Date: Sun, 29 Jul 2001 20:14:42 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Creative Camp - 26
Ego can have its tedious side. I decided to go into commercial
novel mode on these last two chapters, not to worry, the sex is still
there, but it took more time to write them. My apologies to those waiting
to find out what Brad has up his sleeve, plus numerous answers to questions
concerning life as we know it. Reading will be tedious, too. So is
baseball, most of the time.
The reader is responsible for the contents of the title page.
Creative Camp 26 -- 27 (Conclusion.)
(Ped., inc., m/m, m/f, rom., no scat, s/m, spank, etc.)
by
Feather Touch
Chapt. 26
Hark! What a lovely sulk. Almost two days. Gratifying, too. I
mean I certainly feature myself as the greatest artist ever to walk the
earth, yet am generally as free of temperament as a well trained clerk in a
well managed shop. Verification of artistic stature by means of the old
fashioned pout. I mean look at the Impressionists. Some wild and crazy
guys, throwing themselves in rives, cutting off ears, driving everyone
around them nuts, and going off on obsessive compulsive side trips.
Anyhow, it was fun to get temperamental and huffy. Of course, I have every
reason: there should be some flexibility in how stories are listed and
filed, but then, to be realistic, what category could serve as pigeon hole
for the million horsepower engine? No editor or publisher in any medium
would know what to do with me. America is not exactly set up for princes
and such; wannabees are meant to be singers and actors. Writers? Well, I
already is one of them, leaving kahunaism as solomente mi sueno and being
jefe grande for my only fantasy. Anyway, it makes my work hard to
categorize, especially as, like a feminist bookstore, Nifty has no humor
section. I must admit to being a little piqued at not finding my grandness
on the prolific authors' list, but perhaps my tendency to celebrate myself
can be construed as abrogating any second-party imperative to lend ten
fingers. There are several lessons here for other writers. First, we live
in a democracy where you will remain equal whatever your talent or however
hard you work. Second, you will earn no encouragement and not even an
occasional friendly word, but heaven help you if you leave off a subject
line. Third, you can't eat ego, so be sure you have things nailed down,
fiduciaryly speaking, before you uncork the bottle, and you might even
consider uncorking a rum bottle at the same time, because the genie is
likely not likely to live up to expectations. Mine was born of history and
nurtured with tons of books and magazines and yet has matured as a useless
thing, not returning a dime on my investment. Of course, I blame it all on
the Jews. In my mind, if it wasn't for them, I'd have been published,
paid, stroked and petted for the last twenty years. Inevitably, this would
have stunted the growth of a literary colossus, so don't you-all go around
sayin' no Jew never done you no favors like all the years of Eddie Haskell,
Gabe Kaplan and the charming mother/daughter duo on "Little House." I
believe one hundred percent in absolutely nothing paranormal or extra
sensory, past, present or future, but I do think there's a chance the chief
Nazis might start laughing so hard and creating such a ruckus with their
delighted screams of We Told You So that they might be ejected from heaven
for unseemly behavior. Serves them right, they were a brutal and bumptious
lot, but it's heaven nonetheless for their absolute heroism in standing
against a culture that boasts a warehouse in East Berlin containing 76,000
mailbags stuffed with dossiers on the neighborhood volk. Laughable, isn't
it, the brains of this culture are now clogging out beautiful new Net
structure with bogus and hysterically purveyed privacy and security issues
as fast as they can be taped and disseminated.
There's Buzz Aldrin [not in spell-checker] proving age brings no
trace of wisdom. He's still pitching space travel. Guess you can't teach
an old dog any tricks at all. He's even into survival of the species in
off-planet habitats. Personally, I think our end is so near, and will
happen so fast, we won't have much time to weep over the incalculable waste
of NASA, but I could be wrong.
I just had a great idea. A television remote built into the handle
of a fan. About the size of a ping-pong paddle, but with a side mounted
handle. I have a hand fan, my Arthur D. Little Enterprises brochure.
Perfect size and weight. A hand fan can greatly increase your comfort in
warmish conditions, save on a/c. The salvation of a nation in a device as
old as China. Ergonomically shaped, light flexible blade mounted so its
about a 45-degree angle to the handle. If the fan-blade part could be
removed it could be replaced if necessary, and, also, reversed for
left-handed users. The only downer I can come up with on this, is that by
giving the remote control a second use, people might tend to carry it off.
On the other hand, it would be much bigger than the current units. Devices
should be sold in pairs, one with the simple remote, and one with a plain
handle. . I can't come up with a name for the remote-o-fan ("Fan-cy
Flicker?") at the moment, besides, I have a feeling you're here to have
your temp raised, not talk about industrial design as applied to innovative
appliances.
Another concept is an amusement park ride called "Nothin' but
Speed." For older riders, saner riders. You know the kind. Enormously
high, enormously fast, but in a straight line, probably with the track
running through structure (maybe the framework of a conventional twisting
coaster) to intensify the speed factor. Hill at each end. Flat run should
be half a mile or more. Passengers can either return backwards, or the
seats can be flipped on a short stop, or a turntable could be used.
Construction should be wood. Simple, safe, cheap, and with speeds over 120
mph, not unexciting. Alternate name might be "Screaming Mimi." Effective
marketing hook would be to have two trains starting at the same moment. At
non-peak times, the riders of the winning train could have their fare
refunded. Even possible to run three or more abreast, due to utterly
simple layout.
. . .
"We believe," Kit repeated, "that in the era of clap and claptrap
there is enough danger and distortion, and I think we beat the glad-handing
preacher with his robust interest in the Sunday scholars. I guess you
could say the family that lays together stays together, especially if a
little new blood comes along once in awhile. Plus, you're cute."
"You're cute, too," the twenty-five-year-old biker replied. "In
fact," his voice dropped slightly, "I was wondering if you wanted anything
to happen, you know, between us when we're with the child.?"
"With or without," Kit whispered back.
"That's how I feel, too," his new friend whispered back.
They affirmed that they really, really liked each other. It was
obvious, but both felt good saying it out loud. Kit went on with the his
story of Sammy-Song.
"Daddy," the slightly husky eight year old finally, said. She'd
been pensive and it was now Thursday, with just Friday to go before the big
day, or big night as it would be amongst responsible farmers. "Since you
went camping to get engaged to mom, can we do something else?"
"Jewels and the Riviera, or Africa and mongese?" her father
whispered, nuzzling the pretty child, his hands on her husky chest with
thumbs just below her nipples.
"Don't be silly," the girl whispered back. "I'm your daughter, not
a floozy or a bimbo. I don't want diamonds or snake eating rodents, well,
no more than any kid would, I just want to do something different than
camping.."
"How about a cruise, like your little friend?" Kit asked his
daughter.
"Not with the markets down," Samantha said. "We can invest that
kind of money and it'll be worth twenty grand by the time I can drive.
Then I'll know my daddy loves me."
Kit did not have to interrupt his narrative to speak out loud of his
clever heir, his eyes spoke for him.
"What then?" Kit had asked.
"Naturism," she said in answer. "Sara Jensen searched Plunkett
Worldwide's resource center and lo and behold, there's a licensed facility
not an hour from here. Hiking and canoes, canoes, canoes. At a third the
price of a food boat. It's called Candy Cane Farm; eight hundred acres
that cross a major hiking trail. It gets no stars, but, as they say in the
business, location is everything. And it's located just where daddies take
their little blossoms and pumpkins, also their little boys who can go to a
separate side than their dads to be naturalistic. And a lot of brothers
and sisters, too. Just not too many women except for emotionally developed
cuties like mom."
The girl sighed at the conclusion of her little speech. Her dad's
hands felt delicious on her, and she was very glad some of their future
events could be in front of her mom. Friday night to go, and her pajama
top would be off. He'd be touching her naked chest the way he was touching
her now, only a little higher so he could play with her pretty little
girlish nipples, which throbbed and tingled at the thought. She could feel
his bone-hard penis like a log against her bottom. She wondered how many
little girls loved the feeling as much as she did, but had to be all afraid
of it. And how about not ever knowing? Just being a kid until you were
eighteen? Taking your dad just as a dad, no secret stuff? She'd had eight
years of that, and it had been great. Her mom had been raped repeatedly,
if gently, by her grandfather, and as soon as she'd understood, it had been
a whole new world in her life that continued to what uncle Adam was going
to be doing to her while she was away at camp with her dad. She was so
horny for him her mind's only focus was to give him a daughter of their
own, as soon as possible.
At the camp, Samantha's carefully chosen questions boiled down to
How much can I learn at once? She was neither pedantic nor mathematical on
the subject, but did want to have her ducks in a row. Methodical, or not,
as time went on, she certainly was one to start at the beginning. She
spotted Armando, a tall, rangy Mexican with craggy Indio features, ahead of
them in the check in line. "Second duck," she whispered to her dad, who
was pleased to be first in whatever pecking order the little camp director
ordered up to suit her imagination. The second duck was with an older
male, who hugged him and split off to the northern pool area while the
handsome boy took the south entrance and spotted Samantha and her cute
young father the instant that his curiosity led him to cast a glance over
his shoulder to check out the new arrivals. As a father/daughter couple,
Kit and Samantha could choose either entrance, and both thought it
convenient they didn't have to dither. Armando waited for them just inside
the south park gate and they came together in the manner of magnets, with
very few words.
The pool, itself, was suit-optional, and most of the guests wore
trunks and bikinis. About a hundred people present, they figured. It was
no convention of the narcissistic, nor a coven of sleazeballs and lecherous
libertines. Ages ranged down from youngish fifties to a couple of tadpoles
who were six, and a few seven-year-old minnows. The nudists were, for the
most part, a large group of young servicemen, as well as a boy they had
with them who looked about twelve. Samantha was happy to see that males
outnumbered females by about ten to one. For her money the Plunkett
organization could keep it's Candy Cane, and call the farm the Happy
Hunting Ground. For a moment she was almost chagrinned at meeting Armando
at the get-go. It would have been more intriguing to at least have
something of a look, but she was far from complaining, and the less so when
the strapping sixteen year old emerged from his cabana in a standard pair
of swimming trunks.
"Oh, Daddy, isn't he beautiful," the girl sighed as she saw him walk
toward their table. In a second she added, "Can I stand up, or would that
be bimboesque?"
"They have a national brand of white bread in Mexico," her dad
replied, "named Bimbo. My guess is, he'll feel right at home." She
giggled cheerily and stood as the tall teenager approached. They shook
hands shyly and sat again to eat and chat. It was hard to concentrate
because people would meet, then play together in the pool, then disappear
in pairs and small groups through the gate at the far end, sometimes
shucking their suits as they passed into the second pool area and forest
beyond. They held their cool, all new to the scene, until the dozen young
soldiers walked off with their naked boy. It was lucky a large group
happened to return at the same time, or the place would have had a lesser
look. It was so exciting, just watching, conversation almost broke down
entirely as Kit, Armando and the young female watched the rhythms of the
happy and friendly crowd.
Samantha and Armando shared a passion for horses, and Kit was glad
to see they found something to say to each other. The boy's English was
good with a light and pleasant accent rather than the cloying and
deliberately annoying Hispanic sing-song that had removed Santa Fe from his
vacation list some years earlier. Too bad, because it was the only place
on earth one could wear turquoise.
Samantha was charmed to be able to try out some of her home-school
Spanish, and for moments at a time they could have been any threesome
sitting around any pool, anywhere. At other moments, when a particularly
attractive or interesting couple wandered toward the exit gate, their
attention wandered from the topic at hand. The biggest thrill was learning
Armando was going to be there for two full weeks, just as they were. That
took the hots off the situation and allowed the eight-year-old girl to
contemplate her ducks with an unhurried grace. Both her males had been
obviously huge inside their trunks from her first look, and still were. It
was electrifying just to sit back in her dad's lap and play footsies with
Armando's strong, tan legs. He had big feet and slightly knobby knees.
She coordinated these with the size of his penis, oh, he tried to hide it
in a pleasingly modest way, but indexed to the knees and hoofs, "it" was
never far from her mind.
Kit kept a light touch on the reins. Hell, let her fall in love.
She was already rattling to twenty-five and back with perfect diction. He
hadn't been able to teach her that, simply because his pronunciation wasn't
nearly native. Young brains learned fast. Young hormones learned
instantly, and worked even faster, so Kit held the reins, the bit gently
planted, for almost an hour. The population of the pool area had balanced
out and there were awesome distractions, a six-four Icelandic lad with a
seven-year-old minnow, gender, female, for example. Watching them cavort
in a non showy and increasingly secretive way was to watch a lifetime of
affection yield to its ultimate expression, which would add many years of
intense happiness and satisfaction to both lives, and perhaps to tolerant
lives around them, say, at Candy Cane Farm.
In the pool area there was no open display; games typical to most
such arenas which often mellowed out to huddling pairs that soon vacated to
the nude pool and trails beyond. The Icelandic couple displayed for less
than half an hour, and all were amazed they were able to last that long.
That was almost enough to trigger Kit's nod that would take them to the
gate, and, indeed, he'd just made up his mind he couldn't stand looking at
Armando in his bathing suit for another full second when it happened.
She walked in.
Kit saw her first in his daughter's eyes, which actually left
Armando's handsome face for several full seconds.
"She's here," the girls whispered, almost choking with excitement.
And she was, indeed. Naturally, taller and leggier than at the time
she'd made the commercial, but easily recognizable at fifty feet. Escorted
by a tall red-headed boy, Armando's age, obviously her brother. Speaking
of Armando, the same magnet worked again, just as it had with Sammy-Song.
Kit was beginning to wonder about the handsome Mexican, was he a rookie
Babe Ruth in the Don Juan league? Certainly not in the temperament
department. Armando couldn't have been nicer. He stood politely as the
little star, who he'd seen many times on cable, but of whom he did not
happen to have a custom made loop video running to five minutes,
approached, eyes glowing and under the protective wing of big brother, who
was half on fire, himself..
It was thus that the trip to the gate, known lewdly by the fresher
kids, very, very few of them allowed on the premise, as the pearly-jam
gates, was postponed for another pleasant half hour of conversation. Susan
and Billy Ketchum were the names of the newcomers, and Susan graciously
circled the pool shaking hands and signing a few autographs. It was
indicative of the quality of Plunkett management that every male and female
at the pool understood the little redhead and her brother had decided on
keeping company with the threesome they'd chosen, and that was, happily for
all, that.
Susan joined Sammy-Song in questioning Armando about his father's
Arabian collection, and Kit and Billy found they both liked tractor pulls,
and diesels, in general. Kit hooked the boy by telling him about an
aircraft diesel he'd seen at the Smithsonian. The placard said it had been
perfected in the early Fifties, but never produced because turbines came in
at the same time. Both males agreed it was a technology that should be
reinvestigated, because if aviation wasn't augmented by heavy reliance on
the secondary tier, hubs were going to become permanent madhouses and
eventually destroy the entire system. Diesel engines, with their extreme
economy, should be able to fill a vast short-hop market for both passengers
and second-priority freight. It was also entirely possible modern
technology could come up with effective vibration dampers and
sound-canceling chambers that would make the engines more suitable for
commercial use.
If America didn't lighten up on its urban areas the place was going
to congeal and collapse of and under congestion, alone. Their discussion
quickly incorporated Broadband data distribution focused on selected
outlying areas, highly subsidized until some degree of rationality had been
restored to population balances. They agreed there was no other solution
to locked-up urban environments in which drivel was downloaded over fiber
optic cable while any real future amounted to an immobile feast of busy
signals, red lights and full parking lots.
All anyone who lives in any city ever talks about is the
restaurants, both agreed, adding, to each other, for they'd instantly
become all that close, that there was every chance of having good
restaurants in the country, where all the food came from. Even at the
respective ages of twenty and sixteen, Kit and Billy agreed that the
theater and all other forms of culture had been so watered-down in recent
years there was nothing to see worth the time and effort to see it. Mathew
Broderick yelling his head off for two hours? Cats? And you'd cross the
street for them? Well, maybe if you were from Peoria and had to tell the
girls something about your expensive trip like the pathetic bag of American
woman telling her friend about being pampered in the salon of her
brand-name cruise ship. It sometimes appears that for all the brilliant
inventions and concepts on these pages, the real money maker will be a
disposable plastic pillow case, like Saran wrap, to protect the feathers
from the tears tomorrows thirty and forty-somethings are going to weep for
all the money they wasted on nothing to the trivial power, and financed
over the decades.
None of Kit's new friends rock climbed, none of them bungee jumped,
none of them wanted to bid three thousand dollars for Madonna tickets on
eBay. They all read and rode horses. How cool was that?
Samantha chewed her lip for a few seconds, then poked Susan. She
pulled her telephone from her beach bag and turned it on. "Would you say
hi to my mom," she asked. "She's home with her twin brother, Adam, while
dad and I are here with Armando."
Susan graciously chatted with Sandi and laughed and pinched her new
friend when she heard about the endless hula tape. "She sounds nice," the
girl said after handing back the telephone. Samantha made sure it was off
and slipped it back into her bag.
It was now about one p.m. They'd sloshed through what alcohol the
management had served and were feeling a special glow of bonhomie. Hail
fellows, well met, and it was hard to imagine being better met than having
once watched one's new acquaintance, as an adoring fan. After awhile, the
conversation wound its way down. They were all pleasantly surprised they'd
had so much to say to each other, and were secretly excited by having
managed to chat pleasantly away under a veritable big-top of high-wire
distractions. While the trio's thoughts were with the blond-headed twelve
year old who'd gone off with the Marines, the new duo had arrived just in
time to see the last minutes of the tall, boyish blond father and his
minnow daughter make their exit, both of them naked as they'd walked hand
in hand to the hidden pool and forest paths, beyond.
Kit, still the eldest and in passive command, finally nodded his
head. By accord, they skipped the pool and headed for the exit gate.
Twenty feet before the portal there was a bench with a sign that read
`Newcomers.' They'd seen other couples and small groups occupy it for a
few minutes before leaving the public pool area, and did the same. Once
seated, it became pretty obvious what they were there to talk about. A map
was painted on the backrest and it indicated split paths just before the
private pool, not Feng Shui, but one for those who wished to keep their
suits on, and the other, for nude (but never nude, only) hiking. Thus the
list of things to talk about at a certain time and in a certain place was
insinuated skillfully by Plunkett management.
The lushly illustrated map stimulated a whispered discussion of what
they knew, what they thought they knew, what they thought, what they would
think, if they could think, and so on, degenerating until they sat half
panting with excitement and anticipation, exactly as the Plunkett
associates intended. Kit, as the twenty-year-old father, guided the
discussion, and, like a prince fearing a palace revolt, I fear a reader
revolt, and so will not plod through story after story of Armando, Susan
and her brother. Suffice it to say, all but Kit were technical virgins.
Well read, occasionally voyeuristic, but only Billy had seen a mature male
orgasm. Armando, it turned out, had not even seen his own.
Susan's agent had sent her client to the camp because the hostelry
had a nearly perfect record of preserving the smiles and good natures of
child actors set loose to make a living under predatory realities, partly
the legacy of Swifty Lazar. That the little actress had a mountain-size
crush on her friendly big bro had inspired the appearance of the young
couple at the secret sanctuary. Indeed, the studio system occasionally
showed glimmers of working, because that killer smile wasn't going
anywhere. The brother and sister were practically inside each other
already, practically gobbling each other up these many months from the
holidays. Armando was a potent combination of aphrodisiac and catalyst, at
once beautifully boy and very young man. Aside from the rockin' smoothies,
Mexico turned out some awesomely sexy young men.
"I wonder what this place is like on Father's Day," Kit mused, glad
to be a father, every day. He'd kept his girl active and within five
pounds of slim. Very comforting pounds in the present era. She was
athletic more than graceful and flowing, yet a million miles from anything
resembling a fire plug. Her chest was beautiful under her bikini top and
even Susan was staring repeatedly as they discussed whether or not they
should start out on the modest path, or go by the mature pool, where things
might be happening. Kit sensed a preference for the former, in Armando,
and could understand a foreigner being bit overwhelmed at the gaudy
poltroonery of the American masses, in general, to say nothing of the
variant agenda of a small segment of the intelligentsia. Of course, Mexico
had lots of the same activities, special ranches for special friendships,
and steam baths, galore, but Camp Candy Cane was como gringo to the max
with its lazzaies fair recreational model and preponderance of white skins.
Kit could understand why he might want to keep his suit, and with a nod
they passed through the pearly gates and wound their way into the deep
forest, each, sure in his or her mind that he or she was the world's
happiest camper.
The pair of eight-year-old females squired Armando. Kit held hands
with Billy as they walked behind their respective daughter and sister,
being careful not to stop when the little girls did. The carelessness of
the group, in general, caused several minor collisions and they were glad
to come to a side trail with a cool looking marble bench. Off one end,
improbably, was a well-shined brass hat stand festooned with dry and damp
bathing suits. These were fun for the young of the tribe to try on and
there was much speculation as to ages and physiques of the owners. Kit
found it exciting when Susan talked her brother into wearing a female's
suit. The boy postured, then obeyed, and emerged in a few minutes, finally
shirtless and wearing bra and panties, his penis huge, the shaft obviously
bent to his right. He looked awesome to his four companions and they
huddled to him, Kit messaging the teen just below his belly button while
the girls ran their fingers over his inner thighs and Armando slipped
behind his fellow teen and surged gently against him as he ran is fingers
under the boy's bra. Kit saw the eager look in Susan's eyes as she stared
at what Armando was doing to her brother and immediately understood the
girl's longing. He boosted the child so her pretty face was nose to nose
with her athletic brother. She nodded and Billy's hands came slowly up
from his hips to her soft female flanks, then wandered across her belly and
chest, finally coming to rest where Armando's fingers were on him, under
the bra.
"This is called feeling up," he whispered as Kit shinned the girl
close so she could hear her brother.
"It feels nice," the girl replied, looking into the eyes of her
young stablemate stallion.
"You're so beautiful," the brother whispered.
"You are, too," the sister replied.
Having demonstrated their firm grasp of the obvious in a verbal
manner, albeit whispered, the new lovers ventured in a more physical
direction.
Susan leaned close to her brother's ear and whispered so softly
everyone had to strain to hear. "Do you want to be the first one naked?"
she asked.
"If you want me to," Billy whispered back. The child looked around
for approval and caught Sammy-Song's eyes which immediately went to her
dad's. Armando whispered to Billy, then released him so he could boost the
girl to her father. Kit's fingers left Billy's belly, where they'd
advanced very close to the boy's bikini line, and went to his daughter's
chest. In, under her wisp of a top. Armando took charge of the tableau
and gently maneuvered his players so the two young girls were on their
knees, stretched to the marble bench, while their males were mounted doggie
style, the better to molest their little girls. Armando knelt between the
couples, his arms steadying the powerful males as they removed the bras and
continued fondling the young females, while the tall Mexican boy removed
Billy's top and eased it from between the two young bodies. Susan gave
Armando's hand a squeeze of thanks and then squeezed again. This could
have only one meaning..
Armando's hands went to Billy's waist. The sixteen year old
responded instantly to his touch, rising his hips off his little sister's
bottom. The lanky Indio couldn't refrain from fondling his age-mate inside
the little bikini for some moments, but soon enough he had the boy skinned
naked.
The shock of her brother naked between her legs, and pushed hard
against her pretty-girl belly fired a rocket inside Susan. She squatted
against him as he rose and thrust against her. She grunted from the effect
of her orgasm, at its hot suddenness.
Armando ran interference and gently separated the twining couples.
One orgasm was enough at this point, so early on the trail. There were
bound to be other side paths and benches. The panting couples took
independent positions leaning against the bench, and in a minute or two
their panting had ceased and they were giving the interloper grateful
looks. It was impossible to believe the kaleidoscope of passion tumbling
over lust might be repeated, at the same time, absolutely impossible to
believe it would not.
Billy was naked now, his suit and the borrowed girl's suit adorning
the brass rack along with the bikini tops of the two young girls. Susan
needed guidance along the trail, so Armando held her right arm like a
cameraman's assistant, allowing the cutie to stare at her brother as he
walked along with his beautiful circumcised penis jutting high from his
waist. Without her guide she would have tripped on everything, but with a
little help from her friend she made her way along, safely, half sideways
due to the influence of secular rapture. The thought that Billy could be
in her, and was full of sperm, to boot, simply made the eight-year-old's
head swim, and Armando had his hands full of sleek girl child as he steered
the almost naked nymph along the path leading ever deeper into the heavy
forest.
Kit had boosted his daughter to his shoulders and the impromptu
guide and group safety officer was relieved that there were no low branches
overhanging this section of the trail, because the girl's attention was
diverted and in her distracted and irresponsible state she'd have come a
cropper on the first widow maker she and her tall dad came to. Armando was
assisted in his efforts by the fact the pathway was graciously wide and
smoothly graded. Truth to tell, the girl was in little danger, even riding
so high on her dad, and, though he was more than nice enough to work in
Santa's toy shop, it was possible Armando was acting, for the moment, a
trifle officiously, merely as an excuse to touch both Kit and his naked
princess.
Billy, sensationally speaking, was excited walking along holding
his cute kid sis's hand while she stared at the biggest erection the teen
had ever achieved in his life. Armando was also obviously swollen, and
this youth couldn't help wondered when some busy little-girl fingers would
explore and strip him naked so he could feel like Billy as he walked along,
maybe showing off just a little bit. Even with his suit still on, Kit
appeared to be the biggest of them all, but that was to be expected. He
was a twenty-year-old man. Was he ever, thought little Samantha, as
entranced by the huge bulge tenting her dad's suit, almost to the degree
she was mesmerized by Billy's stark and carnal nakedness.
So they walked for about half a mile into the forest, Billy holding
his sister's left hand in his right, as Armando looked ahead once in awhile
and guided them. Samantha was bent double on her dad's shoulders,
alternately whispering to him and looking down at the boys walking close at
their side.
"I think we can go either way..."
The voice was startlingly close, maybe a hundred feet in front.
Clear, young male. For an instant, Billy's companions circled him in an
attempt at modesty, then they remembered where they were and eased back to
their walking stations. Other voices surrounded that of the distant boy,
and, although Kit's group couldn't hear everything that was said, the gist
of the discussion seemed to be getting the boy back to the pool, before he
dried. While this was not the mystery of the ages, which, by the way, is
why one writer should get all the talent, it was puzzling for the few
seconds it took for the approaching parties to close the gap between them.
It was the boy and the Marines. Wet? Wet wasn't half the story.
Outnumbered a dozen to one, the child had apparently surrendered to the
overpowering masculinity of his company. Completely and unconditionally,
judging by the slick condition of his chest and thighs. His smile was
further indication that lewd and indiscrete activities had occurred, very
recently.
The group of five and group of thirteen came to a stop mere feet
from each other. Samantha and Susan gazed at the boy is special awe. His
friends had been very generous with him, especially on his naked chest and
belly. What these mature soldiers had done to the slim, blond, pre-teen
cutie was, in the frisky mind of the highly intelligent Samantha, a whore
crime.
From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli. The few, the
proud, the Marines, and friend. Kit noted wryly that the kid could be
folded into a duffle bag and wondered what his future might hold, since it
was apparently to include a dozen tall, handsome, and dedicated bodyguards.
"Is it all sperm?" Susan wondered aloud, approaching the boy shyly
and making furrows in the semen thickly covering his belly.
"They all wanted to," the child whispered in answer.
"How did they do it?" Samantha asked. She'd huddled in beside her
young female friend. The curiosity of two bright minds focused itself into
four pretty eyes against the boy's two eyes. Outnumbered once again,
little Francis capitulated.
"Do you want to see?" he whispered back.
It seemed impossible, but the eyes brightened further as the pretty
eight year olds nodded in sync.
"We do it like dancing," Francis explained. In truth, in was more
like gymnastics, what with no music. The boy's companions took positions
around the child, some cradling him comfortably, others fondling him from
the back, and most forming a lateral file to present themselves for the
boy's strong and eager hands. As on court, gridiron, or diamond, teamwork
paid off. Wetting his right palm with the copious sperm slicked flagrantly
over his torso, Francis began masturbating a young lieutenant, beckoning
Samantha with his eyes to come and help him doing what he doing to the
athletic young soldier standing between his young, pale legs. Of course,
the girl didn't know the strapping Marine was an officer, which was sad,
because she was a savvy creature and would have been impressed. She just
put her left arm around the waist of the young man, easing it between
another powerful male who had mounted from the rear, then reached around to
let her right hand be taken by Francis so he could guide her and teach her.
"Do you like it?" Francis whispered to the girl.
"It's hot and hard. "
"Extra," the boy explained. "The lieutenant was saving so he could
show off when we get back to the pool, you know, live up the code of an
officer who will do anything he asks of his subordinates. It should be
very special, like the big burst that comes at the climax of fireworks."
"Can I touch yours," Sammy-Song whispered to Frances.
" Get some more sperm off me," the boy instructed. The girl palmed
him until she was dripping and the young Marine holding Francis positioned
the boy for the girl. Her hand went to the child's impressive five inch
penis, and she did the same thing to the boy that he was doing to the young
man, copying his strokes and rhythms as closely as she could, and
improvising when necessary.
Susan instinctively moved in to help her darling friend stroke the
athletic soldier, and the tableau was quickly adjusted to accommodate her.
The new arrangement, though entirely satisfactory to all concerned, did not
last long. With a grunt suitable to taking a hit, it was over for the
young lieutenant. The two little girls were transfixed with what was
happening, apparently all over everything and for sure all over them and
little Francis. It was an exciting way to be introduced to the bees, and
the little girls knew it was going to be an even greater thrill to be
introduced to the birds. Wet, not as much as little Francis, but way not
dry, the quintet separated from the squadron, with an invitation extended
and accepted to bivouac in the immediate future. The camp within a camp,
something the author is an expert on, was not bent on hostilities, or even
training for hostilities, but, rather, planned a series of night emissions
that had nothing to do with electronics. Well dated up for the evening, by
everyone's standards, Kit's group headed deeper into the cool and exciting
forest.
The next two benches the group came to were occupied. Responding to
welcoming looks, they joined, as spectators, a father and his
eleven-year-old-girl and, awhile later, a scout leader with his favorite
cub scout. It turned out the little girl had been extensively molested by
her piano teacher, and she received her handsome young father in the
missionary position with a wild, yelping abandon. The little scout was
nervous about what his leader was doing to him and took comfort in the
girls his own age covered with what a man had done to them. He let his
leader pull his underpants down and returned the favor, settling into his
lover's lap and soon making himself slick and wet just like Susan and
Samantha. In something over half an hour the little group of explorers had
left behind a happy daughter and a happy cup scout. How far could you take
the Song of Solomon without exceeding its implicit wisdom? To the extent
the Marines were pretty obviously taking young Francis back at the hidden
pool? Who knew? but, there was more than fun, theology and science to
inspire experimenting with the vastly exciting possibilities.
Too exciting for Armando. They hadn't proceeded a hundred yards
beyond the scene of the scoutmaster and his tenderfoot when the tall
Mexican stopped in his tracks in the middle of the trail. Billy, being
almost exactly in the same condition as his new friend, realized instantly
what was happening. He squeezed his sister's hand as a signal and the
little girl let him go to help his friend. Billy responded by dropping to
his knees and pulling Armando's suit to his ankles. The lithe Indian had
just time to step free of his shorts and spread his legs wide as Kit
grabbed him around his chest from the rear. Then he was doing what the
lieutenant and the scout leader had done. Spraying long, thick spurts of
white sperm all over everybody. As they gathered in close to watch he kept
grunting and panting and sweating and cumming. Since he was Sammy-Song's
particular catch, she took most of him on her bare chest and belly and used
her hands the way she had on the young Marine, which redoubled the
forcefulness of her boyfriend's hot sharing with her in his exciting new
way. It was hard to believe he would soon being doing that inside her,
after her dad had done it. She could see the glow in Susan's eyes and
realized her little friend was probably having identical thoughts about her
beautiful older brother. It had been fun with the young officer, with
Armando, it was more than. It was intimate and sensual rather than being
dramatic and novel, and, since Samantha loved Armando, it ended with the
tip of the shaking boy's big penis in her mouth as she let the boy cum on
the tip of her tongue as well as all over her lips and pretty teeth. Kit
was thrilled to see his little girl bring the tall dark stranger totally
alive, all over again, in a manner of speaking, and he held the youth
tightly in his powerful arms as the teen panted and bucked wildly in his
hands, somehow articulating his shuddering climax around his spurting penis
and managing not to dislodge it from the pretty lips of his little
Sammy-Song. He was helped in steadying the newly naked boy by Billy and
Susan who pressed in tightly from Armando's sides and ran their fingers
over sensitive parts of his body.
Kit and Billy were both excited at seeing their young incest
partners sharing the sperm of the tall Mexican boy. They picked their
girls up and hurried the remaining yards to the next side path with its
grotto and bench. No brass hatrack was supplied, and the wise minds of the
group attributed this to the fact that it would be a waste of Plunkett
resources to provide and polish an accoutrement that would probably rarely
be used. They wondered if Armando might not have remained in his suit
longer than most males who took the path. Not that it mattered; he'd
performed spectacularly and little Sammy-Song was clinging to his hand as
her father carried her into the pretty rest area.
. . .
At this point in the story of what had happened to his uncle's
friend, Kit, Brad broke into his chronology. John had been fondling him
affectionately while the boy had been setting his scenes and embellishing
them with detail. Both the males by the cold Yamaha were by now in a high
state of excitement, and Brad, the eleven year old, held off his ardent and
handsome companion with whispers and gently defensive fingers. He wasn't
trying to turn things off, but rather it was time to test his new
invention, and that could only be done under the most particular of
circumstances. He persisted gently, kindly, and with many kisses, finally
gaining his feet, then hauling John after him. Both completely naked now,
the boy and athletic biker walked slowly to the motorcycle with the man hot
on the youngster's tail. Brad's backpack was propped against the rear
wheel of the machine and both males stooped, one on top of the other, to
retrieve the pack and, four-legged, walk it back to the blanket, where they
came to their knees..
Brad was thrilled with the ardent attention of the older male. The
biker was well primed for the experiment, plus it bode well for continuing
on together after the passions of their first time together were satiated,
surely sometime in the new century. "Complete and..." Brad thought to
himself as they huddled over the mysterious backpack. Both partners seemed
to have to kiss a lot and John was open in fondling the eleven year old's
jutting penis and receiving his touching in return. It seemed impossible
to break off for any amount of time, for anything. "Is something more
than, or less than, impossible?" John wondered to himself as he yielded to
the boy's persistent efforts to deal with whatever was in his bag of
tricks. "This better be good," he concluded to himself as he bent to the
task at hand, which was unfastening the pack.
"It solves an age-old problem," the eleven-year-old boy explained as
he began pulling out his magic spell outfit. This left John feeling a bit
nonplussed, because, for the life of him, he could think of no problem
likely to attach itself to his willing young friend in the present
situation. Little did he know.
"What's it called?" John asked .
The naked boy blushed and said he'd divulge the name later, because
it was too descriptive and would give away the secret. "Well, something
better do that," John mused as he watched the boy rummage in his careful,
methodical way. He thought of the patience required to fabricate the
beautiful shipyard dioramas the boy had wrought and hoped the assembly of
whatever it was wouldn't run into the hours. Even minutes, for that
matter. They'd lain together for half the afternoon, telling and listening
to stories, and apparently that was enough for young Brad, because he
wasted no time in hauling forth his plunder.
First was a pair of foam pads neatly encased in soft leather. Then
strapping. It was all utterly mysterious. Were they going swimming? That
wasn't even funny. More stuff. Wires and two small wooden boxes. With
sunglasses? Not. Bigger. What? Video games? Impossible. Not the time.
Not the place. He needn't have worried. Neither must the reader. It was
not some porn thing or the other, well, not exactly.
Displaying his wares with impeccable cuteness the boy held up one
of the leather covered foam blocks and pulled a Velcro strap. "There are
two lenses, for 3-D," the boy explained. Indeed, two tiny holes in one of
the blocks fronted miniature lenses a little more than an inch apart.
Around them, superbly executed, were rosettes of grain-of-wheat light
bulbs. Behind the lenses were circuit boards, with wires neatly soldered
and bundled, leading to a pair of jacks mounted to an aluminum plate and
neatly let into the leather covering. A set of batteries completed the
obvious components, and, again, they were beautifully crafted into the
strange device. Brad flipped a switch and was rewarded with some green
diodes and a single beep from a tiny speaker. The christless thing was
actually booting, but for what?
As he began to comprehend Brad's device, John had every difficulty
with his insight. How smart could a kid be? Eleven. Sure, his models and
dioramas were to die for, but there was nothing bold and innovative about
the craft, or art, at the level Brad practiced it. But here? Sure, the
craftsmanship was impeccable, but the invention, itself, was the thing.
Full discovery took several moments, then, yes, it was as he
thought. In fact, John was actually congratulating himself on being alert
enough just to figure the thing out before it was fully explained by the
young wonder.
Brad slipped the webbing over his head and John assisted by clipping
a couple of plastic buckles positioned at the boy's back. For all the
world it looked like an alternative life vest, with two vertical members
about eight inches apart. Brad's glasses were connected by a short cable
and John's by a longer wire. In the eyepieces affixed to the glasses was a
clear image generated by the tiny spy cameras. Of? Well, as the males
came back together, making up for lost time in the kissing department, all
became not only crystal clear, but three-dimensional, as well.
Since the dawn of perversion, homosexuals have been faced with a
seemingly insurmountable problem. How to simultaneously kiss your partner,
and thrill to the visual excitement of his climax. The foam pads held
their bodies apart while the small lights embedded near the lenses provided
ample illumination. The images, for there were two of them, were
startlingly clear, one huge, in the background, the other just slightly
smaller and more delicate in form, inches from the two lenses. The tips of
both shafts were slightly high on the micro-screens, a problem that was
solved by simple adjustments to Brad's harness.
Talk about awesome! Sure, kissing with the special glasses was just
slightly awkward, but the view of their throbbing man and boy cocks as they
did intimate things to each other with their tongues vastly made up for any
inconvenience. And whispering, as they positioned themselves against each
other, still on their knees, was going to go right off the scale. Even
being held a few inches apart along their torsos, so just their penises
touched, was an erotic element unto itself.
Since the kissing was less than perfectly comfortable, while
whispering was more than, Brad continued with the rendition of his uncle's
friend, Kit's story of what he'd done to the little girls.
. . .
Rape was in the air. Lust and passion hung over the little group of
foresters as they made their way deeper into the woods, Kit's bathing
trunks the only covering for the five young bodies. In their condition, it
was a good thing they were where they were, but this was a good thing that
could not last. No possible way. Just seeing each other and the
experimental touching they'd done on their barely one hour of walking had
been enough to endanger the virginity of the sprites with them. Adding
what they'd done with the young soldier and then the father's hard, fast
mounting of his daughter, and the things the scout master had done with his
little boy, all totaled a sensory overload that would have resulted in a
hot, hard pounding - consequences be damned - had not the ingénues been
beloved daughter and sister.
When they came to the next side path, Armando, rendered half-way
sane by recent events, took command of the little seal patrol.
Instinctively, the Mexican boy knew he had to protect the little girls, no
matter how much their partners loved them. If they fucked the kids, the
men would come almost immediately, and obviously very violently, and, while
the females, in spite of their tender age, might be able to take it, there
was little likelihood they'd enjoy the experience, nor would the males once
they'd spent themselves and realized what they'd done to their virgin
partners.
A number of benches graced this particular clearing, varying
considerably in height. Armando headed his group toward one that appeared
to be ideal. About a foot and a half off the ground, it seemed to have
been placed by some wicked kind of god at just the right height for the
nippers to kneel on and thus be elevated to a position from which they
could be very intimate with their male escorts. This was not lost on
Sammy-Song and Susan who wriggled happily onto the smooth, cool marble.
Kit and Billy took up positions on either side of the girls, who knelt
facing each other. Slowly the males came to each other, and the young
females. Armando straddled the bench behind Samantha and molested her wet
chest and belly while she stared at her father and Susan's brother as their
huge penises inched toward each other.
Susan took her brother and Sammy-Song took her dad. The males were
kept apart by the narrow marble bench, leaving room for the girls to do
what they'd practiced doing with other males. It was nice for Kit and
Billy that their respective daughter and sister had practiced with their
little-girl hands. They were spared the awkward vague pounding of the
enthusiastic amateur. Instead, the girls masturbated slowly and
deliberately, cupping balls with their dainty little left hands while
stroking smoothly and carefully with their right hands. They bent their
heads together so they touched, brow to brow, and stared down at what they
were doing to the young men. Armando hunched over his delicious little
Samantha, loving the feeling of her athletic muscles working rhythmically
as she started making love to her handsome young dad. At Armando's
prompting, both girls took a moment to run their right hands over their wet
chests, and now slick and slippery, they returned to the men.
Kit and Billy alternately stared down at the bobbing heads of their
industrious and obviously highly focused little girls, and kissed each
other, arms locking to give their shuddering bodies support against what
the females were doing to them. And doing now faster and more urgently.
"God," the men simultaneously whispered to themselves, "please, please
don't let them be racing."
As if. The lust in the girls for their lovers was in no way
competitive. They were a universal whole, with Armando, and any though of
outdoing or being outdone were as vague and far away as images of cold
gravy or pasta without salt. Nor were they locked in the here and now.
Love their men though they surely did, neither girl could keep her mind
entirely clear of images of what might be happening to little Francis back
at the pool, nor what might happen later that evening, and, in all
probability, the entire coming night. Both girls were a little stunned
with the realization this was their first time; if so much could happen
one's first time, well, what then? In pure happiness, the girls raised
their heads, as one, and kissed, instantly inspiring the men towering above
them to the same activity.
The stage was now set for Brad's invention. Kit's story, relayed by
his uncle, had inspired the boy to fabricate a prototype of his camera and
video screen device so that in future generations lovers would not have to
choose between the delirium of lips and tongues and the spectacle, equally
delirious, of being visually, and perhaps a bit voyeuristically, spellbound
by their partner's climax.
In the end, having seen both the lieutenant and Armando cum, the
girls remained locked to their boys as their hands made a final succession
of passages, firm and full-length, to start their shaking men. Billy was
first and Armando was thrilled with what his new friend did,
notwithstanding the temporizing effect of his, Armando's, almost fainting
ejaculation, but a few minutes before. That seemed a year ago to the
Mexican lad. Billy was, so far, beating them all. What the cub scout's
master had done on his bare white belly, what the young Marine had done;
probably what the father had done inside his daughter at their bench site.
Susan's brother was a gusher, not a sprayer. His sperm spurted only
a few inches, but it was creamy think and very white, and was produced by
the fourteen year old in seemingly unquenchable torrents. It curtained
over Susan's stroking little fist, shrouding it in a syrup of hot young
male seed. And more, and more. White, thick and endless it seemed to the
watching boy. Susan instinctively opened her hand at the first soaking
flow, palming her brother rich seed and stroking him with it as she again
clasped him and rubbed up and down.
Much of Billy's cum got on Kit, and Sammy-Song was not bashful about
blindly grasping for more as she stroked her father with incessant urgency.
Kit's spray was, oddly, more like a young teen. Watery, so much so it was
almost hard to see at first, then a bit thicker as it began flying and
splashing all over all four naked bodies. He was not discriminate with his
hard spray, nor was his daughter in the least caring. She kept doing it
and doing it, and he kept responding, grunting to her urgent strokes, and
rewarding her with as much love as lust.
For almost half a minute the climaxes overlapped, the pulsing thick
white cream from the boy mixing fluidly with the hot staccato spray of the
young father.
The girls did get to see some of what they had done to Kit and
Billy. By accord, they broke their kiss after they'd felt five or six hard
pulses from their boys, and, pushing slightly apart, they stared down,
thoughtfully moving their heads slightly apart so the males could look, if
they wished. By the time it began to be over, all eight eyes were fixed on
the flood of semen covering everything, even the faces of the pretty girls.
Then from the center of what was almost a little pond a hotly purple
mountain arose, fresh sperm dripping freely. It was Armando who had gently
repositioned little Sammy-Song and thrust up between her legs. The little
girl was thrilled to see her hand-picked lover emerge fresh and hot from
between her legs, and, wetting her hands, thoroughly, she grabbed his big
penis low with her left hand and high with her right hand and made him cum
on her almost immediately.
At this point in his story, Brad lost control. They actually made
it from whispering to kissing before anything exciting happened, and both,
realizing everything was soon going to be happening at once, had time to
focus their eyes on the tiny screens attached to their glasses. There they
were, color, three dimensional, extreme quality by virtue of the short,
direct hookup from the little cameras to the viewing screens. There they
were, and for all his money and support, Walt had never made a film like
this. "Forest of the Giant Milkweeds?" Would that due for a title? "The
Grapes of Splash?" Who needed a name? Give the story the dumbest most
prosaic name possible, the show was awesome; two huge male boners rubbing
against each other as the young man and the boy made each other cum just by
excitement, alone. As with Kit and Billy, the younger male,
eleven-year-old Brad, lost control first. And there it was. He was being
sucked by the boy's hot mouth on his tongue, and at exactly the same time,
was watching the child's semen spurt in heavy, long pulses all over both
their bellies.
In was un-fucking-believable. To feel Brad signal with his mouth,
then feel his naked body heave, his powerful muscles almost grunt with
seizure, and two seconds later see the hard spurt which covered them
randomly. Then there was another shock, and that was him. He came so fast
he saw it before he felt it. By the time he could signal Brad, he was
cumming on the boy's naked front just as vigorously as the boy was
continuing to cum on him. Both the males spent for so long a time they had
time to whisper a silent prayer for luck, and it was rewarded, leaving the
little lenses free of any blurring drop of fluid. So as they kissed beyond
where any others on earth had ever kissed, they double and tripled the
sensation by seeing what no others had ever seen.
It went on for so long, for each of them, they were almost getting
bored when it finally slowed and stopped. For a few moments they remained
kneeling against each other, then slowly fell to John's right, coming to a
panting position on their sides. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, they were the
two most satiated humans who had ever dwelt under the earthly sky.
"You're uncle is going to be very proud of you," John whispered to
his young friend.
"It works," the boy acknowledged, simultaneously panting and sighing
with contentment.
"More than," was all John had strength enough left to whisper. His
mind off sex, perhaps for the rest of his life, John reprised a notion that
had been popular through much of the previous century. "What will they
think of, next?" it went.
Outmoded of course. His young companion an exception that proved
the rule, most kids had an attitude closer to Who cares what they think of
next. Since there was nothing to think of, in the old-fashioned sense, art
was going to become the be-all, end-all of any civil connected with future
izations. Without stunning writers, society would die of the stripped
gears and worn threads of the very boredom that had driven peasants mad
enough to die, whole villages at a time, dancing the tarantula, or binge on
cults, ritual sacrifice, war, or plain-vanilla, down-home, insanity. After
all, how many ghost stories were there? How many venomous snakes? How
much freakish weather? How many behavioral disorders? Court shenanigans?
Lists of things, beloved of the documentary channels, more about which we
would not wish to know than we already do?
No indeed. None of the above. Swords would dull from overuse,
sorcerers end up incarcerated for practicing without licenses, dungeons
abandon to mosses and molds, and dragons, well, though they might drag on
for awhile, they were on at least the B route to extinction. Leaving?
Sex. It started the whole thing, after all, and, additionally, was a good
reason to ease up at the food trough. A good reason to make nice,
habitually. .And even if it was bad, well-written sex was the only fresh
snow for the eager otter wanting to get down the hill (and thus, pretty
good). Hope you enjoyed the slide.