| "assi - Beyond Brewster 02 (Mb, Mf, inc, rom, lit).txt" yEnc (1/1) |
|
| Yenc-PP-A&A (Yenc@power-post.org) |
2010/12/25 15:41 |
assi - Beyond Brewster 02 (Mb, Mf, inc, rom, lit).txt
From ChildLover@.com Thu Jun 17 22:08:52 2004
From: "Child Lover" <ChildLover@.com>
Sender: "Child Lover" <6186357@127.0.0.1:7501>
Reply-To: "Child Lover" <ChildLover@.com>
Subject: BEYOND BREWSTER - BOOK II (M/f, M/b, inc., rom., lit.,)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.incest
NNTP-Posting-Host: galaxy.uncensored-news.com
Message-ID: <40d278e3$1_1@galaxy.uncensored-news.com>
Lines: 1232
X-Comment: NOTICE: Uncensored-News.Com does not condone, nor support, spam, illegal or copyrighted postings.
X-Report-Abuse-To: http://www.uncensored-news.com/terms.html#13
X-T.O.S.: http://www.uncensored-news.com/terms.html
Date: 18 Jun 2004 05:08:52 GMT
Organization: Uncensored-News.Com $6.95 Uncensored Newsgroups.
Path: number1.nntp.dca.giganews.com!border2.nntp.dca.giganews.com!nntp.giganews.com!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!c01.usenetserver.com!c03.atl99!chi1.usenetserver.com!news.usenetserver.com!pd7cy2so!shaw.ca!news.alt.net!feed.uncensored-news.com!galaxy.uncensored-news.com!galaxy.uncensored-news.com!not-for-mail
Xref: number1.nntp.dca.giganews.com alt.sex.stories.incest:7
BEYOND BREWSTER - BOOK II (M/f, M/b, inc., rom., lit.,)
By T. C. Emerson
BOOK II
"That was one way to get rid of Taunton," Neil McAlester said, trying
not to let his mind wander into the breakdown lane where they could park
for just a few minutes. He noted he could remain absolutely erect for an
extended period of time without suffering as Paul, in Dixie's story, had,
and as he, himself had on occasion as a teen.
"A girl can age a lot in such a place," Billie-Jo said with a pixie
smile and glowing eyes, "fall even more in love with her dad, even."
"Has to be good for something to be stuck out here in the pine barrens,"
the young father agreed. By accord they postponed an immediate return to
the mountain high adventures of Nancy Fox's childhood friend and rode a
mile, ten minutes, both mature enough to realize passing the
unprepossessing burg had done nothing to ease the practically insane
pre-weekend traffic.
"Seriously," Neil said, breaking the silence, "there's been one thing
your mom and I have overlooked in your up-bringing, probably for sound
reasons, and that is teaching you to type."
"Well, that's a change of subject," the pretty eleven year old murmured.
"Not so fast," her dad said, "you should write it out and publish it on
the Web."
"You're the writer in the family," the girl said.
"Guess what writing is," the young man suggested, "it's having something
to say. I have things to say in my field, so yes, I get a few checks every
so often, but guess who has something to say, in her own right, and says
it
extremely well. You're twenty-six keys away from immortality, to say
nothing of being at least something of a contributor to the Net, which is
about what's holding everything together at this point."
"Do you really think I could?" Billie-Jo asked.
"With your hands tied behind your back, except, of course, for the
typing," Neil assured the child
"Can you guys, you and mom, teach me?" she asked.
"I doubt it," the man responded, "it's something that has to be learned
by drilling in a structured environment, preferably coached by a dragon
with a stick who flogs you if you look down at the keys, then it takes
about a week to learn enough to practice without cheating."
"Why don't they teach it in school?" the girl asked, the subject never
having had come up before.
" Due to its terminal lack of trendiness, I suppose," the dad said,
"because there can't be any sane reason. Your entire future will be
dedicated to one keyboard or another, and they send you out in the world
pecking like a chicken, probably on the theory the teachers' unions are
such marvels of activation and solidarity the students they grace with
their wisdom will, one and all, be able to hire someone to type their
pearls and diamonds."
"Is it even possible to be cynical anymore?" Billie-Jo asked.
"Gets harder every day," the father said with a nod. "How is it
possible to speak of McDonald's and children without dripping irony? The
company is in savage trouble and will probably die, the kids look like
walruses, but it's unlikely most could dive to the bottom of a six foot
pool; absolutely total failure, yet you could go into the cheese`s office
and he'd grin you into the next county and grind your paw until you needed
surgery to get it to work again. Glitz, gloss, and some bizarre
combination of numbness and incompetence; get it perfect, and you end up
with FLIP ONE on your vanity plate."
"Well they often call them `sandwiches'," the father's daughter noted,
"that shows a little something, don't you think?"
"Hipper it doesn't get," Neil agreed.
"The Germans have a word for the enjoyment of suffering of others," the
little reader said, "but I wonder if they have one for glorying in the
death antics of a soul-stealing monstrosity defining the lowest common
denominator at every turn and crossroads."
"They're so clever at sending square jaws before the town councils and
killing off everything but their spawn that no conceivable hell is bad
enough for the top thousand cheeses."
"If things get real tough, maybe they could give the illustrious ones
a
pleasant weekend at a resort and then drop them into the sandwich
grinders."
"Anything for corporate unity and the bottom line," Neil said with
another nod.
Yes, it was hard to be cynical, but the young couple enjoyed trying.
You know, it helped keep their minds off the breakdown lane.
"With the typing thing," the girl said after some minutes of silence,
"couldn't you like have something called Keyboard College in all the malls.
Offer intense twenty-minute drill sessions that students could take any
time and in any order that was convenient?"
"And where's the beef in an idea like that?" Neil asked. "It's the era
of the schmo, and the schmo needs flash, puff, and bombast, nothing else
registers, so, how much of that do you think you could eek out of the
thoroughly mundane task of drilling at a keyboard, whatever the premium of
the skill."
"Iridium must have been built on such thinking," Billie-Jo noted. She'd
been the one to bring the disaster to her father's attention and the fact
so many cloud angels could be so utterly wrong had shaken them both; and
the story ended with a laugh in that the government had seized the system,
not wishing to take the heat if someone got hurt when the eighty three
satellites returned to earth. It was reverberating insanity, the kind that
causes trouble, but, to look at the bright side, it opened new avenues for
smart people living under a system that probed with a random
ineffectuality, denying, for example, an international flight to a family
of seven because one child had no second color identification, and, while
it's attention was diverted, a thousand mice could play for every one
caught - healthy, if backhanded. And while Iridium, per se, was probably
expendable, how many like enterprises were? How far could it all go into
the realm of dance before some prick came along and asked his fee for
playing the tune? Would more motivational seminars help? There was so
much cash in the banks they paid no discernable interest, yet they say
Howard Hughes died of starvation. But, if you were smart enough, it did
add up to a most precious gift, again, backhanded, but of no less value for
its perversity: to live, smugly, if it was your style, with the knowledge
all bets were off when it came to the immediate future. The fat people
would take care of everything if one looked twenty or thirty years ahead,
but, meantime, what? When did an individual or family decide enough was
enough, that the rules were so full of low quality thinking they could be
simply ignored as one ignores a sidewalk bellower of scripture or John
posters when they went to wrestling.? One thing was for sure, they made
the choice easier every day including Sunday. And now long would it have
been? How long before he'd moved on Billie-Jo, traded on their closeness
and her trust to get his fingers inside her little panties? If he believed
in himself wouldn't he have started at least bathing with the child a year
or more ago when her body had developed enough to take him safely? Did
that make in paranoia, the fact he hadn't been motivated to act on his
beliefs, however closely he held them?
How used humans were to scraping off and leaving behind. How quickly
they actually did adapt. So much had been taken away as they quickly gave
over their six thousand classic American towns in the name of Sam Walton
and hypermaterialism, what were we left with at least some enduring quality
but out books and our children? The crazy ball was crossing the net and
would soon strike in the court of the status quo allowing any slim, fit kid
to cackle at the chub-chub moralists - fat lot they knew, or, fat lot, they
didn't know. No fat kids on Kazaa, not even chubby. The adults didn't
fare so well, but were far from obese. Of all the hundred and fifty image
he'd seen only two female children had the hard, early-adult look, not at
all extreme, common to the victim; most were smiling, obviously happy,
alert to the presence of the camera.
Rationalization. Was it? The advanced world was sure to trip over
something, and so delicately was it constructed, all the kings horses and
all the kings men could sleep `till noon, ergo, one must grab for the gusto
as the ancient beer commercial said. If two wrongs didn't make a right,
did one? How long would he be able to count to two? Fortunately, he was
able to put the conundrum on a back burner because the kitten in the right
seat was reanimating. "Dixie told little Nancy more," Billie-Jo said, "do
you want to hear it, and, I promise, it doesn't go off the deep end, you
know, with one story leading into another. Just Dixie and her father, then
what happened a few days later when, guess what, Nancy got her dad to take
her camping."
"It that's an absolute promise," Neil said, "because if you keep it up,
we'll drive right off the end of Cape Cod, and end up feeding the dumb
things."
"I do promise," she responded, "but once I learn to type I want to be
able to get a lot of practice without typing `the quick brown fox jumped
over the lazy dog' a thousand times, so I like to pass on all the details
Dixie told Nancy and Nancy told me."
"The joke is," the father said, "you could learn at home. If I get the
right size transformer I can wire a chair for a very uncomfortable eighty
volts or so, and link it to a motion sensor so if you looked down at the
keys it would zap you, plus, it might be an idea to link it to the
keyboard, too, so if you made a mistake, a terse reminder that keyboard
skills are about as important as walking. In fact," he went on, "I'll be
every president in the last fifty years would have given a year off his
term to simply be able to sit and rattle something off quickly and
accurately. Maybe ninety volts."
Sometimes it was hard to tell if he was kidding. He was a hawk-faced
man with eyes that could get awfully fierce, but neither harsh nor hard,
as
far as she could tell; sort of an edgy dreamboat, who, if the need for a
leash arose, in the first place, would respond to a ribbon so long as her
hand held it. It made her feel warm and woozy, but, if we can share a
little secret, hardly like holding a ribbon. If Taunton had been endless,
they were now released into the heart of the pine barrens, flat and ugly
as
possible for a natural landscape, the equivalent of Mother Nature's strip
mine where nothing times less equaled a scrub void best transversed after
dark or before dawn - great place for liberals, they could hug dem pines,
scaggy, skanky things, back to health; probably just what the sandy soil
needed, a rich mix of their everlasting caca. Grind up all the Jews and
Muslims, for good measure; spread them along the right of way, and the
trip, if still not a scenic wonder, would at least pass aromatically.
Thinking like that would get him nowhere, but look at all the cars around
him with Massachusetts tags, liberal to the extent they were letting
thirty-dollar-an-hour sandhogs dig their grave across the very path of the
revolution, and they weren't getting anywhere, either. Miles to go before
the bridge.
Neil McAlester reviewed. He remembered talking with a war veteran who'd
served in the signal corpse and had learned fluent Morse code in a few
weeks. Remembering his father's long struggle to get up to thirteen words
a minute, he'd expressed surprised and asked how, realizing immediately the
answer and having it verified by the older man's silent smile. Eighty
volts across her cute butt might not be the equivalent of staying out of
the infantry, but the principle was similar: extreme motivation. Hot, fast
jolts of drill, with the sky practically falling if you slacked off or
faltered. Instead, it was just the opposite; every phrase from the lectern
dripped from its marinade of political correctness; rainbow this and
inclusive that, with coalitions for breakfast and faith a bedtime snack,
engendering, after four decades, a teaching class largely comprised of that
particular genre of folk who go through life with little idea of how really
stupid they actually are, but it wasn't a conundrum, for their intellectual
inferiority was plainly evident in their students (so-called). Wire a
chair with the transformer from an electric fence, so the kids would learn
to type by age eight, and they'd type out a warrant. There was no dealing
with their numbing cruelty - ever smashing the poor with their lotteries,
tolerance of real crime, and five-dollar-a-pack smokes - and a level of
mindlessness that affixed nutritional guidance, expressed usually in `zero
percent', on bottles of condiments. Their building codes mandated
insulations standards for light switches, while they let rich fuck live
colossally overhoused and drive perfectly stupendous vehicles. They were
the absolute garbage of civilization, dauntless in their efforts to bring
it crashing down over this nitpick and that split hair. They'd reduced a
proud, half-fine country to a trembling wreck, and if its key was offered
a
king, he'd respond, nervously: "You are kidding, aren't you?" In fact, so
reduced were the circumstances of the culture, they'd do best by just
shrugging their shoulders and picking a clown; leave the laughter to a
professional.
But sex, as always, was better left to amateurs. And how shocking was
that going to be; when mom and pop operations with little Billy and littler
Becky pinch hitting for the pros in the game? How long was it going to
take the country to adjust to rambunctious activity in vivid video, with
sound, what, four five clicks from every mouse in the land? He recalled
the story in the respected book, "What Cops Know" of a young prostitute
possessing "no characteristics of a woman" - always picked up by the first
cruising car, always. Everyone wanted them young. Put one issue of
"Playchild" on the stands and it would sell as well as "Hustler 8-12
Edition", but New York better get it in gear, because if they didn't, Kazaa
would. How long before there was a cable channel for left-out families?
Since it was a given nothing could possibly exceed "Dragonball Z" in
numbing monotony, why would it even be taking a chance to program
alternative material? If women had leached men of much of their manhood,
didn't it make sense they were fit only as companions of children? It was
a thought, though he supposed if he articulated it people would just laugh.
H'mm. Where was he headed? To a Sahara like scape of white, rangy dunes.
Good. With whom? A pretty eleven-year-old female. Good. Who was going
to have the last laugh? Marvelous.
"You're cute when you smile to yourself," the girl beside the young
father observed, "but this time it's more like licking your chops."
"Subconscious," he grinned at her, "nothing to worry about. Look at how
well I'm handling this car at speeds up to twelve miles an hour."
"Well, Speed Up!" she yelped, mimicking Beverly D'Angelo as Ellen
Griswold in the original "Vacation". One thing about leaving for the Cape
on Friday, any imperative to do with speed came with a giggle.
"And miss your sensational storytelling, Miss?" he queried, eyebrows
arched.
"I want my own," the luscious preteen replied, "cool as Dixie's and
Nancy's were, there's no substitute for the real thing."
"Don't get carried away, darling," Neil advised, "I doubt many people
would have read Dickens or Shakespeare if they'd gone all diary. What's
happening around you, and especially the stories of others, are your meat,
just as the complexities of engineering are mine. Since these are bound
to
be repetitive, you have to learn to work inside a formulae, just as you
walk down a sidewalk or drive down a street. You don't loop and slide, you
proceed, most miles much like the one behind them; it's what you notice
along the way that counts. Just the other day I read a story about a girl
being mounted from behind by her father while she was doing the dishes -
she talks of her hair floating in the water as he took her for the first
time, and that gave the story a real touch. Possibly it actually happened
that way, or maybe it was a random experience and the writer included it
like an athlete head-fakes an opponent. The variety of ways a male can be
with a female is limited to half a dozen or so survivable scenarios, about
like the rustlers and stagecoach robber in the Westerns, so, again like
driving or walking, you learn to pace yourself; move briskly along while
taking an ample look at the passing parade. You're getting outstanding
experience with your teacher, so you get to practice with preordained
action and drama, and, with luck, when you come down off that high you'll
have perfected the craft of just telling a story, without any carnal
aspects, though why you might want to is another question."
"And the humor thing?" Billie-Jo asked, "does that come naturally, or
is
it like a zillion hours of practice?"
"You leave that up to others," Neil said, "they do funny things - the
O.J. case and Florida vote - so you just write them down. They never
stop, and keep getting funnier. They pay Larry the Chair and Gap Idiot of
World Wide Pants thirty million to show up, and the whole country hasn't
produced even an interesting novel in a decade. If that isn't funny, what
is it?"
"Good news for the kids that don't read," the girl replied, "they won't
be missing anything."
Father and daughter.
"One technique in fiction," the driver said, "is review and
recapitulation; reminding your reader where you are in the story, who the
players are, what's happened so far, and maybe throw in a little
foreshadowing, for example, if someone wrote about us on this trip, they
might create a sudden break in the traffic and we could zoom ahead, leaving
the reader to know something was in his immediate future."
"But that was funny," the girl observed, "and you didn't need the studio
moron breaking his ten thousandth piece of glass as a victim. You have
another way of doing it."
"Well," he quipped more or less on purpose, "I did mention there were
half a dozen ways."
"You said `survivable'," the girl rejoined, "and half the time, the way
you do it, I don't see all that many surviving."
"I suppose it does open the pattern a little," the father mused, "you
know, pretending you don't care and letting the enemy have it with both
barrels, when, in fact, you do care, only about the victims of the very
specific enemy, not the crud that's gumming everything up and has been
since the huge faced Dutchman used his oratory cadences and practiced
resonance to sell his populism. Even Ladybird Johnson admits his disciple,
LBJ, was a political goop and huckster, a thousand times better at arm
twisting than head shrinking. Both needed the swing vote of the urban
socialists, and got it. After that, it gets funnier by the decade. How
to
you look at Carter without laughing; he was a disciple of Rickover, and
Rickover cost the United States of America one trillion dollars with his
absurd and almost unbelievably hazardous submarines. Of course, to see the
real humor you have to imagine the money, skill, and labor expended in
Central America and the Caribbean, which keep us living large twelve months
of the year, and have for over two centuries. That's a tide that floats
all boats in Hilarity Harbor."
Billie-Jo sat quaking. Imagine having a father like Neil McAlester.
How had she ever left him alone for eleven years? Well, count it eight,
and perhaps at three, her feelings on the subject had been a bit vague.
Three? Assuming the traffic eased a little, they'd be in Brewster and off
on the back roads in three hours. Better get back to her story while there
was still enough time. Heeding her father advise, she reviewed before
setting forth anew. She was eleven, her friend and teacher, Nancy Fox was
twenty four. Nancy had invited her, Billie-Jo, to a long lunch with two
of
her classmates. During lunch at Nancy's apartment, the teacher had told
of
her early experiences, which had led to her mother's story of a childhood
friend, Dixie Peters.
"Dad," Dixie said as they were packing their tennis rackets after an
early-morning game at their club, "there's kind of a big secret in my life,
you know, since I went camping with Paul last week, and I don't want to
keep it from you."
"As far as I can see," Tim Peters said, "he, a, didn't sell you as a
milk maid to a dairy farm, and, b, he didn't feed you to a bear, so it
can't be much bigger than a breadbox."
"You might be surprised," she thought to herself, reining in her bawdy
ponies so that aloud she said: "He told me all his secrets, mostly about
Jordan Cress and a small group of his friends, and, I guess if I let that
cat out of the bag, if it was ever in one in the first place, my secret,
our secret, will be pretty predictable."
"They're making big money putting in the fix?" Tim asked.
"No," she said, "they're bringing out a comedy in three acts to do with
an obtuse father."
"As long as it isn't a tragedy concerning a precocious nymphet," the
thirty year old said.
"So you've noticed me dragging my heels and lurking mute in the
shadows," Dixie said.
"Just assumed it was too much drugs and booze," the dad responded.
"Well," the girl said, "you got the too much part right, or almost too
much, as the case may be."
"Sweetheart," Tim said as they headed up the path of the empty club,
"you've been practically glowing since you got back, and those were only
the times you weren't actually glowing. You don't seem preoccupied,
neurotic, defensive, or any of the symptoms associated with abuse, so
that's also a point in your favor. I'm not saying you seem better, but
some how more complete and filled out; a tiny bit less than little girl,
a
tiny bit more a young woman, and, since you're not the kind to set your
parents to worrying if you lose any interest you may have had in dolls, I
just keep a watchful eye and think to myself what a lucky girl you are to
have a brother like the one you have, precisely as he is lucky to have you
as his sister."
"Can you tell that something actually happened between us?" Dixie wanted
to know.
"I wouldn't have bet either way," Tim replied, "you don't seem different
from any kid who'd just spent a long weekend in the wilds, nor from the
girl I've known the past eight years, so you're secret's pretty safe."
"How safe do you feel?" the girl asked as they approached the club
rooms.
"What do you mean?" her father asked.
"About you and I having a secret, not from Paul, not from mom, but sort
of a really small one that we only keep from hostiles."
"First we'd have to find some," the man noted.
"Or," the highly intelligent creature noted, "we could be a little bit
coy and open, and let them find us, then go like all defensive, you know,
just to keep things from settling into a monotonous routine."
"Adversarialism is inherent," Tim Peters agreed, "that's why there were
kings for thousands of years; to cut through the squabbling and get things
done, which, of course, came a cropper when the kings got adversarial with
each other, but, if they hadn't, there wouldn't be enough free space to
grow an onion in the British Isles."
Like all couples in all my stories, the two had a lot to say to each
other, and were not particularly frightened of non sequitors, nor of
letting one subject lead randomly to another. My readers heap praise on
me, once to the extent of one hundred complimentary letters in a row, but
critics and other writers will be more chary. I can let my characters
drift here and wander there, throw in sidebars and divergences, galore, and
get away with most unprofessional behavior because I write about juvenile
sex, which brings everything - and everybody - back into the groove
whenever I take a whim to herd them there. You could not, for example,
write a book about a father and daughter sallying forth to by the child's
first horse, and, next thing you know, be dissecting typing as it's taught
in the school system, point out how extraordinarily handy it would be, as
a
student, even if you went on to work in a mine, to have basic keyboard
skills at age eight - there simply isn't that much talent available,
something I'm qualified to comment on, having either the most, or by way
of
practicing the longest and hardest with what I was born with. A father and
daughter buying a horse, or a dirt bike, if you prefer, needs story on
every page. This did not used to be quite the same, because pre-modern
audiences actually wanted long descriptions of everything from women's hats
to the lifestyle of the Hottentots. Modern audiences have seen it all on
cable, plus, in them thar days, a book was a device to fill time, and time
was something even the moderately affluent had plenty of. Life today is
a
scramble, and when you do catch a break, there's half a dozen documentary
channels, the Net, and diversions from stadium events to back-yard
barbeques, so long, drifty novels are out of style, by necessity if not
through preference. Sex isn't going to do any good, it's been widely
included for fifty years, leaving only children as a subject worthy of
intense investigation, especially since Sept. 11, which put the kibosh on
bold tales of action and intrigue. Conflict and resolution.
Adversarialism. As yesterday as five pages on the wallpaper in Miss
Phoebe's parlor. The only relevant conflicts today is the individual's
fight with his or her waistline and debt load, and we all know how those
puppies will end. So, out with it all. Out with music, out with film, out
with contemporary printed fiction, out with television, stadium events, and
more stuff on the B list, all to be replaced by reading history, fiction
and non-fiction, so we live our lives with some real appreciation for the
men who jockeyed sailing ships to grow the world, who tunneled the earth,
who hand-plowed a billion miles of furrow, but who left us fat, dumb, and
miserable, because they took away our kids.
As mentioned in Book I, I now have an XP machine, and, with a couple of
hundred hours of varied use during a time we've suffered two major
brown-outs and perhaps twenty sudden blackouts, I deem it an appliance.
It's frozen twice on initializing "Beachhead 2002", and both times
responded instantly to C-A-D, restoring the opening screen. I've never had
a more reliable toaster. Add Nifty and Kazaa with their comprehensive
libraries of tens of thousands of stories and images of adults sexually
involved with children, and that's where we're heading. It's where we
should have been all along, and where the luckiest have been. While this
is all well and good, positive, there is a negative to be considered, and
that is that there is nothing else. NASA is proving it in outer space,
Dell has proved with a bullet-proof, stove-bolt appliance computer.
Socialism proves it as long as long as your IQ is over ninety. Medicine
has proved it by burdening us with millions of miserable old folk who
should be out of the economic loop and in the ground. Democracy has proved
it for IQs over ninety one. Nifty and Kazaa can only be (substantially)
improved by growing in content and bandwidth. That's a partial list as
things exist, 2003. Insurmountable problems with alternatives beyond the
biblical. Simple formula: hc = lx, where hc = happy culture, l = literacy,
and x = pedophilia If you think the x should be squared or cubed, you may
be right, if you thing the formula is complete without it, you win a dozen
Big Macs.
Now don't go around quaking in your boots. Balm your psyche with the
knowledge that your scribe, with well over a million archived words (being
downloaded at some astronomical rate like fifty thousand a week), has not
had a single reader letter in months, not an attaboy, not a drop-dead, just
echoing silence. No one cares. They just want lots of sex with lots of
kids, thus making my point more eloquently in silence than would otherwise
be possible. Kazaa is double proof. I've accumulated a dazzling music
playlist from the original "Twist" to "White America", including Roger
Whittaker's "The Last Farewell" and Gordon Bok's "Turning Toward the
Morning", and no one has uploaded a song from me in forty hours online,
during which time maybe two hundred users have uploaded kiddie porn images.
Remember the story about the childish prostitute - all cars stopping? Get
the picture? Children should be encouraged to be sexually active, assuming
they have discernable wit and healthy curiosity, with a limited number
affectionate, enduring partners, from age three, and emphasis should be
placed on remaining slim, responsibility, and perspective, not abstinence,
which becomes a silly word for joke as soon as the right backs are turned,
but does an all-too fine job when it comes to turning participant into
victim.
Time for a little real-time experiment. I'm going to log on
you-know-where, I don't want to keep using the name for fear you'll think
I
have anything, whatever, to do with son-of-Napster, that I'm some kind of
paid shill, anyway, log in, select "Documents", and type "children". The
challenge is to find even one posting that is not explicit, if you know
what I mean. "Fours to ya, " in the dead language of the CBer, which so
antiquated it's probably even necessary to point out CB is Citizen Band
radio, and people other than truckers used to ratchet-jaw on it, so, "see
you in a short-short."
First, what's with the now-on-line user number? Four million, almost
five. One a Tuesday morning? It was the same Saturday night, it's always
four-million some. (This is about half Napster at its zenith, and, if
true, good for a site just passing out of studentville.) "Children" brought
two documents, an endless treatise from more-or-less the government on
child safety in the schools. My guess is: homogenized, banal, and another
re-hash of the obvious, but I'll give it a look. The second Document was
a
children's game, too big a file to fool with during working hours. Anyway,
two files out of four-plus million sharing almost a billion files. Three
guesses - did I have better luck typing in "brother" and "sister".
Interestingly "kiddie" brought zero files. "Incest" filled the screen in
a
few seconds. Yes, there's a tiny amount of non-prurient material, maybe
a
few percent, but if you come across a short story titled: "Daddy and Toni
Buy a Pony", the category will likely be Bestiality. Anyone but an
insidious nitpicker would declare: Case Closed, but allow an addendum
stating that there weren't all that many documents, perhaps a hundred or
more, under all salacious headings (or at least the ones that came to
mind). What does this mean? My interpretation is cowardice. Since, in the
half hour I was online I again uploaded numerous files, porn, only, that's
obviously where the interest lies, but people are afraid to contribute
their own original images, or don't have any (my case). It's important to
nail down the context as finely as possible - for sure, the government
isn't going to do it, and I don't have to read the Big Report to know there
is not a single favorable story or case history involving a child in a
positive and satisfying relationship. e Meaning there are none?
This still leaves open the question of how many people are visiting my
porn collection more-or-less by default, because it's one of a few, while
there are endless millions of music files. The way you measure this is the
same as the way the fish population of a pond is measured. You tag a few
hundred, release them, let them swim around for a couple of days, then
catch a bunch. Your tagged percentage will be true of the entire group,
and you'll have an accurate number. How many of the images and stories
reoccur, and how often do they do it? This will take a month or two to
determine, but early results in my quasi scientific survey indicate a high
level of repetition, and thus a limited number of available files. But
this also goes for music. Burl Ives and Harry Bellefonte often bring only
a scattering of hits. As I said, it will take awhile. I guess I'm getting
a little long-winded on this divergence, but when you know damn well you're
writing for the next century, assuming the survival of the Net, you tend
to
get a little archival - this is how one person saw it at such and such a
time, with a little evidence and a few statistics thrown in to elevate
writing from opinion without getting all sciency about it. And one note,
early statistics tend not to change. When I had cable I used to note the
responses to various audience surveys conducted on "Tech TV". They'd give
an initial reading, within half an hour of posing the question, then give
the final results, the next day, and the percentages for or against an
issue were always almost exactly the same, first and last. If you get a
lot of tagged fish from your pond, you're screwed, if you find one in some
hundreds, it's time to drown a worm. In summary, I perceive the level of
interest in child porn as red hot, with Murphy's Law working to fill the
available space as time goes on. Isn't it nice to read about something
that's on the up and up? Assuming this to be the case: tennis, anyone?
The cute architect had designed the club's locker room with abundant
alcoves and playhouse spaces, and certainly business must have been
discussed in the semi-private rooms and cubicles. And then there was the
maintenance. The cute custodian left the hinges on the several doors in
the suite un-oiled, so they all squeaked. Yes, there were no locks, it
wasn't that kind of place, but, also, yes it was seven in the morning, so
it wasn't any kind of place at the moment. Tim and Dixie Peters entered,
because, with so many hidden spaces, it had been decided somewhere along
the way, a locker suite could serve both sexes. Clever. No distinction
was made between adults and children, as in many similar clubs, which was
clever on steroids. The couple nonchalantly checked to be sure they were
alone and then put two squeaking doors between themselves and any newcomer,
finding a comfortable changing room with a heavy curtain and a single
padded bench..
"Finally," the girl said, easing her handsome, athletic father onto the
bench and standing in front of him.
"I hope your brother was as scared as I am," Tim said.
"We both were," the girl acknowledged, "plenty. Paul has been with
Jordan and a few of his friends, but never with a girl, and all I'd done
is
dream about certain things once in awhile."
"Did he tell you a lot about Coach Cress," the father wanted to know.
"Oh, dad," the girl said, "we talked for hours. Yes. Everything.
Specific. Explicit. Graphic. No secrets. He said it was pretty much a
one-time thing, that making love the real way was so good we wouldn't want
to spend time getting each other excited with stories, but I'm glad it
happened the way it did, even though it would have been pretty okay if he'd
just taken me, and never said anything."
"Well," Tim responded, "we've got all morning, and lots of things to
talk about if someone takes the next changing room, so, it seems to me,
that intricate stories on whatever subject can hardly help but amount to
verbal practice, something that is sorely unrealized by a zillion kids -
they simply never get a chance to speak other than grunting a dozen or so
code words to each other. Great for Mickey D's and the day-labor pool, but
if one wished to aim an inch higher a premature relationship gives a child
a chance to simply verbalize - talk - and is of value for that reason
alone. It's not something you have to practice, incessantly, be advised,
but kids, not you, do need practice, and spending a long weekend camping
with a cute older brother seems to me like a good way to do it, especially
if you discard enough rules and taboo to have a lot to talk about."
"And we have all morning," the Brady look alike tennis semi-pro
repeated, smiling shyly and settling onto her dad's lap, lacing her fingers
and arching modestly. Tim found her cheekbones with both hands, held her
at bay for long moments as he trained his eyes on hers, then let her
approach until their lips met. Maybe later for that, the girl just pecked
like clashing feathers on her Patrick Swayze ("Dirty Dancing")-handsome
young dad, then retreated a mile of an inch. "Daddy," she whispered, "I
want to tell you exactly how I want to start our incest, is that okay?"
"Yes, doll," the male said, "do you want to tell me how it started with
Paul? No pressure, but I'd like to hear."
"That's exactly what I wanted to do," she said, "everything, but
especially how it started, because I want it to be different with you. Do
you want me to get clinical?" she ended up asking.
"Yes, darling," Tim said, "no better place for nudity than a clinic."
She was quite beyond giggling, but her big blues glowed happily from her
schoolgirl face. He eased his daughter to the floor, and, playing along,
stripped quickly and efficiently from their tennis duds, back to back. But
through it all they were going to remain friends, and the young father did
his best to ensure this by talking to his pretty daughter as they hung up
their clothes. "I failed in medical school, Miss Peters, the doctor said,
"I was trying to take the temperature of a pretty young thing, just made
one, you know, huge mistake in placing the thermometer, was caught by an
intern, and it was decided on the spot that it was pointless to wait until
was eighty years old to let me continue my studies."
"Is that why you went to medical school, Dr. Peters," Dixie played.
"Yes," Tim replied. "Lack of sisters. Lack of girlfriends. I had to
find out, one way or the other."
"Have you victimized other underage females in this examining room?" she
asked.
"Only by prescribing them the drugs they see on television," the young
doctor replied, "but that goes for everybody. It's called tradecraft.
We're developing a pill for people who think they need no pills."
"Physically or psychologically-based?" the now naked girl wanted to
know, as they prattled, back-to-back."
"Miss," the male said, "the intensity and salience of your questions
mean you to have an interest in the healing arts, but you will not even get
into med school if you can't figure that one out for yourself."
"Ah," the neophyte cooed, "I get it. A mild psychogen. Sure, you feel
healthy now - think all shades are pink and all scents, lilac, but just
wait..."
"Wait?" they chirped in unison, signaling each other they'd waited long
enough. They turned and faced each other, diminutive blond and six-two
athlete. Tim's penis stood high, almost touching his belly, eight inches,
circumcised, and straining hard. Dixie guided him back to the bench,
returning to his lap, facing him, her slightly soft, little-girl tummy
inches from her athletic young father. "Daddy," she whispered, "how long
has it been since you sprayed?" Yes, intense.
"Three days, now that you mention it," he said.
"Paul, too. We're you know, like not doing things until we could be at
the club?"
"I suppose so," the former doctor said, "not consciously, which, even
without your wonder pill, meant totally consciously, counting the hours
consciously, and it helped, may I tell you, that you kept reminding me of
our date and alluding to it; that told me that you had more than volleys
and your net game in mind, and yes, you did seem extra close to your
brother, so, while I wasn't sure, I did surmise, and no, I've never
molested a child, though several times I've wanted to."
"The reason I asked," Dixie said in a tone quite appropriate to a
clinic, pretend or otherwise, "is that it had been a long time for Paul,
too, and it happened a special way the first time. It happened repeatedly
after that, over the whole weekend, pretty much night and day, but, you
know, because it was happening so often and he was so, you know, full with
me, well, there wasn't as much sperm as the first time, so, when we did it
a certain way, it was nice, but compared to the first time, not as
fulfilling as it might have been. Am I being too oblique?"
"I guess if a code's sexy enough it's worth breaking," Tim replied.
"Well," the girl said, "it was too oblique for me. I want to masturbate
you until you get really tense, and then I want to hold you very still and
take you in my lips, pushing gently against your penis with my teeth,
leaving them open just a little for your semen, then suck you."
"Did you take your brother's first sperm in your belly," the young
father rasped, not touching the tiny female panting inches from him.
"No, darling," she replied, her voice also thick and heavy, "all over
my
belly, at first, so I could see clearly, he held very still, then all over
me when it kept happening, then he raped me and held still, and I could
feel him spraying way inside me."
"Did you like watching it spurt out of his handsome, young teen body?"
Tim asked.
"It was the most beautiful thing, and we were one the side of a
beautiful mountain, with blue skies, white clouds, and butterflies. Even
if he'd sprayed on the moss it would have been beautiful, but seeing him
thick and white, again and again, all over me as I lay sweating and panting
beside him, totally submitting, was beyond words for scenery."
"Do you want me to rape you after I've wet your lips and nine-year-old
tongue," the panting father whispered.
"If you rape your little girl while she's still swallowing your seed,"
Dixie said, "you will be able to stay inside my belly longer, and imagine
your handsome teen son, his bare chest against my wet, slick breasts,
feeling the same things you are against his boner and leaving his boy sperm
hot and deep within me, as you will your adult cum."
Gently she lay him back on the bench and straddled his muscular right
thigh. She worked forward and lay fully on him, urgent for the feeling of
his hairless, young teen chest against her swollen nipples. "I'm growing
already," she said, "can you feel me against you?"
"Yes, love," the adult said, "they burn."
"That's from Paul, I think," the girl said, "jump starting the
development process because I welcomed him so completely all weekend long.
We even got scientific about it, at least rhetorically, wondering, you
know, if one identical twin sister was active and the other didn't take any
semen inside her, if the active one would develop more quickly, and more
in
the end, than her good twin."
"I understand his wanting to talk about things with you," Tim responded,
"it is a most beguiling way to pass the time, knowing the best way of all
is approaching, moment by moment..."
"and the more moments," the girl interrupted, "the more momentous."
"I've never kissed a child before," Tim said, coaxing his daughter
forward and imagining her brother welcoming her immature body the same way,
slithering and wriggling up him, slick with his cum. But she remained
cuddled tight against him, unresponsive. "I want it to be salty, the first
time," she panted.
The pixie crawled forward on the athlete to pinion his hands behind his
head. "Don't molest me while it's happening," she said, "remember, this
is
a clinic."
"If things get out of control," he said, "remember I'm a pharmaceutical
multi-millionaire, not a doctor."
"Stay still," she whispered, again straddling his right thigh, but this
time taking his huge hardness exactly as she described. She bent to him,
and, without licking, kissing, or foreplay of any kind, took his swollen
glans between her lips, pressing firmly against him with her teeth while
holding him high in her right hand and very low with her left. She sucked,
once, fully, and held the pressure with her tongue while panting through
her nose. After a minute, feeling him tense, she gently released him.
"Don't tell me when it going to happen," she said, ,"remain still and
silent so I can just think about how much I love you."
"Yes, love," the young man whispered, and immediately she was with him
again, taking not more than inch of him inside her lips, but this time
pressing the tip of her tongue firmly against him as she held him with her
hands and her now urgent suction. And it was clinical. He lay back, as
another man, feeling in someone else's loins the escalating tension and the
almost desperate sudden slacking of his loss of control. Was it Paul's
body experiencing the ultimate response to her hot welcome? Couldn't be,
on reflection, because he'd barely been able to spurt over her tongue and
he was even beginning to relax as he did it again and again for a full
minute as she mewed with excitement, never relaxing her fiendish pressure,
never moving save for the shuddering and panting as she climaxed from the
hot, salty rush sizzling over her tongue again and again until she had all
of him. She released him, sliding her naked body quickly over him, staring
into his eyes for a long minute, then mating her lips to him and gushing
his still hot sperm into his mouth, her tongue following avidly for their
first kiss.
Here again, the ways of the clinic prevailed. She did not gulp him
madly like a lover, just held her nine-year-old lips against his for minute
after unendurable minute, her legs clamped tightly on his penis so she
could feel it harden. When he was again fully erect she spoke: "Mount me
the same way," she said, "on the floor."
Dixie dropped to the carpet, spreading her legs and pulling her knees
against her chest. Her father huddled over her, she guided him with her
left hand, then wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms, under his,
around his heaving chest. He entered her very slowly, trying to obey her
wishes by using minimum motion. In two minutes, their thighs met fully and
he went rigid above her , high on his arms, looking down into her
schoolgirl face. "Don't tell me," she whispered once again, then pulling
him down firmly so her pert, budding breasts again seared his chest. He
felt her cum, her muscles squeezing him in hard, fast spasms for almost a
minute before she let slip a hint of a sigh, pulling him, if anything, more
fully to him. It happened again in minutes, then seemed to not stop
happening as she lay intense as steel beneath him, every fiber of her being
charged by his hot presence, and, finally, by and urgent final swelling
followed in a minute by an almost pounding pulse that lasted nearly half
a
minute.
"Daddy," Dixie whispered softly as they lay semi-conscious recovering
their breaths, Tim's penis still deep within his little girl, "the next
time you mount me I want to be fresh from Jordan." That was the end to
their clinical experimentation. The though of his daughter welcoming the
handsome coach, of her not using a condom with him, ended any semblance of
game play and he began moving on top of her as she exerimented with moving
up to him. Again he rose high on his arms to look down and her little girl
body, and his swollen hugeness stroking her infinitely hot, tight wetness,
then into her glazed blue eyes, ripe with shock as she accepted the first
unrestrained partnership of her life. The females orgasms became almost
perpetual as he took her quickly and steadily, his convention rhythm high
between her legs gradually giving way to uncontrolled thrusting and finally
borderline savagery as her acceptance became absolute and her hot whispers
crashed against his left ear. "If I ever have a period I'm going to be
moody and pissed-off for a week," the child panted, "you know why?"
There was only one biological answer, and it wasn't the time to go into
any psychological aspects. "Because you're not pregnant," he snarled to
her muted shriek of affirmation, frantic clawing, and childish hips now
slamming hard and fast against him. Boy, was this a kid who had nothing
to
worry about. "Baby, " he whispered so she knew he wasn't addressing her,
as he rose again on his arms. It was his warning, and her eyes focused and
glowed hot as she surged a final time fully against his shaking thighs and
held him in a death grip. Beautiful Paul had felt her against his body
like this, and released inside her, the handsome coach would, one day soon.
If she had one period, it would be a medical miracle, and he had just
consciousness left to wonder if she'd need feminine products before she was
perhaps sixteen, meantime having populated their wealthy household with a
gang of daughters, and maybe a boy toy thrown in. Her brother and four
adults would be taking her constantly over the summer, through the coming
school year, until showering with her became a mystical experience to be
followed, in due time, with paternity testing to see which of her males
could claim very considerable bragging rights. For a moment his mind was
a
hippie movie, all flashing images, then a particular scene came into sharp
focus as he felt his last ragged grasp on control slipping slowly away.
Paul had mentioned one of Jordan's friends, Will Kirkland, he even
remembered the name, spent a lot of time with his thirteen year old nephew,
Jerry, he'd even seen pictures of the handsome schoolboy. He imagined the
male child naked, his bottom on a pillow, spread eagle as he, Tim,
masturbated him openly in front of Dixie, who stared avidly as did Jordan,
kneeling close behind his daughter as the girl shuddered on all fours.
Kneeling between the long, coltish legs of the brand-new teen, he stroked
his six inch hairless penis, pulling the foreskin especially down so he
could alternate masturbating the youth with tampering with his flaring
glans, making the child pant and tense until a hot shower of watery sperm
sprayed all over both of them, most splashing on the child's satin-smooth,
white belly. Dixie's "Oh, daddy," fit the fantasy perfectly, and made him
cum long and hard as she mashed and mewed through a final orgasm, then lay
panting and glowing as he slowly rolled free of her."
"Did you like the baby part?" Billie-Jo asked, "I did. And I'm eleven,
not some poor little eight year old that'll have to wait months and months,
no matter how active she is with mature males."
"I liked it," Neil said, "but it does sound like one of those
happy-ending tales audiences coo over. You know, maybe a little commercial
and slick."
"Life's like that, sometimes," the girl responded, "look at us for
example. We're not even going fast enough to have a bad crash, so what can
possibly come between us and a slick, happy ending? and even a little
commercial, as I'm sure Nancy and her brother, along with my friends will
constitute an audience."
They sat, cruising a bit faster now, for some minutes. Five in the
morning. On schedule, the whole day ahead to nap off the red-eye, at peace
with the potential of human relationships and such harmonies as were to be
found if one had a free spot in his mind, and a pretty kid to occupy it.
"You'll be the only adult male," Billie-Jo said at last, breaking an
obvious train of thought,, "which has its sad side because I'd love to have
a man behind me, the way Jordan was behind Dixie, while Mr. Peters was
doing homosexual things with the boy. I'd like to watch you, the same way,
if you want to see Jason's, that's Nancy's brother, sperm."
"Darling," Neil whispered, "I could be the one behind you, and one of
your friends could lie under the boy, so he'd be raised up to you when he
spread his legs, and you could use your hands on him. It would probably
be
more momentous if the hand of a female child was on him, than that of an
adult."
"Well," the girl mused, "I hope Jason's not gay."
"Gay's just a state of mind," the father said, "like fundamentalists
that go around stiff-necked with pride in the fact others abhor their
sleazy churches and the tacky showmanship they make of religion. Their
preachers tell them to do this, take pride in ostracism, something the Jews
have been about for centuries. Same with gays. It's more rebellion
against convention than anything physical or psychological. Most people
are straight, and they need to be different, in the same vein that most
people drink tea from cups and worship on Sunday. If they drank from
glasses and attended church on Saturday, all of a sudden, within a year the
rabbinical councils would come up with obscure points of Torah, reversing
their traditions so as to be once again be at odds with whatever is normal.
If Christians eschewed brotherhood for materialism, they'd flee the
counting houses for the lumber camps. In summary, the boy would have to
have been indoctrinated very thoroughly to find you less than ravishing and
your touch less than that of an angel, and, since I don't picture Nancy Fox
as having that kind of brother, I guess you have little to worry about."
"Do you think Dixie had it happen to her in the right order?" Billie-Jo
now wanted to know, "letting Paul do it while she watched, then using her
mouth on her father?"
"Under the circumstances," the driver said, "yes, but if Paul had, you
know, cum, beforehand, so he just had the ordinary three or four spurts of
seminal fluid, it probably would have been more exciting if she'd taken his
sperm in her mouth, and imagined how it looked until the proper time came
along to actually find out."
"I hope you don't feel set up," the girl responded, "if I ask you, you
know, how long it's been since you..."
Neil smiled softly at his suddenly tongue-tied daughter. Fresh as a
flower, and she would still be, at noon, no longer innocent, but still
fresh, mild mannered, and delightful to be with under any conditions. "I'm
a disciple of Tim Peters in that department," Neil said. "Nothing's
happened with me since we set the date for this trip. Even if Nancy hadn't
reared her beautiful head, I was thinking, from various subtle signs a
female gives, whether she does so deliberately or not, that our
relationship would change if you wanted it too. Therefore, loving you as
intensely as I do, yes, I abstained, and it's been four days now, and
that's the name of that tune."
"Daddy," the child said, "I want your sperm to go on your chest, not
mine, so when you're being a stag with me, I can feel your seed all
slippery against my back. Would you like to have that feeling, too?"
"I want to look into your pretty, eleven-year-old eyes when I first
enter between your legs," the man said, "but if you've been successful with
me while I'm lying on my back, I should be able to control myself and take
you all hunched over your slim body while I feel your budding breasts with
my wet hands."
Father and daughter.
Again, time slipped a cog and it was Kate Fox, Nancy's mother, listening
to the conclusion of Dixie's story in the park after school. The girl had
changed forever, or, more precisely, since she'd continue her happy
schoolgirl routine unabated, grown forever. There was a man in her life,
and she felt him from her shaking knees to her suddenly dramatically
swollen nipples. "What would I be up against," she wondered to herself,
"if I was headed home to some pot-bellied, potty-mouthed, brutish, bearded
beer hound instead of a trim, tall, affectionate athlete?" Practically
woozy with relief, yet her heart burdened for the moment with the plight
of
less-fortunate rag dolls, she and her best possible friend chatted on for
a
few moments, then chanced another kiss good-bye. "I want to be with you
very much," Kate whispered in parting. "Your dad, first," Dixie said, her
nipples suddenly visible against her uniform blouse, and with a shy smile
she was gone.
"You seem to have the lightest case of first-day-back-at-school blues
I've seen in awhile," Karl Nelson (Nancy Fox's grandfather) said to his
little third-grader, "which probably means your friend, Dixie, had a good
vacation and you guys talked until you were blue in the face/"
"I'm glad you brought it up," the girl said shyly, "she did. She had
a
great time all summer long, with Paul and Tim, oops, her dad, anyway, she
clued me in on a lot of things she thinks I'm old enough to learn about
without going off el deependo, and I trusted her, you know, because we're
the same age, so of course I was old enough, or at least I thought I was,
but she knew she could trust me, so she got pretty graphic and explicit
with all the things that happened, and I realized I wasn't mature enough
to
take it all in and file it away for future reference, which is why I ran
the last three blocks as if a dog was chasing me, which, when I think back
on it, was a little silly, because I wasn't hurrying home to be safe."
Let's see, how to say this, not that it's worth the effort. Okay, Kate
and Karl spent a lot of time at their computer, back in the hideous days
of
DOS, who's greatest attribute, as far as they could tell, was that it would
tell you you were wrong one million times in a row, while remaining mum on
what might be right. Anyway, it was in a day when channels had to be
manually selected, modem, printer, primitive sound card; whatever.
Therefore, when Kate snuggled close beside her dad, who was lathering a
cauliflower with mayonnaise before slipping it in the oven, he said, unable
to resist the savage pun, though he was far from being a lewd man, "what
you were hurrying to was portal danger, eh?"
"Well," the girl cooed in response, "if you were my brother, it would
be
to config sis."
"Or the other say around," the young father grinned, "as I can't imagine
anyone conning your figure and not twining himself around your little
finger, happy as a baby snake."
"But I don't have a figure," the girl noted.
Karl didn't say anything, just looked pointedly at her chest where her
young breasts were straining against her blouse, just as Dixie's had. She
smiled shyly at her father's creep behavior, gladder than glad he was
responsive to her rather than going all Puritan and retreating into some
shell of yesteryear. She didn't want to seduce him, she just wanted it to
happen as fully and completely as it had for her best friend; clinically,
romantically, passionately, or outright rape, just so it was all of
everything for hours and hours, and happened again and again until their
showers together graduated from the sensual to the ethereal. Her mother
had deliciously, two years past, run off with, no kidding, the pizza
delivery boy, and it seemed the very walls had breathed a sigh of relief.
The barely tolerated trickle of books and magazines had quickly grown to
a
healthy torrent, money formerly wasted on cosmetics and fashion, diverted
to the then-healthy publishing industry. In months their relationship had
calmed magnificently and they'd settled a dynamic routine of punctilious
completion of homework, he made her copy every written document at least
once after it was "complete", her initial bridling dissolving under the
warm smiles of her teacher and the respect, in those halcyon days, of
classmates who focused on a kid, even a second grader, who knew her stuff.
After the homework, came, regular as the setting sun, two hour of reading
aloud to each other, then off to bed without wasting a lot of hot water on
ludicrous bathing rituals. Seven days a week, the only variation that a
good story, for example, a Georgette Heyer, would crash the beddy-by time
by as much as half an hour. Dixie and two other friends often visited for
supper, the handsome father experiencing little difficultly in training his
giggling guests in kitchen craft, starting with the perfect preparation,
exactly according to the directions, of macaroni and cheese dinners, then
advancing to a Sunday free-for-all when they knocked off six quarts of
white sauce while microwaving numerous bowls of side dishes such as shrimp,
chicken, and premium hot dogs. Structured, with a lightning fast spanking
for gratuitous non-compliance, yet flexible and free, as the man had no
desire to see his girl go clicking off with the first brass buttons to
march by for the glory of the fatherland. And how long had it been since
he had spanked her? On second thought, had he ever really, or had she
simply read it so clearly in his eyes the actual event was assumed rather
than experienced? And for the past year? Not even a hard look. And his
obvious affection for Dixie and friendly way with Paul, the few times he'd
visited. There was a lot of water in their pond and it was beautifully set
in the landscape. She was a happy girl, and the cauliflower was in the
oven, set to three-fifty. Kate fiddled with the dials lowering the heat
a
hundred degrees and setting an "off" time. "We may be late for dinner,"
she said, looking shyly up at the handsome man towering over her, her
nipples sore against her blouse. Her right hand reached up to him, and,
improbably, the shook, murmuring hi to each other. "Don't forget to carry
me over the threshold," Kate said as they climbed the stairs, the last
words she spoke as a virgin wearing shoes. They entered his room and he
deposited her tenderly on the bed, kissing her curly black hair.
"I'll give you a little privacy and be back in a few minutes," the young
father said, adjourning to the bathroom where he quickly stripped and took
a moment to gaze at himself in the full-length mirror.. "And I missed a
thousand lunches for this," he mused ironically to himself as he surveyed
his flat belly and slim waist, then returned to his bedroom carrying a
towel. His pretty nine-year-old daughter was lying on her back, her legs
widely spread, her hands behind her head, and her hips thrust as high as
she could manage. Karl displayed for two long minutes, standing at the
foot of the bed, then crawled over her, mounted high on his arms. Kate
found him with her right hand, guiding him quickly to her, then wetting him
before again placing her hand under her head. The adult moved gently
against his child, penetrating her one careful inch at a time, then bucking
hard and fast to penetrate her delicate hymen. He froze while she shed
tears at the sting, then her hot welcome again flooded her big, brown eyes
and she experimented with moving against him. For half an hour the adult
remained tense over the little girl, gradually entering high between her
legs. She lay inert, only her eyes fiery with the sensations grinding and
ravaging her nervous system. Then his tight belly with it's streak of
black hair running down from his navel was pressed firmly against her own
slightly soft little girl tummy, and he lowered to her swollen
strawberry-size nipples, his arms wrapping around her as hers did him.
"No matter what they did," Kate whispered, "this was always the best."
"Then you owe your pretty friend for saving us the time we otherwise
might have spent on foreplay," Karl responded.
"And being so complete with each other, too," the girl said, her voice
sonorous and ragged, "because if it hadn't been for her complete
descriptions, I would have wanted to watch you the first time, so I'd know
exactly what was happening in me later on."
"I hope you'll want to watch sometime," the male said, "I'd love to have
it happen with your eyes on me, especially if you are mature enough to use
your hands."
"Maybe," the girl allowed, "but nothing in the world could be like this,
and I may get greedy for the best, the whole best, and nothing but the
best, besides which, I want to get pregnant as soon as possible now that
mom's gone and stopped wasting all the money and we have enough for like
thousands of diapers, when we'd only need a few hundred, and Dixie wants
the same thing, so we could pinch hit for each other, and another girl at
school we know about who wants her brother's baby, and have sort of a club
built on pregnant ten-year-old girls, like an open, but not very open
Posted By Nikki
_______________________________________________________________________________
Posted Via Uncensored-News.Com - Accounts Starting At $6.95 - http://www.uncensored-news.com
<><><><><><><> The Worlds Uncensored News Source <><><><><><><><>
|
|
|