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BEYOND BREWSTER (M/b/f, inc., rom., lit.)
by T.C. Emerson
BOOK I
"Daddy?" Billie-Jo asked, "do you remember Miss Fox from the open
house?" "She's your art teacher," Neil McAlester said, "sure, she seemed
very nice. A little young to be a teacher, I suppose, but then the police
are getting younger every year, so it may be something to do with
perspective." "The fossil and the fawn," the eleven-year-old giggled. "I
don't know what's going to happen when you reach thirty. A complete
mystery. Will you melt and run down the shower drain or get all crusty and
brittle like bread that's been left in the sun all day." "I haven't decided
that either," the young father laughed, "but what brought up Miss Fox? not
that you need a reason."
"Well," the pig-tailed dart of a girl responded, "some of the older
teachers thought it would be a good idea to make Nancy - Miss Fox - do the
dolls. Do you know what they are?" "Well," Neil hemmed, "I've got a
delicious one riding with me; sweet, cute as all get-out, and I wouldn't
trade her for a salad bowl full of snow." "How 'bout a punch bowl full of
punch?" the diminutive tigress asked. "As long as said bowl would fit on
the table in your doll house," the young father said, trying to get some
grip and trying not to be prejudiced or judgmental when it came to his own
flesh and blood, but she was, honest Injun, a supreme combination of girl
and boy, a gamin virago, oddly, until she donned her baseball cap, at which
instant, and all following instances, until she took it off, she looked
fragile and feminine. Now she was the pixie-cut tomboy asking about -
those - dolls, because her dollhouse was relegated to a nostalgic corner
of
her bedroom closet, only to be hauled out when Regina Maverick and other
girl/girl friends visited.
"I thought you had those in third grade," Neil noted. "That was nothing
but Introductory Nonsense," Billie-Jo chirped.
"I thought the point was that nothing be 'introduced'," the father
quipped savagely. He and the eleven year old shared reading duties, often
two hours of an evening, and had since the girl was three years old. She
did not talk like other children, even the educated ones, except with other
children, and he sometimes wondered if he hadn't unintentionally intruded
on her childhood, substituting the simple pleasures of toys, video games,
television, concerts, parties, clubs, sports, music, drama, and a short
list of other diversions, topped, of course, by boys, thought suitable and
proper, and thus encouraged, by the adult community, with half a library
of
ever thicker books, with ever finer print, and ever fewer pictures. In
short, had he done the kid wrong? Here she was talking about dolls when
she was usually more interested in topics like whether or not the Russians
had used an old ship to build a hydrogen bomb that could split the planet
in half, when they said they hadn't. Going retro at eleven? What had he
done? Her latest project had been an attempt to refute his, Neil's,
hypothesis that, when the final tally was added, Adolph Hitler would be
seen as the preservationist of free will and Churchill and Roosevelt would
be unmasked as face-proud monsters, willingly allied with Stalin, who had
something of a face of his own. It was the fulcrum of modern history, and
the girl had seemed secretly quite proud that her efforts to annul her
handsome dad's theory led to one dead end after another, ending, at least
as far as she'd gone, with the deductions that indeed the winners got to
write the history, making something of a clever game of it (will anyone
ever find out?), and that was the long and the short of it. Now her young
art teacher and dolls she'd had when she was nine. H'uh?
Nor was it a safe time to be talking, if he had the first inkling of
where the conversation might lead. They were on their way to a long
weekend at the beach, destination remote and lonely; surf, dunes, and
breeze for the bugs. Books and surf casting. Swimming, tanning, and
hanging out. Additionally, there'd been what Linda hadn't said which
included the whole gamut of behavior expected of a twenty-eight-year-old
male off in the tulies with a freshening minx of a pre-teen. Nope. Not
word one, and, if he interpreted with a razor ear, hadn't there been a
sensual lingering in her, Linda's, tone when she'd spoken of going to stay
with her father for the Fourth weekend; something of a passive, preoccupied
urgency? While none of his thoughts, of and by themselves, was anything
like coming across a man with a girl spread-eagle beneath him on a blanket
in the lee of a sand dune, they triggered a heat in his loins and Neil felt
himself pumping hard against the restriction of his jockey shorts.
"If there's a beginning," he suggested to the girl in the passenger
seat, "you might use it as a starting point." "Oh, clever, daddy," the girl
giggled, "that's just it. 'Beginnings.' That's what Miss Fox wanted to
talk about." "Well, then it looks like we're both on page one," the young
father allowed. "'In the beginning,'" quotth the child, "there were the
dolls. They made no sense, and it didn't seem to be because they weren't
meant to, I mean, since when were dolls ever meant to make sense? but,
rather, because Mrs. Isaacs was restricted by codes and protocols from
presenting anything but noncommittal, formula answers, forgivable, I
suppose, because next to behavioral scientists, preachers, politicians, and
lawyers, teachers are the most brainwashed category of society running
around loose." "Their needs for militancy and the adversarial paradigm of
the tradeunionist does interfere significantly with their classroom spirit,
their duties, and their humanity," Neil concurred with a nod. "Wouldn't
it
be comfortable to stay on such safe topics," the engineer mused to himself,
realizing, present company included, there was about as much of a chance
of
this as finding a bowl full of snow under a dune. Dune. Blanket. Man and
girl in full display of passion. Sanctuary? They were made of sand, for
god's sake - only the spiders and lizards could hide. (No walks in the
woods to get her out of sight.)
"Miss Fox, Nancy, thinks they're funny," Billie-Jo said, "she says
modern liberals are what humor is all about. They hair split and nitpick
every radioactive waste sight out of existence, leaving the stuff spread
all over the country, and the lot of us with a bright, glowing future."
"Well," mused her father, "they may not me as bad as you think. Don't
forget, they give you forty-seven years to pay if you want to buy a
raincoat to keep the dust off."
"We started talking about stuff like that," the girl went on, "but we
were each preaching to the choir, so, guess what? we changed the subject."
"I might have known," Neil McAlester said to Barbara, his daughter, tomboy
enough to have thrown something off the Tallahache bridge, and so Billie-Jo
McAlester. "And I knew you'd be a doll about it," the cutie replied with
a
smug glance. "Yes," her father responded, "we all have to begin,
somewhere." "It wasn't just me," the girl said, "Sonja Bristol and Meg
Carver, too. The three of us. Nancy asked us, individually, to have lunch
with her. She said she'd met our dads, and Sonja's three older brothers,
and her dad, and she wanted to talk with us, together, about mature things
having to do with what we'd learned in fourth grade. We talked it over,
the three of us girls, and agreed to join her, and not to squeal on her or
each other if she trusted us enough to be honest, no matter what she said,
unless she'd killed someone, and all of could tell she didn't have anything
like that in mind."
"Good," Neil commented, "too much loose sand on the Cape to make it a
comfortable place to camp with a partner nurturing homicidal proclivities."
"How 'bout just 'homo'?" the pixie asked brightly. (They were headed,
after all, to a site not twenty miles from P'town.) "Find me a boy half as
cute as you are," Neil replied, deciding, with a complete lack of
vulgarity, if you couldn't lick 'em, you might as well join 'em, "and you
can call him anything you like." "Now that you mention it," Billie-Jo said,
"Nancy said I might be cute enough to loosen you up pretty quick, you know,
when the time came." "To tell you the truth, darling," the father
responded, "your Miss Fox thinking the materialistic scuz responsible for
half-century credit cards should be run offshore on a rail, and the fact
she apparently dotes on you, is as much a loosening-up influence as your
own beauty and charm."
Neil McAlester was a man who actually knew how to please a girl. They
rode out the Mid-Cape, often making half the speed limit in the three a.m.
traffic, the young female only appearing to doze.
"Nancy, Miss Fox," she said, "didn't have any afternoon classes. She
gave Sonja, Meg, and me a slip, so we could ditch and hang out with her.
She even sent you a note." Here the girl retrieved a pasteboard card from
the pocket of her uniform blouse and handed it to her father. Neil availed
himself of an opportune moment in the light morning traffic and passed a
truck, reaching for the card as he settled back into the travel lane. "The
plot thickens," he said, recognizing longitude and latitude expressed to
the hundredth of a second. "Meg and Sonja will be there," Billie-Jo said,
"and Nancy, of course. "Don't you think it's neat to be able to meet
someone in a trackless wilderness?"
"Undoubtedly why the government spent billions on the GPS," Neil nodded.
Yet the precocious eleven year old had a point; the ability to rendezvous
in extreme privacy, while unimagined by other than those trained in
navigation and survey, was, and he looked at his young beauty, a salient
addition to the chances of success should one venture in pursuit of
happiness. A second look at the card gave him to know the location was
within ten miles of the place his daughter and he had picked over the
preceding week, and he wondered at the level of coincidence involved, but
didn't let the anomaly worry him. "Perhaps it gives the boffins who
operate the spy satellites something to spy on," the girl noted. "What's
the key to learning?" Neil asked, on a seeming tangent. "Review," the girl
parroted, having heard the question before. "Good," her dad said, "because
in the tech leap to spy satellites, I got left behind." "I think you're
just being coy," the girl responded, "I think you know what I'm talking
about, and you're as excited as I am. Mom's almost your age and she's so
excited about going to see granddad it hangs off her like a wraith, so
think how I feel?"
As ever, it seemed, she had her point. "I'm just defending myself,
darling," the man said softly, "thirty miles an hour is the speed of the
gods around Taunton, and if I think about how you feel there could be a
three car pileup." "Okay," the sweetie said with a thoughtful nod, "I'll
start at eleven this morning when Nancy came to get Sonja and Meg and me.
They're renovating the teacher's lounge, so she took us to her apartment
which is just a couple of blocks from school. She asked us if we'd talked
things over amongst ourselves and felt comfortable being alone with her.
We nodded like mice, more excited than comfortable, I suppose, but she
hadn't asked us about that." "I see," the young father said. "When we were
all having chips and dips in the living room, she reminded us she wanted
to
talk about very mature subjects, and that we could go in her bedroom and
watch television or return to school if we felt uncomfortable in any kind
of negative way." "I know where she was coming from when she stressed the
negative possibilities of discomfort," Neil said, positively. "Then you
understand," Billie-Jo nodded, a hint of relief in her voice, "because I
guess we were all kind of squirming, you know, uncomfortable, there's not
word for it, is there? in an affirmative way, like on Christmas morning."
"Well, she is only eleven," the male thought to himself, but he knew what
she meant. The intense discomfort in his own loins, for instance, going
on
too long and continuing to build too fast to be classed as mere excitement.
As ever, they were on the same page.
"She brought some hangers in from her bedroom and handed each of us one
for our blouses and skirts, figuring the shock effect would winnow out any
girl who didn't belong. Just handed them to us, like a grownup, and if we
gawked at each other for a few seconds, that ended when we found out there
were four hangers, one for her." "Perhaps we could hire her as a consultant
to test the durability of some of our plastics," the engineer said, always
interested in the resilience of the materials he worked with. "I guess we
did kind of blush," the girl admitted, "but she didn't do anything bawdy
or
weird, she just knelt in front of me and started unbuttoning my blouse.
Meg and Sonja knelt on either side of me, so she did us together, and we
did her.
"What I wanted to talk to you about," the young art teacher said, "is
the males in your lives. Billie-Jo and Meg, your dads, Sonja, your older
brothers and your dad. Is that okay?" The three fifth graders nodded
quietly, trying not to stare at each other as button after button yielded
to their teacher's gentle fingers, and finding considerable relief at
staring at the twenty-four-year-old beauty as they took lingering turns
with her buttons.
"My instincts tell me," Nancy said, "that none of you have been touched
by any male, but it's okay if you have." The three girls shook their heads.
"I thought so," the teacher went on, "and that's a shame, though I suppose
there's a lot to be said for men who have the character and breeding never
to think alternative thoughts about their flesh and blood. At the same
time," she went on, "one does wonder how they will feel over all they've
missed when the days of final reckoning arrive, for it is the harmless
things one failed to realize in life that are the ultimate burden, more so
than things you tried which didn't work out as well as they might have...
at least you tried. Not trying is the sin. Deliberately leaving stones
unturned and logs unrolled, not that you should roll and turn them,
gratuitously, or for the sake of turning or rolling them, but out of being
bred to fear what might crawl out, when nothing ever does except a few
larva and salamanders. Religion's job is to make these hideous, but some
of us know differently from extensive experience, and we'll have none of
it, thank you.
"All three of you have outstanding males in your lives, or you wouldn't
be here. We're not exactly about cheap, lazy dad's boinking their kids for
lack of anything better to do, or drunken big brothers huffing off on their
kid sisters, probably because no girls will date them. Those girls are who
both the moral strictures of religion and the codes of the judicial system
are designed to protect, and, in the course of human history, it is
entirely possible a lecherous father has left his daughter alone our of
respect for either church or law."
The teacher's three young companions were versed enough in the ways of
the world to giggle at Miss Fox's reference; knew that one girl in five
ended up in a relative's hands before she was of age.
"On the other hand," Nancy continued, "there are girls like you, pretty
super stuff, in your own rights, but lucky to have dynamic, focused - and,
essentially, nice - males in your ken. For you, there are no rules.
Whether it was intended there should be, I don't know, but I think most
fair-minded people have a live and let-live attitude toward intense
relationships between people who have a long-term commitment to each other,
regardless of age or relationship. You will never be asked, should you
decide to join the CIA, if you were especially close to, say, an older
brother, and if you should spill the beans in a psychiatric interview, it
would mean about as much as if you'd unwittingly run over a frog on your
bicycle, unless, of course, you bring it up, and that would obviously send
out warning signals that an individual was issue oriented and likely to be
ineffectual, whatever the issue. "Does that make sense?"
"So it's a really big secret?" Sonja Kelly asked. "The reason the three
of you are here," Nancy said as they removed each other's blouses, draping
them over the back of the sofa, "is that you're capable of absorbing the
secrecy thing and storing it in the right place, neither on the coffee
table, nor under the mound of coal left over when the gas heat was
installed. If pressed on the issue, I think all of you would not be overly
hesitant to say my dad or my brothers are extra cool, and I was, or am, as
the case may be, extra close to them. Again, if I wasn't pretty sure of
this I wouldn't have singled you out."
The three children nodded silently, feeling their beautiful young art
teacher had hit the male on the head. Skirts and slips came off, went on
the hangers, then the blouses, then they filed into the bedroom to hang
their clothes in the closet before returning to the comfortable living
room. Nancy knelt on the Persian rug, Billie-Jo in front of her, flanked
by
her young friends. "There is usually a lesbian side to the kinds of
relationships free-spirit families espouse," the teacher explained, "but
if
any of you want to opt out, you saw where the television is, and it would
be okay to just sit on the sofa and watch. Nothing you can do is wrong,
though running down the street yelling for the police is on the B-list."
The swollen nipples jutting from each training bra gave the teacher to know
she had nothing to dread.
"Another aspect," Nancy said, "is the secrecy cum privacy thing Sonja
asked about. In other words, if you're with somebody the way we're
starting to be together, do you share experiences, and, if you do, how
graphically? In how much detail? As always, or at least so it seems,
sometimes, a middle-of-the-road approach is best: yes, you share explicit
details with a curious partner, but, a, you do not embellish or exaggerate
- fake it - and, b, you realize it's pretty much a one-time thing; your
partner is unlikely to want to hear the same story over and over, so the
message is: keep voyeurism in its place, as an intense enhancement of the
first, or first few times, but nothing of enduring value and therefore
nothing to build a relationship on." "I think talking about it does make
it
extra exciting," Meg Bailey said.
Nancy laughed. "If you feel that way with us, you better take a Valium
before you start telling your dad your secrets," she said. The
eleven-year-old beauty giggled happily in response, then retreated into
herself a bit. "If I can get him to notice," she said. "That's as much
a
reason for our little get-together as any," the teacher explained, "to
empower you. None of your fathers - I know because I've met them, even if
briefly - are going to haul you off to juvie if you get a little carried
away in your flirting, or, heaven forbid, state baldly that you want a real
relationship instead of the insipid nowheresville that is the norm between
fathers and daughters and brothers and sisters. You can be forward, even
bold, if your hand is forced, and, specifically, you're under no pledge of
secrecy as to what happens here this afternoon, so you go across the
threshold armed pretty much to the teeth, and if I though any of you came
from brittle, arbitrary stock, again, you'd have received the conventional
run-around and been left to your own devices."
"Aren't we kind of really extra-special lucky?" Billie-Jo wanted to
know. "What if you got run over in a week?" Nancy said, "don't you think
your last thoughts might be along the lines of, even at your ages, having
experienced something of enduring satisfaction. How many other girls your
age could have those thoughts? Most would be regretting all the things
they never got to try, never got to do." "But what if we get addicted?"
Sonja said in her turn. "I think you're smart enough to figure that out,
all of you," Nancy replied. "There are a dozen major addictions waiting
out there for you, and spending lots of time with an attractive male is
likely to take most of them off the table, especially, fucking food." The
children looked at each other in their bras and panties. None were in any
way emaciated or anorexic, nor were there five extra pounds amongst the
four of them. "Then how much is too much?" Meg said, taking her turn.
"It's like alcohol," the young teacher replied, "too much is when it
starts interfering with your so-called normal life. On the other hand,
it's better than television, hanging out with lazy friends, and a dozen
other common wastes of time. The three of you are way beyond what our
unionists can teach of you, so, for you, it's better than homework. In my
family, with my brothers and my dad, being together came after something
like two hours of reading aloud, almost every day. That was always first,
by accord, and it was rare for anything to happen until nine in the
evening, which was practically bed-time, anyway." "Every night?" Meg asked
to her teacher's blush. "Yes," she whispered shyly. "I don't mean to make
light of the addictive and narcotic quality of what happens. And it gets
more intense as time passes, as you come to trust your partner and give
yourself wildly instead of just willingly." "And it really is better with
males?" Sonja asked, her hands the first to reach hesitantly to her
teacher's mature breasts. "The most amazing thing in the world is that
some girls don't think so," Nancy sighed, her nipples swelling notably at
the touch of the schoolgirl. "It's beautiful with another female, but what
happens with a male is its own special world. The truth of the matter is
that a girl hasn't lived until she's held a bellowing male in her arms and
legs and felt something like a bucking horse high between her legs as he
inseminates her."
"Can we take it off?" Billie-Jo whispered, speaking for her friends.
"Yes," Nancy replied with a shy nod. Sonja unfastened the young woman's
bra and all three girls removed it as Nancy arched and laced her fingers
behind her neck. For long moments Billie-Jo, Sonja, and Meg stared. Their
teacher was more beautiful than huge, pert and perfectly conical, with
cherry-size nipples jutting almost angrily from her half melon-size mounts.
"Size matters with girls," she whispered as her students began openly
touching her, "the smaller the better. Best of all, aesthetically inclined
males like a flat-chested child, which is slightly on the ironic side,
because when a girl becomes active with a mature male, or, especially
males, the rush of excess hormones in her body augment her development at
ages even younger than the three of you."
"Is that why Audrey Nelson is the way she is?" Meg asked. "I got the
same way in a matter of weeks," Nancy said in answer, "with three brothers
and a father, it was probably lucky I stopped where I did. It doesn't
really change anything, your genes in that department are your genes, and
it makes little difference, unless you get fat, anyway, but it does make
things happen dramatically earlier in a girl's life, as much as five years.
Faster, not more." "So we'll all be like Audrey?" Billie-Jo asked. "Sonja
in a few weeks, you other lot in a few months, assuming your dads keep you
under lock and key."
"Is that important?" Billie-Jo asked, "that we only, you know, spend
time alone with our dads?" "It's just the opposite," the teacher replied,
"assuming you don't become sluts or call girls, and you wouldn't be here
if
I thought there was much chance of that, you should have a restrained
number of partners as you grow. This is hard to quantify, because, on a
daily routine, the number should perhaps be four, at the outside, but that
leaves room for an occasional fifth, as a lover, and, more excitingly than
that, in fact, downright provocatively, healthy girls should have an
occasional indulgence, way, way outside the rules. Most free-spirit
families form clubs for a restricted number of continuing partners, a
father, brothers, and as many as two or three friends, but they spend a
week every six months at a resort with other free-spirit clubs, and thus
maybe a hundred or more families. Every girl should spend time in a place
where she knows all the males are medically and psychologically safe for
her to be alone with. It adds a dimension to life that's on a par with the
modern computer and the best of the cable documentary channels, though, of
course, short of being well-read."
The three students nodded against the chest of their lovely teacher.
Nancy hugged the girls to her, mewing softly to them as she unfastened
their training bras, an artist's eye for the three slim, white backs
spreading from her like (and she almost giggled aloud) flying buttresses
"Look at each other," she coaxed softly, easing the eager faces and hands
from her.
"Oh, daddy," Billie-Jo McAlester sighed from the passenger seat, "that
was my first sex. Feeling Sonja's eyes on me, and all of their eyes, and
knowing in a flash tonight it would be your eyes." "The thing is," the
young father noted, "is that it is art. Children are art, especially from
seven to eleven. Boys, the more so, but the girls are close enough so
you'd have to have done graduate work in nitpicking to care about the
difference." "Are boys better lovers?" the girl wanted to know. "Nancy
didn't cover that, just said her brother, our age, would be in the dunes."
Neil was interested to see that there was a primal response. Asked
under other circumstances, he would have temporized, unsure of exactly how
he felt on one of the world's more complicated issues, but mention of a
juvenile male, on site, so to speak, did send a hot, fresh surge through
his waist. "Technically," he answered, "boys may have something of an
edge. They obviously know what feels special to another male, and watching
a young male ejaculate is elementally erotic." "I'm glad they're better at
something besides football," Billie-Jo noted, once again making a good
point. "It's just temporary," her father added: "a few times, perhaps more
in an intense relationship, and the novelty and excitement begin to fade,
where, with a steady female partner, it's more the opposite; the intensity
builds for years, and, assuming the girl stays slim and is reasonably
attractive, it lasts longer than anyone would think possible, or so they
say."
"Does this kind last as long as with males?" Meg whispered to Billie-Jo
who had now begun to openly fondle her friend as Nancy touched Sonja.
"No," the teacher said, "this is more a novelty and a side show. Girls
might become friends through touching each other, even lovers, but lesbian
relationships, of and by themselves, are short-lived. There's often no
reason for them to last, and the nuisance factor of having to please
another person on a daily basis usually comes to outweigh what happens in
the bedroom, which, by necessity, is much the same as happened the previous
night. Over the years, it's been repeatedly noted by scholars who, examine
the free-spirit lifestyle that it's the underlying friendship, regardless
of who the partners are, that is vital. What we're doing is a delicious
side order of exotic mushrooms, but you'd get tired of them in two days,
if
they were the whole meal. For now your dads and brothers will be your meat
and potatoes, someday, for all of you, I suspect, rather devoted and active
husbands."
"Especially if they get us pregnant with little girls they can molest,"
Billie-Jo said, unconsciously earning herself a gold star in "The Book of
Overall Awareness", and a hug from her bare-chested teacher. "That's a
chapter or two ahead," Nancy said, "but, yes, it's becoming common, with
today's advanced clinical intervention, for young girls to safely give
birth to their incest children. There's even an intellectual subset in the
genetics community who believe father/daughter and sister/brother
pregnancies should be encouraged, that the chance of retardation, not
necessarily a bad thing for a child from a stable, secure home, is offset
by the chance of producing a child of exceptional brilliance and talent in
a home where dual love, so to speak, assures him or her the best chance of
developing any gifts, which happens to be a whole different thing than
simply having them."
"Plus, today we have invisible braces for the kids," Sonja observed.
"Not a joke," their teacher said, "but symptoms like that are more likely
to be acute after a long sequence of cousins marrying cousins than as a
result a one-off baby where the partners come from historically separate
gene pools, and there are so many factors in physical and mental
development, overall, it may be as much a wive's tale as anything to do
with any taboo is" "Does the club really study it?" Billie-Jo wanted to
know. "Not to any extent, at present," her teacher replied, "ways to go
before that can happen. There's a chance society, in general, may one day
realize what a bill of goods they've been sold by the bible beaters and
crack the whip over the scientists, but for now officialdom is in your Mrs.
Isaacs' camp, swimming in foggy circles and heedless of progress as long
as
they stay afloat." "And they're not the types to let go when they come to
find out they're drowning," Billie-Jo said, adding another star to her
clandestine portfolio.
"Just ignore interventionists with care," Nancy reminded her girls.
"There is a great deal of tolerance, and the truth of the matter is my
father and brothers found more goodwill, and even bantering, teasing
encouragement, when it was more or less obvious what was happening between
us, than they ever met with hostility or judgmental bigmouths. At the same
time, some few people are essentially bowling balls and you never, ever,
want to be in a position where one can fall on your foot."
Three pretty heads nodded in unison as the girl's followed their
teacher's example and stood to slip out of their panties. Naked, their
immature breasts stood even more proudly from their slim, young chests.
Nancy guided one child's hands to the next girl's chest and her own and for
long minutes the students tentatively and hesitatingly found each other and
celebrated being young, very alive, and entirely female. "This is how an
adult takes a child," Nancy whispered, pulling Billie-Jo gently to her and
guiding the eleven year old's hands behind her, Nancy's, neck. "No arch
and spread your legs a little," she coaxed, wrapping her left arm around
the pretty girl's slim torso and massaging the youngster's lower belly with
her right hand, slowly moving down between her slim, silky thighs. Sonja,
the tallest of them, took Meg, the shortest, the same way. "Also, the way
a mature male takes a young boy," she added, "only males stroke each other
to masturbate instead of the way we're doing it." The tableau lasted some
long minutes, then the four settled to the sofa, Billie-Jo and Meg lying
back, legs splayed, in the arms of their taller lovers. "There's more to
girl/girl activities," the teacher assured her girls, "but we'll save that
for after the weekend, if you'd like to come over again." Again, three
nodding heads. "By then," the teacher concluded, "you'll all be fully
experienced, and in furtherance of that I've schemed my little heart out."
So saying, the teacher opened a box on the coffee table, handing each
of
her students a card with ten numbers in groups of two separated by colons:
"that's the longitude and latitude of where I'm going to be for the
weekend," she said, "along with my kid brother, Pete, and my daughter,
Cindy, who's six. It's lonely, private, and safe, just bring, a, your
males, and, b, camping gear, and you'll be assured of a very warm welcome."
The students looked at each other, eyes wide and perhaps slightly glazed.
"Any questions," Nancy wanted to know. She glanced at the clock, hardly
past one. They had lots of time. "Miss Fox?" Billie-Jo said, "can you
tell us about the first time, you know, something exciting happened with
you, you know, while we're still naked?" Two vigorous nods accompanied the
question.
"Birthdays come in different forms," the young woman answered, "for
example, after years of suffering with computers, I finally got an XP
machine. That was a birthday. My dad bought me an unrestored turbo
Corvair for my sixteenth birthday, so that counted at least half. Then
there was my seventh birthday, and that puppy was, and always will be, the
day I was born."
Billie-Jo McAlester wanted to ask about the ride, but realized the time
and place were wrong for discussing exotic Americana that actually worked.
She tried not to be opinionated on the subject, but it did anger her.
America had become Mustang country, and the crummy Ford was nothing but a
stylebox dropped on the chassis of a Falcon, the dreariest mass-produced
object of an entire century. The Chevy counterpart was innovative from
bumper to bumper and at least five times as cool, in every respect, as the
dumpy Mustang cum Falcon. Yet it was Mustangs, forever, ugly,
leaf-springed, straight-six powered, and with an interior designed by the
blind, that dominated the butt-simple media. It wasn't a nice distinction,
but a gross one. The two-door Chevy, even without a turbo, in both first
and second editions, was a truly beautiful automobile, Porsche-style boxer
engine, independent rear suspension, and, with the blower, dead quick at
any elevation. The Mustang just got bigger, became grossly bulbous, and
was only incrementally superior to a Model A. One died, the other lived,
and in a very real sense an essential fire in the American spirit died with
the first. "Watch the little things," her dad had reminded her a time or
two, and especially at the death of Napster. "They add up." And Nancy had
actually owned one: came from THAT kind of people. When it rained it
poured, they said, and that made her wonder if Nancy's car had been a
convertible. (She had THAT kind of mind.)
The last-day-of-being-seven girl was dressed in a red tank suit. She
was an image of the pixie in a cruise ship commercial (the little "cruse
director"), and she loved to put on a similar bathing suit, stand in front
of the mirror in her bedroom, and run the lines in the Disney ad. She
wanted to be an accountant, not an actress, but she wondered, as girls
will, if she might have just a little talent. After all, she drew far
beyond her age; crayons seemed made for her hands, so maybe she could mug,
just a little. Or was it just that? She was mature enough to wonder and
even to analyze her thoughts. Was she practicing this nonsense for a
reason she couldn't quite admit to herself? To cut to the chase, so she
could let her dad, and Brice, Jeff, and Dirk, her seventeen, fifteen, and
twelve year old brothers, look at her in the skimpy suit? Be a girl right
out there in front of them, like the little actress in the commercial? If
it was hard to put a thought away, did that mean it was a big thought, even
though, at a glace, the whole thing seemed silly and frivolous? And how
about her beautiful mom, who so favored the other actress in the little
piece of film; twice she'd caught her in the act, thrown her on the bed,
tickled her, and, the second time, whispered: "you are growing up, you
know," words which had biggered the big thought as well as unlocking the
door behind which she kept it hidden. Again, she ran the hundred or so
words of dialogue, perfect, ten times in a row. But why? And, since her
IQ topped the charts, she knew there was only one way to find out.
"Is everybody here?" she called out her bedroom door in the direction
of
the kitchen. "Yes," somebody called back. "Everyone go in the living
room," she responded, "just for a few minutes." Funny thing about never
playing the princess, everyone did as you asked. "Okay," another brother's
voice called. Nancy gave herself a final glance in the mirror. "I may not
look like much of a girl," she whispered to herself, "but at least I am
one." "Get ready," she called, "move the coffee table away from the sofa
a
little, and all sit on it, the sofa, not the table." "You got it," a voice
she recognized as Dirk's responded. She gave them a few moments - did they
call them "beats" in the theater, she'd have to find out, but later. She
slipped from her room, a towel around her slim shoulders, and down the
stairs, through the kitchen and into the living room, which modern realtors
obsessively, as if it were both a personal and professional mantra, called
the great room. Morons. Anyway, it was where she went, strutting as much
as she dared on knees that seemed to be turning weak as water. Handsome
dad, three cute boys, and girlish mom, it was a bit much, plus, she'd
forgotten that the so-called coffee table was piled high with books and
magazines, and was hardly the stage she'd envisioned for the one and only
performance of her life.
"What's wrong, bug food?" Kit Fox, her dad, said. "Nothing," Nancy
replied, "it was just dumb. I'll go up and get dressed for dinner." She
tried not to let any tears show, but they had a will of their own, not that
she burst into tears or anything dumb like that, more just felt a little
scared, silly, and out of place. Bathing suits were for the beach or pool,
not for performing in front of males who made her heart skip a beat when
they were close, under any circumstances. "Your mom let the cat out of the
bag, bug food," Kit said, "and she said you were gall-darned cute as pixie
of the high seas." He reached for her and she lunged into his lap, hugging
him as his arms went tightly around her. "It's really goofy," she said.
"Your mom said it was kind of exciting," her father whispered back. "She
said she'd have wanted to do the same thing when she was your age." "Do you
really want me to try it?" Nancy sniffled. "Darling," her dad replied, "we
were going to have a very special talk with you, tomorrow, when you turn
eight years old, but we're all here, and there's nothing topping you on
anyone's agenda, so why don't you just stand in front of us and drop the
towel on top of the books, then come and sit in my lap here next to your
mom, and we'll have a mega serious talk."
"But I don't have to wiggle around and pretend, right?" she still
sniffled just a bit. "Save it for a random moment," Kit suggested, "for
now just let us look at you as long as you think you're ready for us to
look at you as a female; not a kid, not bug food, not as daughter or
sister, but as one hundred percent girl nearing a certain age." "That's how
I've felt for ages, or so it seems," Nancy murmured, "and I thought I knew
what to do about it, but between my head thinking and my legs responding,
something got all hot and fuzzy feeling." "Do you think letting us see you
without the towel will make it go away?" the handsome father asked. "Only
if I pass out," Nancy said, no more sniffles. "And if you don't, if you
go
back to your room and change, do you think what you're feeling will go
away?" "It would go away even less," the seven year old replied - was there
a hint of a giggle? "You don't have to do even two of the seven veils,"
the man reassured the child in his arms, "the first one will stop the
show." "Okay," the girl whispered, kissing her dad on the neck and slowly
standing and backing against the low table. She shrugged off the towel and
handed it to Kit, blushing prettily.
"I'm glad I was hatched in this family," twelve year old Dirk allowed,
his eyes unabashedly drinking in the willowy chick in front of him. "I
always thought we were a cut above, family-wise, because of the reading,"
the middle boy, Jeff, added: "but who knew about the bonus points?" "And
me?" Brice said, "I just want to be the first one to formally ask your hand
in marriage, if it's okay with your parents, that is." "Good," Nancy
replied, "I need help cleaning my room more often than you can imagine."
"Darling," Kit said, "the way your brothers are looking at you, and, mind
you, I'm not being critical, it might be an idea for you to spread on some
sunscreen." "Me?" the child asked, wide-eyed, realizing, instinctively,
spreading anything over her lithe, young body was the very last thing in
the entire world she'd have to do by herself. "I'll get it," young Dirk
said, naturally one of those fine childs who like serving, obliging, and
making others comfortable. "Let Jeff go, instead," Nancy said, "I want
help with the clasp, it's way, way around in back and I don't want to bend
and twist with everyone staring at me." "Okay," the youngest brother
whispered in a rasp that sounded half like a frog, glad, and more so, for
every kindness he'd shown to, and good dead he'd done for his kid sister.
It was payback time, now all he had to do was rise from the sofa, athlete
that he was, and reap the girlwind.
"We're going to be quite matter-of-fact about this," Kit said. "In
spite of Brice's remark, this is not a love fest, it will be incest and
closer to recreation than romance. No jealousy, stalking, inveigling or
other creepy behavior towards each other, or your sister. All decisions
are hers, from now on out. Nancy, when you want male company, you hang
your panties on your doorknob. Whichever male enters your room will leave
his shorts on your door. The hour, for the next year, is from eight to
nine in the evening, seven days a week, and Sunday mornings, nine to
eleven. Nothing else, any other time, and all males to be accepted,
equally; no favorites and no special assignations. Karen is a very fit and
athletic girl, and with a little experience she'll probably want to be
mounted several times a night. There will be no group activities;
everything will happen behind her locked door, in private. If you boys
decide to have relations - homosexual - between yourselves, that's fine,
but you're not to be together with your sister, at least until she's had
plenty of time to get over the novelty aspect of what's going to happen and
make an informed choice, as our liberal friends like to say. We're going
off the path, but we're not getting lost. Tens of millions of families
have free-spirit policies, and they run the same gamut as families with
left handed children or blue-eyed children - in other words, it makes no
difference as long as it makes no difference.
"This was all meant to happen tomorrow," he went on, "after her birthday
party, but her little sister act advanced the time table, and, luckily,
we're all home so no harm, no foul, and most importantly, no one left out.
"As far as you boys and your mother goes, we're storing that with gay
incest, or I should say 'homosexual' because part of the overall bargain
is
that none of you become gay behaviorists like the office manager on 'NYPD
Blue'. That will save us all very much pointless grief, especially since
the way the three of you are staring at bug food, while she still has on
her suit, indicates none of you are particularly smitten with the alternate
path. Try to keep it that way, and pretend I'm Al Bundy and don't want to
hear anything different, and if your beautiful mom is involved, you're
lucky, and I approve unreservedly, but, again, private stuff "Voyeurism is
a common part of juvenile relationships," Kit continued, "and in its place
and time it can be highly exciting as you'll find out if you happen to date
girls, or, on the sly, boys who had early experiences, but it doesn't fly,
here. Since we'll be almost sharing the secrets, there's nothing to ask
about, and, media notwithstanding, the acts involved are limited and highly
repetitive, leaving yet less to whisper about. "
They sat quietly and Jeff took his cue to go for the sunscreen, his
quick mind telling him that it would be an ideal ice breaker. Kit helped
the mostly stunned Dirk to his feet, positioning the boy behind his sister
just as the tube of lotion arrived. He and Jeff returned to the sofa, and
Nancy moved between her athletic young father's knees so he could support
her while her brother worked at the fastening of her red swim suit. "Can
I
kiss your neck?" he whispered as his fingers released the catch and he
spread the fabric from her slim, white shoulders. "Only," Kit cautioned.
He was in a speechifying mood and so didn't leave it at that. "Kissing can
be more intimate than anything else that happens, more a gift to a male
than her body, and thus hers, alone, to bestow, and not within the family
unless it happens she actually falls in love with one of us, then it's okay
the very minute she turns nine years old. That's as liberal as I care to
be."
The four children nodded to each other - seemed fair enough. Young
Dirk, most issues now out of the way, peeled his sister's suit to her feet
as her father steadied her, stooping to remove the garment. "Darling," Kit
said, "but your hands behind your neck and arch your back, that will help
you get used to us looking at you." "Can I spread my legs a little, too?"
the pixie asked, posing provocatively. "It will make it easier for your
brother to apply the sunscreen if you do," Kit allowed.
The twelve year old took his sister from behind for some minutes,
peering down over her right shoulder as he spread the lotion slowly over
her flat chest and slightly soft tummy. "Would you like Jeff to do the
front of your legs?" he asked, knowing a good thing when he had it and
deciding his father was right in his call for restraint and sharing. "If
I
lie back on my bed on the towel, you could do them, couldn't you?" the
birthday girl asked. "Y-yes," Dirk stammered, expressing every feeling in
the room with his quavering voice. "Go ahead, dolls," Kit encouraged, "but
a last daddy kiss for our awesome little virgin. She bent to him and he
bussed her cheek, whispering: "you are a very lucky female child." "I think
you're right," Nancy responded, moving back into the arms of the boy behind
her as her father stood and gently manhandled his naked daughter until she
and Dirk were headed in the right direction, then giving them and
encouraging shove.
"We don't have to, we can wait," Nancy said before locking the door.
"It's okay," her brother said. "I guess dad's right about it being
mechanical, not passionate or romantic," the girl observed, "sort of like
a
double life, being together without very many rules at all, while we're
young, then settling on maybe no one in particular, or maybe monogamy, or
maybe even a small group, where it is love, bonding, friendship, passion,
and romance, not necessarily in that order." "I'm glad, too," Nancy said,
watching huge-eyed as her athletic brother skinned quickly out of his
clothes and stood naked in front of her as she sat on the side of the bed,
"especially that he told us not to fall in love, because that would be
really easy."
"It would be easy for me, too," the naked beauty whispered as he
postured in the same position Nancy had on being stripped, back arched,
legs spread, fingers laced behind his neck, and his full teen penis jutting
over five inches from beneath his flat, athletic belly. "Now I get it,"
the seven year old said, gazing hotly up at Dirk. "It had me wondering
there for quite awhile; why people have kids in the first place - what a
nuisance - but seeing you explains all, and a drum full of poop, pee,
drool, snot, and barf is but a small price to pay for something so out of
this world as you are." "Speaking of bodily fluids," the ace-smart boy
replied, "there's more to a boy than how he looks with his underpants off."
"You mean sperms, don't you," Nancy whispered, n exact dummy, herself.
"Yes." "Millions and millions and millions of them," the pixie added, "I
read about it in your science book. "Do they all come out together when
it
happens?" "They don't cover that, even in the book I have now," Dirk
replied. "Does it have to be inside me, or is there some way I can see
what happens?" the girl wanted to know, next.
"There's a thing boys do called jerking off," the twelve year old
explained. "I don't know how yet, but if you want to try, there can't be
too many options." "What's in a name?" Nancy asked rhetorically, "jerking,
and I don't suppose they mean jerk, as in Tony Hobbs, the jerk. What are
some other bad words for it?" "Choking the chicken or spanking the monkey,"
Dirk whispered, blushing. "Both would seen to indicate a certain amount
of
vigor," the girl mused, "so what would you guess? Spanking or choking."
"Choking," the shaking boy said. "So maybe we could try jerking and
choking, first," the girl said, "would that be a good place to start?"
"Yes," came a strangled whisper in response. "Okay," the girl whispered.
"You look very sensitive on top, and very sensitive down, you know, low,
so
you have to tell me what the best way to begin is." "Soon," Dirk murmured.
"I have a bottle of baby oil on my dresser," the child said, "should I put
some on my hands so you won't get blisters or something?" "I guess so," he
said.
"I think dad was right," the muffin prattled, "you know, keeping it
clinical. I don't think I'd be as excited if we were rolling around on the
bed trying to suck out each other's tongues." Dirk nodded dumbly down at
his naked sister, then moved a step back so she could find the bottle of
oil amidst the clutter on her bureau. "Is it okay if I don't hurry too
much?" she asked, looking at his image in her mirror, you look so beautiful
I want it to last." "The aesthetic side of it may be governed by the
intellect," Dirk replied, "but the physical side is not, so, while it may
be a thing of beauty, it is not a joy forever." "So I should hurry at least
a little bit," Nancy said, pawing through her collection of childish
treasures for the baby oil, not so much teasing, though she was a kid-sis
by nature, as fascinated and mesmerized. He was like a rad motorcycle, so
beautiful to look at it was hard to believe it actually did something, and
that brought to her mind what it did, and that made her go weak kneed and
did nothing for her alacrity when it came to tracking down the errant
plastic bottle. "Baby oil." Who knew it played a role in conceiving the
critters? There it was, ah, and Kleenex, too, which might be an idea
because Dirk had mentioned fluids, and she knew from reading there were
hundreds of millions of spermatozoa, so there'd probably be more than a
drop or two.
"I brought this because I want to see, the first time, is that okay?"
Nancy asked, setting the blue box beside her on the side of the bed as she
resumed her position a foot in front of her beautiful male brother. "Yes,"
the boy replied, "but I don't think you'll need the whole box." "You're
right," the girl said, "mom and dad know what we're doing in here and
they'd have warned us if, you know, you were like going to pee all over the
bed when it happens and make a big puddle, so," she went on, "how many do
you think I should pull out of the box?" It was a reminder of the clinical
side of their relationship, and Dirk did his best to concentrate and come
up with a sensible answer. "Maybe three," he said, "it's come out of me
a
couple of times while I was sleeping - I used a washcloth, but three
tissues would have worked." "Did they all come out together?" the girl
asked, pulling out the tissues and uncapping the bottle of lubricant. "I
was asleep," the boy replied, "but I guess it felt a little like there was
a big fight going on; that they all wanted to stay inside me, then big
bunches of them would lose, all of a sudden. I think it had been going on
for awhile when I woke up, but I did feel two losses, sort of like the
opposite of invasions, but they weren't being evasive, they were like
really flying off; routed, with no hope of returning." Her dad wrote for
technical journals but maybe Dirk should try for the fiction market when
he
grew up, because even as a child he had an exciting way of putting things.
"Dad says we shouldn't talk about what happens with each other," Nancy
observed, "but someday maybe you could tell me if something happens that's
normal, outside the family; do you think you'd want to, you know, like with
a girlfriend or if you get molested by a coach or something?" "Would you
tell me, you know, everything, if something normal happens with you?" the
boy asked in return. "I won't have to," Nancy said, "because I can't
imagine doing it any other way than this. If it was any more exciting, it
wouldn't be survivable, so why bother?" "I'd still like you to tell me,"
Dirk said, "we always know what's going to happen when we watch 'The Lone
Ranger', but we still like to tune in."
"I wonder," the girl mused aloud, her slick hands going to the
outrageously swollen male again displaying openly between her legs, "if the
'choking' and 'jerking' things are meant to be subtle and refined or more
open and vigorous." So saying, she fondled her brother low with her left
hand, fisting the flaring glance or his circumcised iron boner gently with
her right, then practiced moving her hands. It seemed she could do nothing
wrong; she toyed and he shuddered, played and he moaned, and vigorous
stoking sent him to gasping seizures which would have toppled him if his
knees hadn't been braced against the side of her bed. Yet wasn't something
missing? Sure, he was excited, but she'd seen him more so at a close
ballgame, jumping up and down and waving his arms, howling with the mob,
and he wasn't howling now (and, understandably, not jumping), rather, it
seemed he could hardly breathe for panting and gasping. Maybe there was
more. He was so beautiful, his flaring, slick penis inches from her face
as she masturbated him intently, wouldn't it be natural too... and that
didn't work either, for he certainly wasn't jumping now, in fact he'd
lowered his hands to her slim shoulders, apparently to just hold himself
upright, and yelling and screaming seemed to be as far beyond him as
coherent speech. Deep down, Nancy knew she wasn't failing, he felt so hot
and livid against her lips and tongues, so hard and virile, she must be
doing okay, but the girl did wonder if other youngsters might interpret the
silence of their partner as a sign of ambivalence, so it was with some
relief that she heard a low moaning turn quickly into huffing chant that
had no place in public. And suddenly there was a voice, ragged, desperate,
but the more erotic for all of its imperfections. "I think it's going to
happen pretty soon, if you want to watch," came the urgent whisper. But
did she? The heat of him in her mouth, the salty tang of the seminal fluid
oozing copiously from him over the slight taste of the brand-name baby oil,
his hands kneading her shaking shoulders, shouldn't it end this way? But
she did want to. This first time she wanted to see everything, and there'd
be time for the advanced stuff in the future. And here instinct and IQ
came together in a crash. She took him to his length, deep, deep in her
throat, and held him for long beats, then released him, running her right
hand over his hot slipperiness to his very base in one long, slow, smooth,
tight-gripped stroke, then held him rigid and still. He froze too, but not
mentally, not quite completely; if boys will be boys, Dirk would be Dirk.
"I'm glad I'm awake this time," he managed to whisper as his little sister
felt a hard bucking in her tightly clenched fingers, and he began cumming
hard and fast on her face, and, as she pushed him down so she could see
better, all over her flat chest and tiny pink nipples. Battle after battle
was lost in rapid succession, the waves of routed troops gushing over her,
milky white and musky, again and again. She had the oddest thought as she
stared in fascination: once she'd seen, well, a cat's stool standing on
end, and defined it as obscene, yet how many people would thus classify
what was happening as spurt after spurt of hot semen heavily slicked her
heaving chest? Perhaps beauty wasn't in the eye of the beholder but rather
in her hair, all over her face, neck, shoulders, and delicate chest.
Slowly Dirk showered to a gentle flow, and slowly he collapsed on top
of
his sister as she lay back to take him in her arms. "How long before it
can happen inside me?" she asked as they shifted fully onto the bed and
instinct bad her lie inert with her legs widely spread and her heels locked
into her older brother's sexy, athletic butt. "I don't really believe it
can ever happen again," Dirk said, still panting. Nancy found him with her
right hand and coaxed him to her body, thrusting urgently the instant she
felt his hot and still hard penis fully against her. "Unless I'm trapped
by an angel," he added, meeting her at first gently, then firmly, then
wantonly. He rose high on his arms so the two of them could look down
between their beautiful young bodies, pre-teen and child, and the sight of
her mating brother fevered the girl into a rocketing-hips frenzy which
escalated minute by hot minute until she was sentenced to a year on a
precipice, then fell off, crashing down through the trees miles and miles
to the valley below.
Shouldn't all those splinters hurt? She just felt lush., and the less
woozy, the lusher.. "It does have something to do with love, don't you
think?" she asked Dirk. "I don't know," the boy mused, "it's pretty
physical, you know, partly because you're so, you know, small, it's hard
to
concentrate." "Get outta town," Nancy giggled, totally satisfied with her
vague young stallion "No one's going to be mad if you want to wait awhile
before anything else happens," the boy whispered. "I'm bi-polar," the
young prodigy said, "an athlete of sorts, plus, I love classical music,
sod, guess what, I loved the overture, and that you're forever and ever the
first, but I'm ready for Jeff." They both wanted to talk more, probably to
experiment with kissing, but the vast liberalism of their new family code
set boundaries as well as granting extraordinary privilege. Dirk slipped
into his clothes and just beginning to be overwhelmed, the children shook
hands before he left. Terribly cute, she though as she lay back on her
bed, drawing her knees to her slim chest and holding her legs widely spread
for the mature Jeff.
"Hi," he whispered, entering and closing the door behind of him. He
stripped quickly, standing naked at the foot of her bed. "Hi," she
whispered back, her voice soft and welcoming. An older version of Dirk,
he
was tall, slim and athletic, and hugely perfect. She held her arms to him,
spreading her slim legs the more and raising her hips in display. Jeff
knelt on the foot of her bed, then moved over her. Nancy was surprised at
her strong instinct for sharing every detail of Dirk's mastery of her young
body. Most of all, she wanted to wet her hands with the sperm slicking her
chest and stroke him, using not a drop of baby oil. Rules were made to be
broken, she supposed, and someday she might have an opportunity to whisper
things that had happened with a male outside the family, so there was that
as a palliative, and, besides, once her mature brother's seven inch
circumcised penis was in her the finer points of erotic storytelling
wouldn't matter much, or, she giggled to herself, at least until there was
a mustang boy on the scene.
"I was thinking about what was happening in spite of dad's caution,"
Jeff murmured, "sorry." She was about to ask "what for" when she found out.
The fifteen year old entered her gently but full and froze rigidly over her
tiny body. His hard, rhythmic pulsing started immediately, and this time
she was in control and able to judge dispassionately. If the saying went
even when it's bad, it's pretty good, it was also true, Nancy now knew,
that when it was good, it was incredible. She held the darling boy to her
for two full minutes, silently save for their panting, and shuddering
gently almost the entire time of his release in her belly with her own,
long, skipping luxurious orgasm - no crashing down through heavy timber,
just a long bath in a warm, bubbly spring.
"I didn't want it to be so fast," Jeff said. "Just means the next time
will come that much sooner," she responded, nipping him on his arms as he
slowly rolled from her, fondling her young body in after-play as she gazed
into his eyes. If it weren't for the family rules she'd have comforted the
somewhat shaken teen by assuring him she'd get Brice to teach her a way to
make it last longer while he was actually mating with her. She didn't want
to have any secrets from the nice, thoughtful boy, but it probably made
sense to save unequivocal sharing for the mysterious future - a world full
of males, and she wanted to tell them all, or at least half the cute ones,
about her hot plans for her senior brother, not scheming, exactly, but more
just a girl newly arrived at the threshold of some mad combination of candy
store, crack house, and three-ring circus, none of which quite equaled the
petting zoo. Jeff hugged her, kissed her forehead, and her hand lingered
on his arm as he rose to dress. He'd been so beautifully male and
responsible about the whole thing she was missing him already. Imagine not
loving your brothers enough to want this with them; what a drag, even if
it
wasn't obscene.
Almost immediately the pixie had to re-think. Brice was obscene just
standing at the threshold of her room, the door closed behind him, naked
almost immediately and his maleness jutting almost horrifyingly from his
slim athlete's belly. His legs were corded and long, his chest powerful,
his body still lanky and coltish, and beyond all he was a he; nearly eight
inches of he. Jeff had been so awesome inside her, just holding her tight
and hard against his sweating, panting chest as he'd flooded her , it was
incomprehensible she could accept a male so fully bigger - and what if he
moved as Dirk had? Her eyes glazed as she said, "Hi," and added: "I think
you'll be more comfortable if you lean back against the door." As their dad
had said, she was commander of those not in briefs, so the fully mature
teen did as bid, his own eyes thoroughly glazed as he watched the pixie
tomboy industriously set about arranging a seat cushion and pillows in
front of the seventeen year old. The wit in him wondered at the child's
efforts to make them comfortable for an event that wasn't going to last
very long - at - all. In fact, if she didn't get just a little something
of a move-on, the event itself was going to be cancelled due to extreme
interest.
Wordlessly the little beauty arranged her nest and knelt in front of the
six foot teen, not touching but just staring at more of a natural wonder
than the documentary channels aired in a month, then up into his rugged
face - so cool, at a time like this, he was some kind of juvie stag and not
a cutie pie or pretty boy. He looked as if he could easily take care of
himself, but, not to be vulgar about it, what if she helped in the
taking-care-of department? She leaned to him and barely touched the tip
of
her tongue to where he was the wettest, it being entirely in her nature to
find out. "I know what happens at the end," she whispered up to the beauty
leaning, his legs now widely spread and his hands behind his head, "and I
want it to happen on my tongue, but I think it's going to be pretty
shocking, so try to tell me when you feel it starting." "In what," Brice
thought to himself, "the language of the gibbering idiot, or the drooling
fool?"
She was just a plain old pretty girl, and as her mouth moved purposely
to him, he was half amazed that in spite of the heavy slickness of her
chest and thighs and the pool of semen disgracing the towel laid across the
simple cotton spread her look, as she gazed up into his eyes, was that of
a
girl just realizing the box she'd opened was not the ultimate Barbie
playhouse, but a magnum reloading kit - in other words, mature, yet unable
to keep a glow of unabashed, childish pleasure from radiating from her
sweet, pixie face. Then the ability to shape thoughts, much less phrases
in the fiend language, left. Everything left, and even the primal cortex
maintaining his upright position would have failed had it not been for the
Posted By Nikki
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