Date: Wed, 13 Jun 2001 13:43:54 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Creative Camp 24

       The reader is responsible for the contents of the title page.

       Creative Camp -- 24 (The Penisitos)
       (M/b, M/f)
       by
       Feather Touch


       Chapt. 24.


       "Aren't things meant to be weightless in space?" Chris Bennington
asked.  He was eleven, liked mysteries, and he could not figure something
out.
       "You're meant to be playing.  Riffs.  Remember them?"
       "Yeah" Chris whined, "but this is important.  I can't ask anybody
about it."

       Cliff sighed.  Audition some kids they suddenly took you for an
angel.  One the other hand, little Chris had auditioned with one hand,
hadn't touched the frets, just sort of picked, strummed and drummed the
Fender; toyed with it.  Even over the little practice speaker the sound had
struck home.  A lack of laziness.  Tight.  Crisp almost to the percussive.
If he'd had talent, he would have been strumming with his right hand and
sliding his left, to show how much he had.  Since he lacked this magic
ingredient, he'd worked out with the metronome ungodly hours, and at
ungodly hours, until he could set a stuttered but driving rhythm, each beat
timed to perhaps a hundredth of a second.  On so rigid a foundation, most
anything could be built, so he was in, musically.  One third of the battle.
Yes, the kids had to be able to play, lots could play; the other demands of
rehearsing, recording, and especially, touring, were another matter.
Almost anyone could do this, but that was like saying most any kid could
pick cotton.  The question was, how would one hold up to the extended
enduro that was the reality of life in a boy band, when boy bands were a
dime a dozen..  This took discipline, drive and endurance, yet, of and by
itself, these amounted to little that would grab popular attention outside
a provincial neighborhood.  To succeed, to sell and tour and have the
T-shirts sell, that took extra.  That took appeal.  Appeal for a boy band,
music aside, was not based on the zeens publishing articles on how neat a
boy kept his room, nor on how much he loved his mom's cooking or his
sister's cat.

       Sensation was footed in personality.  Even looks were relatively
unimportant.  Winsomeness was the thing.  Charm.  A subtle grace, a
liveliness, a wonder and curiosity were what attracted fans and kept them.
A bright smile, tinged with warmth.  After a hundred night on stage, in a
row.  This would turn any lightweight into a performing husk and the kids
would get bored faster than they'd learn how to spell Menudo.  Rockin' by
Baby was his newest group, needing just what was standing in the studio.  A
spindly boy boy, who could just stand there and set a baseline with his
guitar.  Not frolic, prance, jump and shout.  Dress him in a white tunic
and some pressed go-to-meetin' trousers.  He'd do.  More than.

       That brought up personality as a home front issue.  Glib and frothy
in front of a camera was one thing; a gentle, fun-loving subdued
friendliness; nonchalance, that was something entirely else and of
irreducible import at the journeyman level when you were out there concert
in, concert out, month in, month out and so on.  So, anyway, what was this
thing about gravity?

       "I guess there micro gravity if something's in orbit," he responded
to Chris's question.  "Why?"
       "Well," the boy responded, glad they were talking about something
besides music, "this new space thing, it has a mechanical arm that cost a
billion dollars.  Of course, it doesn't work, but even if it did, why?  In
almost zero gravity, couldn't they position the new pods with little rocket
motors and lanyards?"
       "I don't know," Cliff answered.  On consideration, it was a good
question so he gave it a few moments thought, then brightened.  "When Baby
makes us famous, maybe you can ask someone at NASA.  We'll be playing the
state almost half the time we're touring."  One of her songs is `Ballot
Rocks and Bongos.'  In Broward land the sun doth shine; in Broward land the
palms are fine.  In Broward land, they give a sigh, over each and every
butterfly.'  That's the chorus."
       "Can I ask another question?" Chris asked.
       "Sure," Cliff said.
       "Like IBM has this ad, and a guy has to order more Turbo Ninjas for
Store 47?  You know?"
       "Sure.  They're at the opera.  Him and his boss."
       "That's the point," the boy said, "I mean doesn't it suck making
phone calls in a theater?"

       Cliff gave it a few moments thought.  "I think," he responded, "that
the scene the boss is imagining in the toy store is tied in with the finale
of the opera.  Therefore, it might be okay to make a call as the curtain
comes down."
       Chris gave this some consideration and nodded his head.  "Any more,"
Cliff asked.
       "Yes," Chris answered.  "Why would anyone buy a Viper.  It's
cylinders fire in pairs.  Five beats per measure.  Surely it can't be cool
to do zero to sixty in a tractor, even if it's three seconds, flat."
       "Well, Chris," the young impresario replied, "you've got me there.
The thing looks so self-adoring I can't imagine getting close enough to
hear one "
       The boy laughed politely.  Damn, he had a forever smile.  "Any
more?"
       "Well, duh'uh," the boy responded with alacrity, "you said `we.'
What does that mean?"
       "Don't get big-eyed on me," Cliff retorted.  "You know how good you
are.  You've earned it."
       "Yeah," Chris replied, "but it's still exciting.  I mean you read
Horatio Alger, and you get all big headed about diligence, but somewhere
you figure it's fake.  Pay your dues and you get to stand in line with the
people who have paid their dues.  Big deal."
       "Well," the twenty-two year old Cliff responded after a moment,
"personality counts, too.  Not every twelve year old goes around
questioning the wisdom of NASA"
       "Yeah," Chris replied, "I read a lot.  That gets most kids really
bored.  That's why I asked you those things."

       "Fair enough," Cliff said.  "Now I've got to ask you some questions,
so why don't we go to my office.  I'm going to give you a $25,000 signing
bonus; you'll have to pay taxes on it, but it's a gift from me, not part of
your contract, which is for $80,000 a year plus half a point of receipts,
then we can chill out for a few hours and get to know each other, if that's
okay with you."

       "Sure," the boy said.  "I can call the home and tell Sister Maria.
She'll let me stay out `till eight if there's a special reason."  He was
trying to be way cool.  He was hardly twelve, and suddenly dead center in a
vast life.  He wasn't going to just meet Baby, The Jewel of Ten, the media
was now calling her, but stand behind her on stage and take Ritchie's place
while the former rhythm guitar worked out a three picture deal.  One year,
at least.  That was what dream worlds were made of.  Just being close...

       The office was atypical biz.  Slightly crude plaster on lathwork.
Salvaged furniture.  "The balance in your trust fund," Cliff explained,
"will bring you more joy when your twenty-five than memories of opulence in
the front office."
       "It looks fine to me," the boy said.  Indeed, in its understated way
the office did seem to say Stay Awhile.  Cliff settled into an easy chair,
and simultaneously patted an arm and nodded to a nearby chair, obviously
offering a choice.  He then went to neutral, leaving Chris standing to make
up his mind.
       "Have you ready any books on abnormal psychology?"  This time it was
Cliff asking the question.
       "Some," said the boy.  It wasn't his fault where the book had opened
when he'd placed it on its spine and let it reveal its secret.  He'd read
for hours, and except for whips and weird stuff with bodily fluids, it
hadn't seemed all that abnormal.  Men wanted to fool around with boys, the
tome had announced.  To him, at the time, it had seemed a bit strange that
a man wouldn't want to do stuff with a boy, if they liked each other.  It
certainly would be interesting for the boy.  Heck, he wouldn't even have to
call it stuff, anymore.  Anyway, in the present circumstance, it seemed to
Chris, Cliff wouldn't have brought it up if they were meeting to discuss
withholding schedules or European distribution rights.  He chose the arm of
the easy chair.
       "What parts did you read," Cliff asked.
       "Well," the boy responded, thoughtfully, "it seemed that while a lot
of the people the authors talked about were consenting, they were not all
adults."
       Cliff rang himself a mental bull's-eye.  And the kid could play.  He
made a mental note to double the money.  He'd tell the child later.
Undoubtedly the boy had read Wodehouse, and if he knew he were going to be
carrying fifty thousand in cash home in his backpack he might think the
whole afternoon was an absurdity, or start crying.  Sometimes a little
white lie of omission could postpone histrionics.  Besides, there were more
important issues at hand.

       "So," the young producer queried, "how did it make you feel?
Reading about kids that get involved in mature activities?"
       "I don't know what I felt," the boy said, "but whatever it was, it
was all over."
       "But it didn't make you uptight..."
       "No," Chris interrupted.  "I mean tense, but, you know, not in a
negative way.  I guess what it did was make me want to learn more.  I mean,
it's not all the girl next door, is it?"
       "Well," Cliff said, "there's a lot of that, and it's here to stay,
but there are other things, and in the music business; in show business,
there's probably almost as much other stuff happening as in most churches.
It's kind of important, because a bad experience can knock a kid out of the
saddle.  Harden him or her up, literally, overnight.  Cherry kiddo, one
night, sullen punk the next morning, though it certainly doesn't take
overnight to get messed up."
       "I can believe that," Chris commented.
       "Good," Cliff said.  "Because we've got to talk about it.

       "The short version is that we're a Free Spirit company.  It's for
our own safety.  Groupies are great, but they're also hazardous to you
health.  Incessant boinking did not make Elvis a happy camper, nor David
Cassidy, nor much of anyone, when you get right down to it.  Not that they
were wrong, mind you, what happens in a happy bedroom is the world's best
exercise, amongst other things, but a bicycle chain of partners is not
likely to have any end at all, much less a happy one."

       "A stacked deck, eh?" the boy asked, his eyes impossibly big and
round.  Cute bugger, there was no doubt about that.  And not cute in the
temporal sense.  In fact, almost not cute, physically, but mentally cute.
Quick.  Curious.  Funny.  Even fucking literate.  Knew Bicycle was a brand
of playing card, for example.  What if he doubled the money again?  What a
huge pleasure that would be.

       "Besides reading, how is your deck stacked?" the young man asked the
boy.
       "Well," the boy responded, almost instantly, "there are no naughts
in cards.  I guess that about says it all."
       "Do you feel you're old enough to play," Cliff asked, his voice
dropping to a soft whisper.  Chris was thrilled.  Something was going to
happen.  And maybe with him.  He looked like he'd just dressed after
winning some massive swimming championship.  Hidden muscles, but lots of
them.  And, what, six four?  Just like big and just like powerful, and the
long legs looked like a boy's, with just the lightest down gracing the
calves.  He own legs stuck out of his cargo shorts like lank white poles,
all knees and feet like a goose or a chicken.  Or so he thought.

       "I hope you're talking about wild, not jokers," the boy whispered
back, perhaps stretching just a trifle to seem cool.
       "Not jokers, and not queens," Cliff said.  "By that, I mean to
catamite stuff; do you know what that is?"
       "No," Chris answered.
       "Some boys aren't old enough when something exciting happens to
them," the producer explained, "they become cloying, practically jump in
strangers' laps, almost hump their boyfriends of the moment, in public.  As
Seinfeld overdoes it with his teeth thing going on, they overdo with their
little wagging butts.  Sad thing is, they make lousy lovers; jittery and
impatient.
       "Goal one, is for you not to join their ranks.  It probably would be
better to get aids."
       "Goal one for me," Chris said, "is to get anything.  I mean with
someone I like, so it would last.  I know stuff to do, like hitch, if I
just wanted It."
       "Don't knock hitching," said Cliff.  "It's totally exciting at your
age.  Two percent common sense will get you some wicked thrills."
       "No kidding?" said the boy.  He was going to add something about how
that's not what they said at the home, but ended up canceling the thought
as too obvious to speak out loud.
       "A lot of time you get picked up by older teens, they like to drive
just for the sake of driving.  They'll be scared shitless, but hardly
spermless.  The better you get, the more exciting it gets, as long as you
don't become a catamite and get all rushy.  If you do, you'll just end up
with a ride."
       "And if I'm patient?" the boy whispered.
       "Speaking academically," Cliff replied, "because with "Rockin' By
Baby" you'll be too well known to gallivant a lot of the time, what they're
likely to do is take you to a mall or other big parking lot, then do
furtive and secretive stuff with you in the front seat, while you look
around to be sure no one catches you.  Other boys or men will have vans;
more interesting, but more dangerous.  Sometimes, they'll invite you home.
That's the best, but it's pretty scary for a seventeen year old to invite a
kid to his house.  Now, with computers, it's easier; always a convenient
excuse for males of disparate age to hang out together."
       "If a boy's really scared, I mean the driver, how can I get him to
do something?" Chris asked.
       "Well," the young man replied, "first, wear a cut off T.  I know it
probably doesn't make much sense to you, but men and older boys like to see
the tummies of boys your age.
       "You may even have the feeling, too, at twelve.  You know, a cute
nine year old in a bathing suit.  Have you ever seen anything like that you
thought was exciting?"
       "I guess so," the boy replied, trying to remember a scene as
described which he had not found at least interesting,, except for fat kids
and those with personality flaws.
       "Okay,' Cliff confirmed, "that's how men feel about boys your age,
like you might feel toward a cute friendly nine or ten year old.  Like
you'd be happy to take a shower together where no one could see or hear
you."
       "I think I understand," Chris whispered.
       "Well, it's both complicated and simple as pie," Cliff said.  "I
mean, the whole physical thing is a few minutes of experimenting; the other
stuff, well, that's what all the fuss is about.  Love and all it's creeping
cousins."
       "Are you in love with anybody?" Chris asked his new boss.
       "That's something I'd hoped to ease into, slowly," Cliff responded
after a few moments.  "The answer, thought, is yes."
       "I didn't mean to pry," Chris said.
       "Are you kidding?" Cliff retorted, "I'm quizzing you up one side and
down the other.  It's just when I say we run a Free Spirit group, so we can
focus, rest, and stay safe, it means more than that we just fool around
together on account of hormones and stuff.  With me, it's a totally special
relationship.  In love doesn't begin to describe it.  In everything would
be more like it, but even that's a bit weak."
       "How long? " the child asked.
       "A little over two years," Cliff said.
       "Are you going to get married?"
       "Why don't we put that on the B list of secrets, at least for the
moment," Cliff replied, kindly.
       "Okay," Chris replied, matching Cliff's whisper.  "But you've got to
tell me something.  I mean like if I went to a parking lot with a man, what
would he want to do to me?"
       "Touch you.  The same things you'd like to do to a cute nine year
old.  Rub his fingers over your chest and tummy.  Get you bare chested, if
there was enough privacy, so he could look at you.  If you let him, he
would want to touch you inside you underpants.  Fondle you until you got a
boner, then rub it up and down with his fingers, making the skin slide so
you'd feel good.  If you were in a safe place, he would take your shoes and
socks off, unzip you, and pull your shorts down so he could see you in your
underpants.  Then, if you got excited and had a boner, he'd pull them down
so you were naked, and if you like what he was doing to you, you'd spread
your legs to show him you wanted him to touch you, then he'd masturbate
you.  That means he'd stroke you penis in a deliberate way.  If you wanted
him to, he'd put his lips and tongue all over your penis; kiss it and lick
it, and take it in his mouth, but usually that comes later.  Most men and
older boys want to watch a young boy have an orgasm."
       "How come?" the boy whispered, innocent of double entendre.
       "To see how developed he is.  How much sperm he has.  What it's
like.  Some boys have thin, watery semen that sprays all over the place,
and older boys have a thicker, whiter ejaculate."
       "How much is there?" the boy whispered.
       "It depends how mature the male is, how long it's been, and how
excited he is.  Sometimes its two or three small spurts, like a spoonful or
so.  That's kind of normal.  But there can be a lot more, and, of course,
after you've been with your partner several times, there can be a lot less,
not that it means anything."

       "Is that what they call going with the flow?" the boy asked, his
eyes sparkling in a way bound to keep him off Santa's list for hours.  This
caused Cliff to re-evaluate his statement on love.  He was in love, head
over heels.  What was this?  Two heads, two heels?  Had he been separated
from a psychic twin at birth?  Said sibling summoned by a few witty
comments from a boy?  Well, the kid was getting more drop-dead, practically
by the second; he could have looked like Pugsley, and it wouldn't have
mattered.  But it was nice that he didn't.  Think of something.  Tell a
story.  Not that one.  Cliff needed to hold on somehow.  Soon enough it
would be over, and he didn't ever want it to be over.  But it had to begin,
to be over.

       "In ruder circles, they might call it blowing for the flow," he
punned.
       "Glad I don't know people like that," the boy responded.

       "Some guys like it.  Crude.  Rude.  Whatever you want to call it.
But not kids with smiles like yours.  Plus there's other stuff.  It was
probably in you book on abnormal psychology.  Including rape, which means
having someone jam you up the butt or in the mouth, probably both with the
hiney coming before the fronty, if you get my drift.

       "That's the main reason we're having this chat.  Being on the road
isn't like going to school every day.  We're not big-time enough to have
security all the time, so it's relatively easy for fans, and others, to get
close, especially when we're offstage.  It's not dangerous, but you're cute
stuff, Chris, and the better to be slightly on guard.  One of those
ounce-of-prevention deals like they teach you by way of homily, only in
this case it's more like preventing the once - from the wrong person ending
up in the wrong place."

       It was a bit lame, but the boy giggled a little, anyway, half
figuring out what it was all about and wishing, in his boyish way, to
become knowledgeable because, as they also said, fore-warned is fore-armed.
Come to think of it, a little knowledge was a dangerous thing, while
ignorance was bliss.  There were dozens of them, adages in heaps and lists.
A salient bromide flashed through the twelve year old's mind.  The journey
of a thousand miles begins with a single step.  Finally, something that
made sense.  Chris took the step and settled not on the arm of the old easy
chair, but right on the lap of the athletic young man.  Action, after all,
spoke louder than words.

       From Cliff's viewpoint, words were an imperative.  If he didn't talk
with the child, he was just going to plain old have him, slam, bam, thank
you, ma'am.  Thank god the kid had a mind.  They were getting increasingly
rare with each passing month.  The country was becoming a mawk pit, as in
mawkish.  Jews sniffed every asshole, published every fart, pandered to
grief with neither mercy nor let up, the ultimate cheap, easy, high profit
sell, using a media they simply owned, outright.  The deterioration was so
rapid, that was what was frightening.  More cheesy emotion with every
shooting, crash, flood and famine, until the place stank and reeked with
the effluent of thousands of hooked noses and big, soft, urban bellies.
Sometimes it seemed six million of the population, searching for a single
soul.  Since it was obviously not kept in the US, mightn't they do better
looking elsewhere?

       God he was a common looking beauty.  He was wondering if the utter
zenith in sub-human, vastly sub, sub-human foulness embodied in and
exemplified by Sheck, Shapiro, Kunstler and Dershowitz would be enough to
distract his attention to Chris for more than a few moments.  He had never
butt-fucked, but he wanted to, right now.  What would that boyish body feel
like, on its knees, hands stretched for balance on a chair, as he mounted,
his hands eager at the soft flanks as he took his master's position, then
the same hands over the slim anterior torso, petting, fondling, stroking
and molesting as he mounted the youth and entered him for a long, hard
fuck?  Or had him on his back, looking into that handsome face and those
gorgeous big eyes as he thrust rapidly to a rock hard cum?

       Chris, for his part, just liked looking up.  Way up, and into the
eyes of the young producer.  If this was sex, it was absolutely great.
Certainly better than all the crudities that seemed part and parcel of the
subject.  Maybe that's why all the jittery language.  It was so actually
awesome it would be the end of the day if everyone went around babbling on
about how great even the very first part was.

       Both the young males were, by now, fighting hard for both time and
control.  As youth will, they wanted everything at once.  To stare, to
touch, to be naked, and more than anything on fifty Earths, to cum.  As
luck would have it, sitting face to face, fourteen inches apart, there was
a convenient place to start.

       "Would you freak if I wanted to kiss you?" Cliff asked.
       "More like die, if you didn't," the boy answered.
       "Have you done it before?" the producer quizzed.
       "No," the boy said.
       "Well, as you alluded, it only hurts when you stop."

       The leaned to each other, spontaneously, and began nibbling and
licking.  Yes, the lips were included, though at times it would have seemed
to a voyeur that they were more everywhereing than kissing.  No ear was
exempt, no eye.  They didn't taste of each other's snot, but even that was
a close thing.  Their hands helped in the exploration, each finger becoming
an agent against warm, soft skin and urgently interesting shapes.  There
were rubbery textures, and boney embellishments high on the cheeks.
Caterpillars nested in the eyes.  These all took time to absorb, and while
they were delicious and tantalizing, what they were most was a starting
place.  "What if he touches me like this with my shirt off?"  That was as
far as Chris could take the thought, because anything further went beyond
comprehension, except, What would he feel like?

       Cliff had covered only half a subject awhile back.  He'd tried to
describe how a young child felt to a man.  What would a young man feel like
to the child?  It seemed like a hell of a good time to find out.

       "Oh, babe," the young man sighed as several twelve-year-old fingers
tied in a race to the top button of his shirt.
       "Get mine off, too," the child whispered.

       Cliff's fingers trailed from the beautiful long neck to the
exquisite cleft at the base of the throat and lingered over their last few
inches to the fiendish restraint.  It was dealt with, and the next.  And so
the boy, also, taking his way from his master, followed unto his master,
and lo, the deed was done.  The males parted for a moment to pull their
garments free and drop them on the arms of the chair.  "Don't use your
shirt to wipe up the sperm," Cliff whispered, then, after spending several
moments looking at each others' bare chest, they came tentatively together
to experiment more with kissing.

       While thus engaged, Cliff's molesting hands wandered all over the
child in his lap.  Chris arched instantly to his every touch, bending his
body so his lover's fingers would play on his boy skin stretched a little
over the lean muscles underneath.  The caressing was exciting in such a way
as to make his whole body feel as if it were being somehow milked toward
either catastrophe or delirium.  Both?

       Then the strong hands were gently on his boyish waist, bringing him
forward.  Forward.  Lighting him all over (again) on fire.  Between his
long, young legs.  Right between them.  Was there any other place in the
entire universe?  Chris had a huge boner, himself, but what he felt against
his balls was three times better.  It couldn't be any harder, but it was
four times bigger.  How big could something be?  How big could he be.  He
was swollen beyond belief, then his bare chest came fully against Cliff and
he was taught what kissing was all about.

       This couldn't last.  One or the other surely must die.  This was no
Timmy the Tool Boy catamite.  His kisses wee friendly-like, when they were
not urgent, it seemed, more urgent to give than demand.  So the wandered
through their introduction, passionately for a few moments, then nuzzling
each other both in review, thanks for the memories, as well as in glowing
anticipation.

       "Who do you love, baby?" the child whispered after a particularly
ardent duel of hot tongues.
       "Baby," Cliff answered.
       "Oh, baby," the boy sighed in response.
       "No, Baby," the elder responded.  It took Chris a minute to get the
punctuation right.  No, baby, well, that's how he would have addressed her,
if she were present.  But she wasn't.  So it had to mean...
       "Baby?"
       For a few moments jealousy surged through him.  He loved Baby.
Cliff was too old for her.  She was only ten.  What was this all about.

       "She's my sister," the producer explained.  "We've lived together
since I was seventeen and she was seven.  When she turned eight, things
changed.  We stopped being regular brother and kid sister.  We became
lovers.  That's my secret.  The band's secret.  It's how we started, in the
first place.  That's what allows us the focus that gets us ahead,
musically, to this very day.  We don't have to moon over partners left
behind, or winnow the groupies on tour.  It's all pat.  Not especially
organized, but not random, either.  Brothers and sisters.  Two of the girls
sleep with their dad's.

       "In fact," Cliff continued, "you will be the first outsider ever
admitted the group.  Not too put too fine a point on it, the first fresh
sperm.  That's how good your guitar is, just to review how you made it
here, in the first place.  Wouldn't want you to think it was just the fact
you're cute, which you are, very especially bare chested.  You got here
through, what, twenty or thirty thousand hours of practice?

       "And the bonus is, you don't have to stay.  I can make a phone call
and have you a gig any time you want, commission free."
       "I want to stay," Chris whispered.
       "I would say I'm sorry about my sister," Cliff said, "but I'm not.
She's about as untwisted as a girl can get.  You'll find out, she'll eat
you alive.  You're so perfect for her it squeaks.  Play that guitar, and
she'll dance any way you want, and, in that she's mine to give away, you've
got her."
       "Practice takes perfect," the boy said, giggling slightly at the
gross inanity of the feeble pun.
       "And gets to keep her, unless I'm sadly mistaken," Cliff whispered.

       Damn, that was good news.  The best he'd ever heard in his whole
conscious existence.  He blushed at the contrast with his last totally
exciting moment; the sisters had chipped in and presented him with a $200
guitar.  Life was something else.  All you had to do was practice, which
was a little like saying all you had to do was climb to reach the top of a
Himalayan peak.

       For long moments they sat, twined tog [one millionth character0
ether in the chair, Chris pushing his bare chest to the solid young adult,
the young man pulling the sweet soft boy breast to him, while exploring his
shoulder blades.

       "How did you start doing things with your sister?" Chris whispered.
       "It was spring.  She'd grown a lot during the winter.  The first
time we went to the pool, I was sitting in a deck chair when I saw this
boy, about fourteen, start staring, then all his buddies.  Christ, she was
only eight, but when she came out of the cabana half the guys in the place
stopped in their tracks.  I was about the last one to look, because I
happened to be facing away, and I turned, and there she was, freckles, pony
tail, pale as a ghost and the better for it.  She came down and plopped
herself on my knees, as if she were five.  I was totally sure I'd died and
gone to heaven; that I'd earned it for having such a lovely young female
for a sister, in the first place, and taking such good care of her, in the
second place.
       "A couple of guys whistled.  That changed everything..  By-bye kid
sis, hello, mistress."
       Joined as they were, nude form the waist up and from the waist up
against each other, the thoughts of the two males could hardly help
wavering and dissolving back to a club pool and a warm and muggy afternoon.

       "What do you think?" the leggy child asked as she perched on her
brother's knees.  The eighteen year old athlete tried to keep his eyes on
hers; normally, that was a most pleasing place for them.  Now, they were
misbehaving.  Wandering.  Of their own accord, and in defiance of all the
rules stacked on all the shelves.  Where had all this come from?  Had she
been hiding out, deliberately?  Like a surprise party?  Who knew.  She was
here, now, and half smoking.  He could see it in her eyes and realized it
would be just as obvious in his.  So obvious, he categorized her question
as rhetorical, not that he could have answered if she'd been a nurse and
he'd been allergic to penicillin and she was asking him if he was allergic
to any drugs.  The only fragmented bit of coherence that passed through his
brain for several minutes was the thought, no for her ears, that a pussy
had got his tongue.

       "Let's go for a walk.  I want to talk to you," she said, her voice
low and serious.

       She was not dressed for conversation, swimming, yes, diving, yes,
making men and boys pant, definitely, catching a tan, yes, but going off,
alone together, into the woods around the club; was she dressed for that?
As for talking, what was that all about?  He didn't have enough moisture
above his shoulders to wet a stamp; not even the tip of his index finger,
so he could turn a page.

       Baby retrieved their towels from a nearby chair and handed one to
her eighteen year old brother.  He knew why and knew she knew why, but
there was no coyness in her pretty eyes.  He took the beach size towel, and
held it nonchalantly, like hell, at his waist with his left hand as the
young female latched on to his big right teen paw and pulled him to his
feet.  He was meant to walk?  Riddle: How could a kid sis turn a track star
into a hobbling cripple?  Not lap dance.  If she'd done that, he'd have
been paralyzed, forever.  He wondered if the family medical policy would
cover total disability due to -- what?  Incest?

       Even the though of the word made him practically grunt out loud in
public.  Half-a-dozen whispers registered in his hazy brain at the same
time.  Rumors.  Gossip.  Envy.  Well, the latter would be a dead-cert, as
the Brits said, jus walking across the verge of the pool and out across a
grass that wasn't half as green as all the boys and all the girls who
watched the timely departure.

       Cliff had run hundreds of times with his sister, now he could hardly
walk.  She led him on, picking the route up through the trails that lead to
the remote head of the valley.  He followed like a robot, watching her
raven pony tail dust her pale shoulders.  He didn't need its sway to
totally mesmerize him, but it helped.  Whatever the girl was after, privacy
as obviously high on the list.  The kept the pace for almost half an hour
before she hooked off on a pathway and they came to rest on a boulder
twined in the roots of an eighty foot tree.  It formed a natural seat, and
the girl pivoted her big brother with a gentle touch and settled him into
the shady nook, landing back on his knees before he had a chance to catch
his breath.


       "We're going to mate," she announced.
       He'd known there was a reason behind the thong bikini, two of which
would have fit in a teacup, just known it.
       "In honor of?" Cliff replied, dry mouth and stunned by her lithe
beauty, still, over half an hour since she'd emerged from the cabana.  She
wasn't the pouty, languid type, not Baby.  "Playchild" magazine would never
feature her in a spread, too many freckles, too athletic, and devoid of the
slinky languidness of the standard-issue doll.  The fact of the matter was,
she'd be more suitable to a Ralph Nader re-write titled "Unsafe at Any
Age."  And damn it all, she could have been three years old and still
roasted him to the max in that bathing suit, which made Jonbenet Ramsey
look like Jane of the first-grade chronicles, in comparison..  He was
cooked, alright.  Fried, sautéed and hashed brown.  Boiled, stewed and
gravied.  He sizzled internally and indeed felt like he was being
microwaved on the spot.  He was hot already and so he removed the towel
which he'd kept unobtrusively bundled at his waist during the short hike
into the woods.

       At the sight of the huge bulge in his bathing suit, Baby gave off
with her act.  Her eyes fixed on him, as a man, and her fake willfulness
melted as she cuddled gently to him, whispering very softly, "Oh, babe."
The shock of her all but naked chest against his own finished Cliff.  He
arms went around her and somehow she knew to stretch her arms high over her
head so he could have her against him the way he wanted her, and he wanted
her against him.  She wriggled and he sat up straight and pulled, gently.


       "Oh, god," she sighed as she felt for the first time a big, hard
male against her, "I was going to be all flip and sassy and adventurous.
We're brother and sister.  Sissy said we should play together; the way she
does with Mal.  We role played what I'm meant to do to you, and how I'm
meant to do it.  She used the handle of her hair brush as her pretend boy
thing so we could practice together in the shower.  You're meant to stand,
when you're ready, and I'm meant to stand at your right side with my left
arm around you so I can do what you want to you with my right hand.  That's
as far as brother and sister are meant to go.  You know, practice for when
we're older in case we ever date a boy we really like.  It's not meant to
go too far, and we're not meant to fall in love.

       "Thank goodness," Cliff finally managed to whisper.  He fondled her
lite body with both hands, loving the hot look in her pretty girl eyes as
his fingers explored her neck, her shoulders, her chest and her belly.
       "Even if we break the rules," she gasped, "we're meant to wait until
I'm ten before you do anything inside me, except with your tongue and
fingers."

       "What are the penalties?" Cliff managed to whisper, how, he did not
know.
       "Guilt," the girl answered softly, "the knowledge that we are at
odds with club doctrine and its articles of policy.
       "On second thought," the female child continued, her arms still
stretched high so her brother could do his will with her, "you literally
don't fit, in the first place.  You're huge.  The club is called The
Penisitos.  It's meant to be, you know, younger, smaller brothers.
Experimenting.  Kids' stuff.  You know, like Arky and Polly Trenton..
Annie and Butchy Jensen.  I mean, Sissy said the handle on her brush was
about right.  You're twice that big.  You're a man.  I mean, you're
eighteen, and Geo, Sissy's brother is fourteen, so I knew there'd be a
difference.  But you're a man.  You'd put sperm right into my womb, and I'm
not even meant to have your seed in my vagina, just on my chest.  In my
mouth, if I want to, when I'm nine.  Like I could wait another six weeks.

       "Anyhow," the pretty kid sis with the black pony tail, the freckles,
the big blue eyes offsetting the gamin pixie face went on, "if we cheat, we
have to pay by doing something extra special for the Penisitos.  Meg
Katzenberg cheated with her dad, more than once, so he takes the kids to
The High Riser, that's a resort run by the Plunkett group.  Dibby Usher
cheated with her uncle, Ariel, and he had to buy a motor home for club
trips.  There's only been one girl who cheated with her big brother.  He
had to chaperone five pajama parties in a row.
       "So, adorable, beloved, massive brother, what are you going to do to
compensate for taking me back to the club full of hot young adult sperm?"

       There was a question that needed an answer.  He didn't know how he
could ever talk.  The thought of just stripping off her bra dried him like
a hippy tomato.  Speech?  He was lucky to be breathing, and felt the
reflexive efforts of his pulmonary system were solely in furtherance of
keeping his fingers warm with life so he could fondle the young female all
over for a long time.  As to his heart, it had stopped beating about ten
seconds after the boys whistled.

       His roaming fingers found the fasteners on Baby's bikini top.  He
toyed with them, momentarily, looking into her eyes for permission.  Talk
about a formality.  He unhooked the wisp and slowly peeled the child's
chest bare as the day she was born.  He touched her.  The sensation of
being molested --there- doubled the girl, and her hair was lank with sweat
as she settled to his shoulder.

       "That's where you're meant to cum on me," she whispered, intimately,
moving her groin against his huge boner in a way that said, with no further
words needed, she wasn't in the mood for a bit of half-way loving.

       Her nipples were so pretty, he didn't even need to see them, so he
was glad to have the girl tight against him, her head on his right
shoulder, her arms around him with her fingers tracing from his ears down
over his powerful shoulders and back.  Her breasts did not exist, she
wasn't even nine, but her nipples felt like plump grapes, fabulous to
touch, especially when each lingering stroke and gentle squeeze of his
fingers made her hum and moan in a carnal way.  She was by now sweating
feely, as he was.  The walk, the muggy summer day, and what they were doing
to each other, to say nothing of their being newly and madly in love, all
contributed to a wetness where they were close to joining.

       "We're meant to be messabating each other," Baby whispered.  "That's
the word they use for special massages dads and big brothers do with their
little daughters and kid sisters."  She nibbled under his ear, licking
hotly between pecks.  "This is another thing we're not meant to do," she
said after a few moments, lifting her pretty athlete-girl face and touching
his lips with hers, never slowing in her nibbling and licking.  Cliff's
mouth opened in absolute shock at this sudden hot, wet display of lewdness
by the little girl, and her tongue found his in an instant.

       It was minutes before any more speeches.  Even a squirrel on a
branch squatted in still silence at the sight of the slim, athletic female
in the arms of the powerful male.  The way his hands wandered all over her
young body, the way her fingers toyed with his face as they mated by
kissing and kissing.  Not much of a tail on that one, the animal might have
though, and, indeed, Baby's usually pert pony was looking as lank as an
eel's tail as it swayed across her wet back.

       Then a real mating took place, and almost in an instant.  Baby
pulled her brother down in front.  His huge penis jutted high against his
belly.  The girl broke her kiss for a moment and pushed away, in order to
look at him.  She put her right hand on the heavy foreskin, and pulled is
slowly down.  "Oh, babe, you are so beautiful," she whispered as she
shinned the powerful torso, then lowered her young female body on to his
huge erection.  At the last moment she shifted the slight fabric of her
bikini panties and guided him.  When he was just starting there she said,
"I love you," and lowered herself back into his lap, her eyes wide with the
shock of him.

       Her wet, slick absolute tightness, her wet slick body against him,
her hot we lips everywhere they could reach, her hot tongue, wettest of
all, and all over everywhere, were so stunning she froze him like ice.  He
locked her in his arms like a statue as she wriggled, surged and panted
wantonly, biting him in a raging instinct for his hot maleness to spend
itself again and again in her womb.  "Not that it could possibly do so
anywhere else," she almost giggled to herself, feeling his big powerful
male bulbous tip far past her cervix.  She wouldn't even have to have an
orgasm to entreat his semen deep into like she would have to if she were a
woman.  But she had one anyway, and lay slack-jawed against him, not even
kissing, as her body was wracked like a horseshoe under a smithy's hammer.
Her stallion.  Just the though made it happen again, even harder.  Not
possible.  But it was, because she thought of Mary, and climaxed until she
howled.

       The thrashing and frantic gyrations of the female child in his lap
kept Cliff from ejaculating into her.  Oddly, her motion kept him from
cumming.  He knew he would have, more than once, and not touching by any
touch, if he'd been standing by the big tree and watching the way a young
girl could fuck a mature boy.  He would have been all over the trunk, hands
at his side, no partner needed.

       Still, he wanted to ejaculate.  To fill her beautiful young
athlete's body with every drop of himself he had in the world, ever had
had, or ever would have.

       Cliff got his wish, after a short whispered conversation with his
little sister.

       Coming slightly out of her triple stupor she lay her wet face again
on his wet shoulder.  Her vagina was calm, now, on him, all over him, but
still so magically soft and tight it seemed to be sucking hungrily even as
she slumped wetly against his panting power.

       "There's a club secret," she finally whispered to the gallant stag
whose penis throbbed huge and hot endlessly deep inside her.
       All Cliff could trust himself to speak was a hoarsely whispered,
"What?"
       "I understand it now," the little girl whispered back, "it's Mary
Cory.  She broke all the rules and got pregnant, when she was eleven, from
her dad.  They spent a summer in Europe, the whole family, and when they
returned in September, low and behold, an adopted little girl, Patricia, a
week old and with Mary's button nose and dimples.
       "So much for secrets, I guess."
       "Did the expel her?" Cliff asked, exited by the thought of a baby
and trying to hold on for dear life."
       "Silly," the girl whispered back, "she's president for the next
three years.  Probably until she's a grandmother, seeing as she runs things
very well, don't you think."

       That totally did it for Cliff and he started cumming inside Baby.
She felt a shock of transition inside her; the hot log buried to the hilt
and reaching deep into her womb suddenly began seizing and convulsing.  His
male gush throbbed hotly to her time and time again.  "Oh, sis," he
whispered repeatedly as he was a man to her.  His fingers went softly to
her swollen nipples and he fondled her.  Gently she held his hands to her
bare chest as she eased away to look down.  The fronts of both their
swimsuits were soaked.  She almost wondered, Does he have to be such a man
about it?  It was so white.  There was so much.  I could fish in that pond
if I had a hook, she thought for a moment, luxuriating at the return of
consciousness at the end of the dream, with Cliff's sperm still sizzling
deep into her.  By this time, she was a hundred percent on Mary's side.
But what could they do for the club, to compensate for the sin she held
passionately in her heart even though it would be a few years before her
young body could ripen with what her brother did to her.

       . . .

       During his story, Cliff had stripped Chris naked.  The younger boy
lay back on the polished pine floor, his legs spread wide and his fingers
laced at the nap of his neck.  Cliff knelt between his knees, masturbating
the twelve year old's big boy penis with steady strokes in a slow rhythm.
"When we recovered, and cleaned up as best we could," the young producer
concluded his story, "I suddenly had an idea.  It went like this, `Doe, a
deer, a female deer, rae, a drop of golden sun; me a name I call myself,
fa, a long, long way to run.'  She got it immediately.  Music.  That's what
we, she and I, could do to compensate the club for our guilt.  Rockin' by
Baby played to its first audience of over a thousand six months later.  Now
all I have to do is find a boyfriend for my kid sister; preferably, one who
knows her past and is tolerant of her lifestyle.  Our lifestyle.  And can
accept the fact that her first child may be mine if she sticks to her guns,
which, at age ten, she is not bound to do if, say, a handsome young
guitarist, with a very big, very hot penis comes along and wants to do this
inside her.

       Cliff had been stroking himself with his left hand while he
masturbated Chris with his right.  He started cumming on the boy's naked
belly by way of demonstrating what he was sure Baby would want to happen
inside her.  He didn't spray all over the spread eagle boy, but rather
pooled his sperm on the child's belly, making a deliciously thick and
syrupy donut around Chris's navel.  The boy watched what was happening to
him in awe.  He'd never in a thousand years be jealous of Baby with this
male, and was furiously glad to be able to share in a way what she shared
with him.  More sperm.  And now his.  Cliff had wet his palm, spoiling the
pretty white donut, but wetting his palm with the oddly sticky and slimy
semen, then using the wet right hand with a deliberate manner on his
swollen boner so than after a ride of a minute on a ripping rocket his own
young watery sperm was flinging itself far and wide and getting all over
everything, and especially all over the bare chest of the tall athlete who
was masturbating him.

       It was utterly perfect, a full minute, perhaps even a few seconds
more, before his abandon behavior ran it course and the jets he'd sent
flying diminished to a milky flow and finally to drops milked tenderly from
him as his last.  As his hormones came slowly back on the radar, the boy
almost grinned at a thought.  It was obvious from the glow in Cliff's eyes
he'd done perfectly, and he'd never practiced.  Not even once.

       			...

       A further discussion between the characters would delineate Rockin'
by Baby as a boy band, with Baby as a guest soloist.  This would be a
sneaky way to try to get David to post the story under the fabulously
popular Gay Boy Bands heading.

       Readers of "The Penisitos" will be wondering what I'm doing here.
Readers of "Creative Camp," of which this is Chapter 24, will know all too
well.  Both groups will see these pages are almost at and end, realize
there is no more sex, and find themselves free to click elsewhere.  For
those who was to read on I would just like to point out a funny from this
morning's television.  It has to do with corporate America and the English
language, and, I guess, says whatever you want it to say.

       The company is Boeing.  They're just announcing a service for
in-flight communications called "Connexion."  Connexion is a not terribly
old word meaning, guess what?

       That's cool, that'll do it.  These have been two mostly fun chapters
to write, especially because I do not feel compelled to review and edit
pornographic content.  Saves endless time over the political and cultural
material, which remains imperfect after exhaustive proofing.

       My other works are "Jimmy and Frogger," on ASSTR, and "The Flyyy,"
"Ropeyarn," and "Dennis the...," as well as "Creative Camp," which this
story is taken from.  These should all be on Nifty, all posted in the last
few months, usually filed under sf-fantasy, either gay or bi.  If you have
any trouble finding anything, drop me a line.  Reader mail is a total trip,
and I'm not too full of myself, yet, to answer and send along a manuscript
or two.

       Posted by Thomas@btl.net

       xxx