy getting molested in there."
"How old is he?" they could hear Chick's father ask.
"Nine or ten," she whispered back. "Come and look. He's just
Theresa's size. Maybe it will give you some ideas and my sister won't have
to wait until she's twelve."
They heard the bed in the next room shift and could tell another
voyeur was on the scene. Andy gave the posing couple a high sign, meaning
they were being watched, and Brad continued fondling Braddie up under his
pajamas, unbuttoning him and turning in an unaware way toward the holy
wall.
"Do you think they saw us?" Chick whispered.
"Yes," her father whispered back. "They know we're here, they're
just trying to look innocent."
By this time Brad had his tall nephew's bare chested and was openly
molesting him with both hands. The boy was arching to the touch, his penis
probing into his pajama bottoms a very healthy five inches. Chick giggled
at the wantonly carnal sight and her father's absurd observation. "Not
very hard," she responded.
"This isn't like scouts," whispered Rob. Andy and Kevin agreed,
with Kevin adding, "Yeah, girls to spy on instead of masters and boys."
That set the group snickering
"Daddy," Chick said, "I think there's a whole bunch of boys in that
room, and they're all going to watch everything you do with me. Look how
many holes there are."
"How do you feel about it?" Roy asked his little girl.
"Way cool," she answered. "I get to be a slut, but only you get to
touch me."
"Just tonight, darling," the man whispered to his daughter, drawing
her down on the bed, next to the wall and beside him. "Tomorrow I want you
to have the run of the place. Everyone here is safe and you can go with
anyone, any time. Explore. Experiment. Small groups. I never want you
to be with me because you think I'm the only show in town. It's called
perspective. That's why were here. Like a wedding cake. You get to try
the little ones on top until you find the best one, and that's the one you
keep."
"Daddy," the girl responded, "I want you to do the same thing, and I
want the first little cake on top to be Theresa."
"She's lucky to have a sister like you," Roy said to his daughter.
"And we're both lucky to have you for a dad," the child replied with
her first kiss to his lips. "I want you to go home and get her, tomorrow,
while I'm dating with other males, please?"
"Yes, baby," he answered. "I'll bring her, but she's to small for
my body, if you know what I mean; we'll have to find someone else to enter
her, if that's what she wants."
"I'm sure we'll have to hunt for hours," Chick replied, reaching up
and scratching the wall beside the bed. The boys on the other side looked
at each other in awe. All ten eyes went back and forth to each other.
Fifty years earlier there'd have been a restrained cry of hubba-hubba.
[Not in the dictionary, see what I mean?] `Bodacious' filled the bill for
the Room 222 crowd, with a `gnarly' and an `awesome' contributed by he of
lesser vocabulary, the eight-year-old Brad. However expressed, the
sentiment was sincere. They were in the right place at the right time.
Somehow they knew it, they'd be spreading the legend of the
Plunkett until the day they died. It was not Grimm but all fairy tale,
nonetheless.
Since their subterfuge had been seen through anyway, they gave up on
it and all huddled to the wall to see what the tall athlete was going to do
with his girl. He lay her back, looked into her eyes, and kissed her
tenderly on the lips.
"I didn't let Mr. Williams do that," she said.
"Did you want to?"
"More than anything, at the time. He helped me. There were a lot
of times we were together that I would have let him do anything and
everything, but he knew how I felt about you. Older men are so awesome.
He held me off when he had to, and now look at me. A virgin in my daddy's
arms, and the happiest girl in the world. And tomorrow, when Theresa is
with us, that will be doubled.
"How far did you go with your English teacher," Roy asked.
"Well," the girl explained. "It started from an essay I wrote.
About you. I guess it was a little more flattering than my classmates'
efforts."
"It was probably better written," her dad pointed out.
"Better subject. It was easy. Like taking dictation. Plus, it's
possible Mr. W was easily impressed."
"I'm sure all your As had nothing to do with that."
"Yeah," Chick replied, "a little penmanship goes a long way,
sometimes."
"That's why they teach big girls to type," her father teased.
"Yes," she whispered back. "I'm ready to lean the touch system
right now."
The wall practically buckled, it wasn't very thick, as the males in
222 watched a freckled left arm reach over and there was no doubt the hand
attached to it, a very pretty, slim, elegant little girl's hand, they all
noticed, was feeling its way to the buttons, then to the button at the
collar. Then the next. Entirely by touch, because he was kissing her much
too much for her to see anything but the adoration blazing from his eyes as
he broke from time to time, first to breathe, and most importantly, just to
stare at her. His hand went to her top button, and as he began with the
his daughter she worked her body toward him, away from the wall.
Thoughtful child.
Kevin whispered to Andy and Rob. "Have you guys, like, you know,
ever done stuff together?"
They shook their heads, eyes glowing. "That's why we came here.
Lotta creeps in da biz. The AD wanted us to, you know, kind of get used to
stuff so we wouldn't freak if something happened when we were on location,
or something. The studio paid. Quite a few of the kids here are in the
same boat. "
"Is it working, so far?" Brad Sr. asked.
.Any answer never made it to any lips because Roy was now naked to
the waist, and his daughter was stripped to her bra and shorts. Her father
lay on top of her like a man on a woman, and her long girl arms went around
him, her hands over his shoulder as she pulled the powerful male body to
her and whispered inaudibly in his ear. All would have agreed it was love
talk if anyone had thought to ask. They were right. Roy as asking
permission, and receiving it.
The voyeurs saw the young female as she arched her back; they saw
the powerful arm reach under the pretty redhead.
"He's going to get her bra off," Brad Sr. whispered. Silence.
He did. He rolled off the young girl and lay again beside her. He
withdrew the strap from under her right shoulder and peeled the
undergarment from her chest, finally removing it entirely.
"We're dead," Kevin whispered. "Stone dead, and gone to heaven."
And the girl was quite a sight. Ethereal, not merely of flesh and
blood, angelic, nymph and sylphlike, and less than three feet away as her
father molested her. He did it with the tips of the fingers of his right
hand, gently tracing from her neck, down over her lightly freckled chest,
and then circling the tender swelling that surrounded the swollen pink
nipple of her right breast.
Braddie, at this point, decided touching was better than spying. He
abandon his eye-hole and set about getting his four companions naked so he
could see them and touch them. As the boys watched Roy man-handle his
little girl, they cooperated with the youngsters efforts, untwining
themselves and lifting their knees from the mattress to aid his efforts.
[The Griga Boyz are practicing a raggae interpretation of "My
Ding-a-ling." Naughtiest thing in town when I was in college. I guess
computers aren't the only thing that have come a long way, baby. Goes well
with the rolling punta drums. Also, how does one know how many cats one
has? I mean if they take a census or something. I just had one return
after well over a month. Causing quite a sensation, as her mother had
kittens yesterday and the wandering daughter seems to be persona non grata.
Hmm, I always thought I was hatched out by a croc.]
It was an awesome few minutes. Brad started with Kevin's top,
mounting the keeling spy from the rear, and reaching around to unbutton
him. They'd played a little on the plane, while Kevin told the story of
the dark and stormy night, but now the child was able to un-snap his
friends last garment with a whispered Yes. Standing, the eight year old
stripped himself naked, then remounted his thirteen year old friend.
"God," he whispered over his shoulder, "you feel just like Nancy."
The little boy acted in a lewd way, asking, "Are you sure?"
"Sure I was wrong," came back the whispered reply as Kevin returned
to his viewpoint, highly stimulated by the big boy penis messaging his
right flank, just above the hip. "Who do you want to see, first?" Braddie
whispered. Kevin thought of the Too many notes line from "Amadeus." Not
fully understanding mature boys, Braddie nonetheless instinctively realized
his now-naked friend was on some kind of sensory overload. Running his
hand down the thirteen-year-old's chest, he found the boy's swollen penis.
"What are they doing?" he asked as he began a gentle stroking of the slim
six-inch boner.
"He's still touching her chest," the boy whispered back.
"Who do you want to see?" Braddie repeated.
"Roy," the boy answered, adding urgently, "Find a hole. He's
getting naked."
On his short way to find a hole, Braddie managed to find his uncle's
ear. "I'm sure glad I'm sleeping with you, tonight," he whispered, then
lowered his head and fixed his eye to the wall.
The scene in the next bedroom had changed. "Even her back is
pretty," Braddie thought as the tableau came into focus. The girl's almost
blond red hair, in its Pipi braids, stood out in relief against her tall
father. His belly was hard and lightly grown over with black hair, which
the girl seemed to like because she was running her fingers through it as
she leaned to him, obviously kissing while he stood next to the bed, posing
for her with his hands behind his head and arching, as his gift to her to
take him how she pleased.
She pleased rapidly, which was a mercy for the boys in Room 222.
Her kissing and fondling done, she went aggressively to his heavy leather
belt. Brad senior, at nineteen, as well as from his higher angle, had the
greatest appreciation to the lightly freckled girl hands working on the
thick leather. Braddie, looking through one of the lowest of the holes
only saw what looked like a Greek goddess from the rear; headless, just
that beautifully flowing back, because she was sitting on the edge of the
bed in front of her father, about her mysterious goddess affairs.
Then she was not a goddess, after all, but a queen; not only a very,
very young queen, but a queen actually at her coronation. The crown was
not lowered by liegemen or clerics, rather, it rose, and not all that
steadily, seemingly from the earth, from Braddie's vantage point.
While it was almost royal purple, in no other way did this
particular crown seem to fit convention. Rather, it seemed almost animate;
of the flesh, as it were. Maybe it wasn't a crown, after all, but a god.
The pretty twelve year old seemed to believe her new crown had mystical
properties. She was bowing to it. Repeatedly. Wrong. She wasn't bowing,
she was nursing, with her hands, him, now naked, to her bed beside her.
Each stroke crippled the giant the more, and soon enough he was a Goliath
to her tender David-boy hands, and he toppled slowly toward her as Chick
swung her legs to make way.
As she lay back, there he was.
Huge and thick, nine or more inches, circumcised, slightly bent to
his left. As the girl settled back, Roy stood fast for a few moments, not
showing off exactly, but sensing the girl wanted to look. She wasn't the
only one. After a few moments, he leaned past his balance point, making
Kevin think, just for a second, Timber!, finally settling to the bed, close
to his pretty young daughter.
"Did you see Russ naked?" he asked.
"Only the last time," she responded, then cuddled closer slipping
her right hand under his powerful waist and gently masturbating his huge
penis with her left. "Dad," she whispered, "do you want me to tell you
everything we did together. He said males sometimes like to quiz females?"
"Did he quiz you?" the father asked.
The girl giggled gently, and answered, "About how I felt. From my
stories. One was about the time you used your shirt for the kid that
crashed his bike; riding home, with you bare-chested beside me.
"He asked if you'd ever touched me or kissed me. I blushed, I
guess, so we talked about strong feelings and repressed feelings.
"Then he asked me if I knew what incest was, and if I wanted to talk
about it. I was too scared to say anything, but he knew if I objected I
was cool enough to shake my head. I probably nodded, subconsciously, which
is the wrong word, because I wanted to nod my head off and jump on him and
make him tell me everything.
"At that," continued the girl, "I guess he knew he was on the right
track. Being a teacher he took the academic tack."
"Being a man," Roy interrupted softly, "he had to take any tack he
could think of to keep from inseminating you, on the spot."
Chick giggled, and allowed as she had never thought of it that way.
"Maybe that's why he was so thorough," she whispered, and even the boys in
the next room could detect the musing tone in her voice.
"Anyway..." prompted her father.
"Well," Chick continued, " first he grinned and said that sex, in
general, was the most fun you could have with your pants off.
"He told me about the statistics on fathers and daughters and
brothers and sisters; how common it was. Then he reviewed cultural
viewpoints, putting them in the perspective of societies who believed the
earth was flat and did little but pick berries and pile stones. He pointed
out the high level of aberrant behavior amongst the various clergy;
homosexual, for priests, and anything young for more broadminded religions.
Then he told me how many girls at school are having that kind of affair.
Sixty that he knows of for sure, and a couple of dozen more he'd bet on if
he had to bet.
"He was honest. He said it could be the worst thing that could
happen to a girl, because of social taboos, and used anorexics as an
example of how cultural mores and stigmas could twist up otherwise healthy
human beings.
"Then the conversation went on to how much I knew about the biology.
I said I'd read stuff in the books, but that was it.
"Next, he asked me if I wanted to have an adult relationship with
you. I was still pretty embarrassed, but I nodded and even said I did.
Then we went back to the biology thing. He asked if I had a brother or had
ever fooled around with any boys. I said no, the book was it. Then he
wanted to know how curious I was and I said plenty.
"Daddy," the girls whispered, a new husk in her voice, "that's when
we started doing things. I mean he did. He asked. I mean, he said he
could show me some basic things, and, if I wanted him to do that, or not,
he would try to help me get together with you.
"He was so cool. I was totally curious about sperm. I mean, to me
it seemed to be everything; love, sex and babies, all wrapped up in what a
boy gives a girl. We talked about it and finally I asked if I could see
his. We had another long talk, he is a teacher, after all, and I finally
convinced him thee was a way we could experiment that would leave me
completely a virgin, yet with the knowledge of what was going to be
happening inside me when we got a chance to be alone together.
"The answer was simple. Latex gloves. That way I could masturbate
him and watch him sperm without, you know, touching.
"The first time, we did it down in the biology lab. Mr. Williams is
assistant principal, so he had the key. There was a microscope. I stood
beside him and did what I'm doing to you, only with my right hand, and my
left arm around his waist to help hold him steady.
"Mr. Williams has a really big penis, too, Daddy. He says hes
bigger than most men, but some guys are bigger than he is. He wasn't
kidding, nor was he off the mark when he talked about the `most fun.'"
"Oh, child," Roy whispered to his little girl, "this part is fun,
but what is going to happen when I'm holding you as a wife and lover, well,
no man is capable of putting words to that. It may be f -- u something,
but not f-u-n."
"Can I say the other one to you, sometime?" the girl asked.
"What would your English teacher say," Roy responded with a gentle
giggle.
"'I never give As for Fs,'" the girl quoted, in a pseudo man's
voice. "He's kinda strict about that stuff; no big speech about being a
sign of a weak vocabulary; you know, just a prettier world, without it."
"Sounds like a man after my own daughter," the father whispered to
his pretty redhead. Chick giggled for a moment, then got serious.
"Dad," she asked, "will you let me be with him, sometime, at least
for a few hours? He's been so cool; no one will ever know."
"Yes, darling," the man said, "any time. You just give me a heads
up and I'll clear it with your mom. If it happens spontaneously, try to be
cool about keeping us informed. Call from Reno, Hawaii, Bangkok. You
know, anywhere you might end up."
"I'm going to end up in a maternity ward, whelping your cub, you big
bad bear."
"Not unless it's cool with your mom, you aren't, young lady."
"Rules," the girl sighed with a touch of melodrama, then she
brightened with another of her melting giggles. "But I guess we can still
try."
Thrilled to be with this willing creature, Roy slid his hand down
her naked chest and worked at the catch of her shorts. It sprung wide, and
he unzipped her, all the way. Shifting to the end of the bed, he drew her
shorts down over her ankles, talking time to fold them once before tossing
them aside. Her panties were next, and this time she was more ready for
him and arched her back, lifting her rear high, both for convenience and as
a display. Being inexperienced, she threw her legs wide apart, and had to
draw her knees together so her dad could finish what he was doing.
Blushing prettily at the premature nature of her wanton display, she lay
demurely while he stripped her. Then she spread her legs as wide as her
athletic body could stand. Locking his elbows, Roy positioned himself over
the girl, and lowered himself to her.
Chick's hand met him and he froze at the instant of her touch. "Oh,
babe," he groaned.
"Did he teach me to masturbate well, Daddy," the girl asked,
stroking her father's huge penis with a smooth rhythm of tender motions
that went from top to bottom. She'd heard of a song without words and
instinctively realized this was a situation without words, and certainly
not `fun.'
Her strokes led him and he followed, gently. He met her perfectly
and the boys looking from the next room had a perfect, close-up view of the
way the tip of his swollen man's penis thrust gently and repeatedly, held
in place by the pretty freckled hand, then began entering. It took several
minutes and Roy was shaking on his powerful arms by the time he was truly
entering the young female underneath him.
Then he reached her virginity. "Oh, Daddy," she gasped, crushing
herself up to him, her legs still wide spread in total, loving reception.
The father lowered himself to his beautiful daughter and kissed her and
whispered to her as his powerful hips surged in tender small movements that
were almost embarrassing in their intimacy.
Braddie, taking advantage of the romantic moment, returned to his
duties with his four young male companions, getting all the boys except his
uncle completely naked, and fondling each as time allowed. In a couple of
minutes a hiss signaled him to return to his favorite peep hole and once
again he gazed in over the bed in Room 220. Roy was again up on his locked
elbows and both the man and the girl were looking down as he completed the
statutory rape of his child.
Chick had learned to move her body to his, using the muscles of her
torso and abdomen since her legs were still splayed in ultimate welcome.
Again, Roy used the short gentle thrusts, occasionally pulling until just
the large purple tip of his huge boner was inside the beautiful and almost
hairless young girl. Each time he did this, he seemed to go the more deep
as he again came against her. The boys all noted the traces of blood on
Roy, and Brad realized the young female had had an easy time of losing her
hymen to her partner.
It didn't change much. Roy kept up with his tender ways as the girl
lay beneath him, legs spread almost impossibly wide as she toyed with his
shoulders and neck with her soft girl hands, and sometimes threw them
straight up over her head because it made him grunt when he saw her
stretched for him in adoring submission.
When she felt his big, hairy male balls against her infinitely soft
and silky bottom Chick brought her legs partially together for an instant
in order to make a final thrust for his utter penetration of her. With an
Oh, love, she gently coaxed him off his arms and fully on to her, his hairy
chest hard against her tender and swollen pink girl nipples.
Roy stayed slow and steady with his daughter. Missionary position.
A special father/daughter rhythm that left much for her to discover with
other future males. As it went on, the big powerful black-haired male over
the soft and full bodied pre teen girl, the males in Room 222 began letting
their hands stray to each other. Braddie was gently everywhere, getting
whispered instructions and guiding touches. The eight year old did his
work well, and soon the boys were stroking each other anywhere they could
reach, sometimes not even knowing who they were touching, for surely it
didn't matter.
Nothing at all spectacular happened at the end. Roy raised for the
last time on his arms, cocking his body slightly to the left so the
watchers could see what he was doing to his young daughter. At first there
was a trace of white froth where his hairy balls were pressed against the
young female, then that was washed clear on a strong flow of semen. Chick
looked down over her belly and saw what her father was doing to her.
Neither said a word and in less than a minute the flow began to subside,
finally giving one last sudden eruption before ceasing, and again being
frothed by the continuing gentle action of the man against his young girl.
Again, he lowered himself to her. In 222 it was Show Time, but
that's another chapter.
I would like to close this one by cheering on Microsoft in it's
battle with America Online. TechTV did a four question survey. Why are
you on AOL? Because you like it, because it's the only one you know,
because all your buds are one it, or because you're too lazy to change?
Only four percent are on AOL because they like it. Four percent. Also,
the news I hear is that if you install 6.0 it tries to dominate like
Gozilla, and is difficult to get rid of. Duh'uh. The chicken franchise
guy paid over 150 billion dollars for Time Warner. As mentioned, I spent
three years in the used book trade. Warner books were the worst I ever
handled. Big type, big margins, large spacing, and even a weird
extra-thick paper I call popcorn paper. This manuscript has just passed
the 150,000 word mark. My father teases me about writing a million-page
novel. Hmmm.
I always remember the story of Jack Warner passing his writers'
bullpen and yelling in the window because he didn't hear no writin' goin'
on. It's hard to get more Jewish than that. Warner books, indeed. By the
time the Gates troops get rid of these formulae-peddling huckster their
stock won't be worth Anything Over Lard. Ninety-six percent agree with me.
Speaking of which, you are an awful bunch of clams, you know. So
far not a single guess as to what's in Brad's backpack, and Chapter 20 has
been posted for several days. In a way, this is why I chose Nifty. Young
audience: bands, high-school relationships, and more bands. But still,
guys, and girls, there must be a little more to life than that. Or, am I
right in all my doom and gloom? Thousands and even tens of thousands of
readers, and no apparent connections. Perhaps the gigantic rubber face of
a Seinfeld or Stern is the modern variant on Marshall McKhuen's adage of
the medium being the message. If this is indeed the case it makes me
realize, all over again, and for maybe the tenth time today, that inherited
money is the best thing in the world. Imagine having to live amongst you
as a man.
Death, where is thy sting?
Posted by: Thomas@btl.net.
xxx