Sex with Boys and Girls - 2

by Feather Touch
      
      
      

      They were most circumspect.  Twenty one year olds didn’t hang around with boys half their age in the days before ‘puters.  But a friendly indifference worked well, was the proper mien to put forward, what with their soaked shoes and dry clothing acting out in an appropriate way, when any kind of giggling together or that type of thing would have been severely out of place.  “You might as well stay with us,” Richard’s father said, “one adventure for the night is enough, and we’d love to have you.”  Jill nodded brightly to the wisdom of her handsome father and Christine Walsh set their tennis shoes tumbling in the dryer which put paid to the matter.
      
      “If you can endure the deadening cadences of sonorous intonation,” Matt Walsh told their impromptu guest, “we have a show-up-or-be-blown-in-half-with-the-family-shotgun reading hour every evening, usually earlier, but always, and you’re welcome to pull up a pew, or you can listen to records in Richard or Jill’s room.
      “What are you reading?” Stan asked
      “’The Golden Hope,’” the third grader said, “it’s a huge long sea story about a girl who gets cast away on an island, and her fiancé goes in search of her.”  There was enough in her bright eyes that the visitor felt he might be inclined to stick around for the reading of ye telephonic epic as long as she was in the same room, and he hoped he’d had the manners not to start nodding like a turkey half way through her invitation, but he couldn’t rightly remember.  If there were elements of code which frowned on men associating excessively with younger boys, there were no such strictures, at least in the Walsh family, on an eight year old’s attraction to a boy the perfect – playmate, how cute – age for her, and so the pretty pixie with silky mouse bangs framing big brown eyes ended up in Stan’s lap, wriggling fully back against him, and then diving into the thick volume in no way hesitant or with any trace of juvenile sing-song.  She clocked about three hundred words a minute and her sweet voice mottled to the inflections appropriate to the passing scenes and situations.  With an interruption for tea, the hour stretched to an hour and a half, just like that, with Richard taking over for a couple of chapters at the end.  By then it was eleven, and Matt and his wife excused themselves and went off to bed.  Richard went into the kitchen to clean up the tea dishes and Stan and Jill sat side by side on the sofa.
      
      “Pretty neat for a brother, don’t you think”” Jill asked, nodding toward the soft clatter of dishes filtering into the living room.
      “I was led,” the boy replied, “thanks, of course, to your family shotgun, to believe he feels much the same about you.”
      “Stan,” she whispered, blushing prettily, “are you going to be a swimmer, too, I mean a real swimmer?”
      “Your brother explained,” the eleven year old replied, the girl eyeing his lap and seeming to miss it, “what I would have once considered the bad part of the life of a serious athlete, so I’ve come to the conclusion that if it happened that I, personally, liked the bad part, it stands to reason I’d also respond favorably to the good parts.”
      “I knew you’d say yes,” the sweetie chirped, and if there was more than one percent irony in her lively brown eyes, it’s my fault and not the girl’s.
      Although they’d know each other casually and off and on most of their lives, the projects they teamed on had never happened to bring them together for the long talk that ropes a friend from the herd.  The best they could do for the moment was substitute a long look, which they held unabated until the sounds from the kitchen ended with the muted roar of the dish washer and Richard returned to sit across from them, any doubts or anxieties he might have nurtured about the coming night vanishing at the sight of the newly betrothed couple, sister and guest.
      “Your shoes are ready,” the girl finally whispered to both males, “you could get them from the dryer and put them on.”  The boy had heard if one visited Los Vegas, an argot ensued, codes for this and acronyms for that, a special language such as is found, yes, to the point of the duck-waddle bizarre in academia, but in most fields and venues from medicine to the slang of the hobo and carnival barker.  Of course, the criminal world had its own slew of muffle-speak, and the list went on to include oddities such as much of the world speaking in nothing but incomprehensible vernacular.  Against this background, the most routine domestic observation could be laden with entendre to some power way beyond mere doubling.  
      
      And more of the same: “the clothes dryer is in the cellar,” Jill said to Stan, leaving the boy to wonder how he could follow the school nurse’s directive while not wearing any shoes he could be pretending to play with.  And she was neither coy nor matter-of-fact about it, that was the thing; she was neither teasing, flirting, mocking, or displaying the least irony.  She just seemed alive, alert, engaged, and sparkling with restrained excitement.  Came from a place it seemed impossible to consciously enter, while issuing an invitation it would be entirely unnatural to refuse or ignore.
      
      And yet more of the same: “and no socks,” she whispered, “just your bare feet and the sneakers.”
      
      And, though there was no hint of coupe de grace in her big brown eyes, this: “I’ll go up to my room and get mine on, then come down in the cellar.”
      
      And the last rites went: “on second though, I’ll play dress up and wear an old pair of Richard’s”
      
      The males came to life like lead melting in reverse (congealing).  Extremities were a harbinger of more general movement, and the powerful drug began to really wear off when the pixie supplied an antidote with kisses to each, then ascended the stairs in the direction of her bedroom.  By the time they reached the cellar door, Richard and Stan were all but upright, and with care they managed the steps without incident.  Yet a numbness remained, and they paused as if stupefied at the portal of the still warm enameled appliance, no more animated than a Neanderthal at the mouth of a strange cave.  
      
      Foolishly they looked at each other and spontaneously murmured, “hi,” in unison, returning then to a state that was both immobile and mute.  Nor were they laggards or slackers, so the mile-thick silence was finally broken by the host.
      “We might as well put them in the washer, now, because that’s where they’ll end up, anyway.”
      Stan nodded at the logic.
      “And,” his teacher went on, “it will give us a reason to come down and finish yours in the morning.”
      “Okay,” the boy was able to murmur experimentally, speech seeming a strange gift.
      “I loved watching Jill in your lap,” Richard whispered, and the return to lucidity acted as a galvanizing force on both males who quickly filled the waiting tub of the machine and retrieved their sneakers, sitting side by side on a classic rec-room sofa, the lost-in comfortable kind, as they did up their laces.
      
      “She’s very good with time,” Richard said, “so we have a few minutes.  Why don’t we fill up the machine and start it.”
      Turned out there was extreme method in the older boy’s madness.  It had been a hot skillet evening of excitement, so far, but nothing that had happened was one bit more erotic than being naked, wearing sneakers, and going about a household routine.  Clothes in, and no double takes over glimpses of tiny flowered panties that made up (an infinitesimal) part of the load.  From there they finished unloading the dryer, Stan piling the clothes in the ironing nook while Richard added water to the appliance and set the lever.  “I brought mine, too,” came a voice from the head of the stairs, followed by the slightly ungainly clumping of shoes on the stairs and the appearance of the bolt of beauty, silken hair and lithe, childish body offset by the big boy shoes on her long, dancer’s legs.
      
      They ironed all the clothes down to pocket handkerchiefs, Jill plucking out a red bandana to wear around her head, Indian style, though already wild beyond comprehension.
      
      Now, are we ready for a great big question?  Why wasn’t a similar scene being acted out in three or four out of every ten homes in the sprawling suburbs surrounding Manhattan?  What could possibly stain hands capable of turning out a wash as crisp as a spinster’s?  Why don’t families become a little more flexible and last a lot longer?  Why are juveniles, hands-down the most avid and enthusiastic; curious and charming of lovers, each and every one from each and every home, penned up in a single corral with a big sign reading: “No Way” over the gate?  Are the laws for the misbegotten?  The codes, principles and morals vestigial detritus and nothing more?  If so, how is it accounted for that those who respectfully disobey find themselves in fantasy worlds of fulfillment that are often sustained for decades and lifetimes, and, when they do become imperfect, yet leave the participants better off than they were even if by the mechanism of making them positive about what they want none or no more of?
      
      Excuse me, but when you’ve ended up with your entire cast ironing shirts and installing hangers, it’s hardly necessary to make up excuses for an editorial aside.  I thought I’d review one point by including Mark’s comments, fearing no reprisals because lo it turns out he set this snowball upon ye ridge.  I’ve already rabbit-punched the tombs of scholarships, now I’ll let him administer a three-step kick-box, and you’ll note that my long-time correspondent is not barefoot:  
      
      “Back in academe days I once satirized the vapidity of language used by 
"professional educators" in the so-called Education Department. It was a 
buzz-phrase generator with three columns that allowed the random or 
intentional creation of "terms" like "modulated format reschedulement." I 
think there were fifty words in each column-- some being the latest 
educantoid rant. Backfire! They liked it so much they wanted my permission 
to use it in their classes and their materials!”
      
      Well, used without his specific permission, I’m afraid, but I also used a direct quote in “Poster Boys,” finding the exercise survivable.  He’s on the borderline of painstaking in characterizing me as this and that as an “erotic” writer, and, wishing him no harm, I’m in hopes he won’t suffer the shock of Stan and Richard watching the cellar stairs when he wakes up one morning to the realize he can set things right by merely removing the single quoted word from his assessment.  Of curse, Jill could have made it half way down the steps, taken one look at the wildly swollen males, and retreated forthwith, imprecations about a house full of pervs cast over her shoulder, tresses flouncing, and with a final screech in which only the words “mom” and “dad” were crystalline.  What that’s all about is adding a little that isn’t erotic to give M. perspective, you know, without any implied pressure to see it my way.
      
      On the other hand, all you have to do is watch me hang-fire over so minor an issue as a basket of laundry to perhaps find yourself inclined to side with my friend.  Not a chance worth taking, which brings us to a final pair of flowery panties and the end of the wash day, replete with miracle.
      
      All three looked at the lone tendril in the bottom of the straw basket and the miracle was that, however strong the impulse, neither male wanted to slip the tiny garment carefully over their Keds and pull it up their long, athletic legs, potentially erotic as the sight might have been.  Just didn’t seem right, which was, in context, odd, because working on the chore together was, since touching inevitably occurred, big-jail-time wrong, and there wasn’t a line of type in any law book prohibiting a boy from trying on a little girl’s panties, and even half the clergy might laugh and wink at the thought, deeming it both cute and moot.
      
      To cut past the chase, the undergarment received a quick dab of the iron, and was folded and put in its proper place, the iron turned off, and the board folded and set back against the wall.  Within seconds the eight year old girl had the right hand of the eleven hear old boy and was leading him to the derelict sofa.  She knelt rather than sat on one of the thick, foam cushions, and pulled Stan gently to her, hands on his hips.  Richard settled beside Jill for a moment, gathering her long, brown hair and folding it at the back of her neck, then slipping on a rubber band, leaving her looking about as Indian princess in her bandana as an Anglo girl could look.  The mature male then rose, turned out the overhead lights, leaving just the soft glow coming down the stairs, and positioned himself close behind Stan, taking the stripling in his arms as his little sister lowered her pretty face to the boy’s hot, hard boner while the colt spread his legs wide and thrust carefully to meet her.
	As his hands gently cradled her elfin face, the child experimented with licking and kissing, then moved down on the long, slim shaft of the panting beauty.  Richard supported his young friend, holding him firmly as he quaked and trembled to the pretty face now moving rhythmically on his fiery penis.  Richard’s slick hand had seemed to be all there possibly could be, but the little girl’s mouth stayed hotter and wetter and her tongue was inexhaustible in experimenting with swirls and lashings as her hums of welcome turned urgent and though indistinguishable obviously amounted to a passion for the spill of his seed.

      “If you can’t tell her,” Richard whispered, “pinch her cheeks.  Try giving her some warning.”
      “I think I’ll be able to,” Stan gasped in return.  But in the end he couldn’t, not a word for the life of him, and even his efforts to grip her as a signal amounted to almost nothing.  Luckily, the girl had by now experienced the final tensing of a male several times with her brother, and so when the shaking, sweating, gasping boy, head lolling side to side, lost control she was ready for his long, heavy torrent of semen, the delicate muscles of her elegant long neck pulsing quickly and fully almost the second she’d recovered from the shock of the first lightly saline rush of the juvenile’s boy sperm.  
      
      It was almost a minute before the powerful swimmer felt the dart in his arms begin to ebb and in half that amount of time again he eased the boy from the whimpering, panting girl.  Stan collapsed to the sofa, caught his breath for five or ten seconds, then, avidly watching, still fully erect, he moved behind and under Jill so she could be comfortable while she took control of her tall brother, first tilting her face to him so their lips could meet, while she displayed for the lover behind her by letting a copious drool of watery semen escape from between her lips, and finally ending the seminal soul kiss as she lowered her head, her pretty lips and willful tongue going to him for a minute’s welcome before the two young animals came carefully together to a third of his length.  She’d masturbated Richard and so her hands went automatically to him, her left cupping low, her right fisting, and so she took him, Stan panting over her left shoulder as he stared at what was perhaps the most personal and intimate form of incest.
      
      Richard huddled bent over the boy and girl on the sofa.  He explored both young bodies, then began acting positively, guiding both male and female until Jill caught on and with a muffled yelp spread her long, slim legs as wide as possible, exposing her delicate inner thighs to Stan, whom Richard was now guiding.  They didn’t rush, got comfortable, then the mature male released the boy whose hands went to the eight year old’s waist as he thrust gently and finally fully deep up inside her panting and muscular young body.  For five minutes, then ten, then more both males mated with the pretty school girl, their lithe bodies flexing with restrained – almost delicate – power as their breathing settled into a steady, harsh beat.  So long did they have sexual and oral intercourse with the babe, the thoughts of all three happened to flash on what great exercise it was, the workout intense, low impact, partially isometric, and ongoing.  Nor were their eyes left out, left to gaze at a cinderblock wall; instead they feasted on the beauty of their athletic young bodies that if crudely titled: Two Dudes do a Chick, would still amount to a tableau of a slim eleven year old inseminating a pretty third grader from behind, his hands roaming her flanks, belly, and panting chest, while the girl’s hand reached to a tall adult and her pretty face moved ever more urgently against its third of the huge phallus jutting from the muscular thighs, and all clad in ungainly sneakers.
      
      They tensed almost languidly and the ending was more satiating – a full arrival – than wild and dramatic.  They stilled in their gentle huddle over her, her murmurs clearly indicated to her brother what she was feeling deep in her belly, then they moved slowly apart, Jill finding Stan with her lips and adding a final sudden shock of delirium to the quiet denouement of their evening.
      
      “I’m glad we stayed in” I said as my classmate reached an interlude in the prologue to his story.
      “It’s cool you understand,” he responded, “because it’s not like the regular stuff that can go on and on, it’s a one time thing, like an all-night drunken ramble without the alcohol.  Even what happened, not just the story.  Jill and Richard settled down to a once a month ritual, and I joined them three more times.  He was able to penetrate her fully when she got her growth spurt at twelve, and they still spend to or three weekends a year together, though both are dating and living regular lives.”
      
      He went on to say that, generally speaking, enough had been enough, and, while he did shower with other swimmers through high school and over the summers, there was nothing extreme about it, and he classified himself as a quasi virgin until he met Mary Jane, two years before, and, the same summer, age seventeen, took a job as lifeguard and pool supervisor at his club.
      
      We still liked being modest together, and, without mentioning it, the challenge of getting up, slipping back into our clothes, and heading out to indulge our mutual and wanton addiction to meatball subs.  We were able to walk to a diner, and further challenged ourselves with downing the subs and chocolate milk in the shop rather than scurrying home to gorge and recline.  Neither of us, however, pulled out a deck of cards or miniature chess set, and forty-five minutes did find us once again side by side on whoever’s bed it was, still with the towels.  Stan skipped six years forward.
      
      “That covers the basics,” Ian Church, the club activity director said to Stan and Brad, “while leaving out what’s probably the most basic of all, and that is that the boys and girls are going to like you, and like you very much, indeed.  There’s nothing new in this, it’s been going on for years, and probably this is not the only facility of its kind in the world where it’s been going on.
      “You have but to be discreet,” the speaker went on, “because they will be, cherishing their time alone and in small groups with you far too much to risk spoiling it by any mention, anywhere.”
      He concluded:  “You are not quite whores, but at the same time the club is built on a foundation of junior members avid to spend as much time here as possible, and to send their children, in turn, to where they found that rare gem of the right combination of dignity, respect, discipline, and tolerance.”
      
      “Did you know about any of that?” one seventeen year old asked the other as the former’s blue and white car pulled onto the road leading from the club to Brand’s house.
      “I guess Ian wasn’t kidding when he said discreet,” Brad said, “because I know at least four kids that swim there, and I’ve never heard word-one.”
      “How do you feel about it?” Stan then asked.
      “If parents who went bring their kids back, I guess that kind of says it all,” the teen answered.  “How about you?”
      “Always on the side of the parents,” the cute redhead grinned.
      “Stan,” Brad then said, “do you want to talk about it more, or would that be weird?”
      “I know what you mean,” the driver said, “and that’s just what it would be with almost anybody else, but I like you and we’ve got the whole summer ahead to be working together, so, yes, I want to talk about it – maybe we could park somewhere ‘till our shift starts – you know, you could ask me questions and I’d tell you the truth, and I could do the same with you.”
      
      This they did.  Brad, it turned out was in my league, way minor, so Stan told of the night of the sneakers as they sat in the comfortable cockpit of the sports car
      
      “Something I want to ask you,” Brad said as his work mate concluded his epic with the shocking kiss and taste of Richard’s hot, salty semen, “is how you’ll feel if something does happen.  I mean, how you’ll want to proceed, because you’re the supervisor and someone has to set the rules.”
      “I think they’re pretty well set for all of us,” the slightly older teen said in response.
      “But there are other factors,” Brad persisted gently.  “I mean what I’d like to know is I guess sort of how you feel about me, but it’s more, I guess, seeing as what may happen.  How you’d feel if something did happen with us and a kid.  Would you want it all kept really private, assuming it is that way already as far as the outside world goes, or would you like to be together sometimes if something happens?”
      “Yes,” Stan replied, “and I’d like things to happen with us when there are no children present, too, as long as it’s low-key and once-in-awhile, which I’m sure is the way you feel about it, also.”
      “Yes,” Brad replied, his face now vivid as might be expected in a boy facing the summer ahead.
      
      “Do you think it’s the same with boys as with girls?” Stan asked after a few minutes.  He was a little alarmed at the possibility Brad might take him as some kind of expert when nothing had happened in nearly six years, not even, at that point, Mary Jane.  (Grades, which is why he’d won the elite job over a number of club members, in the first place.)  (And I should note here for clarity, that Stan’s father had taken his family to live in Venice for five years, operating a network of tour boats, and returned to New York less than a year before his son won the job at the nearby club.)
      “We could approach it scientifically,” his fellow honor student said, “and keep really exhaustive notes and see if any notable pattern developed over the summer.”
      “Then we should room together,” Stan suggested, “you come live at my house for July, and I’ll live with you in August.”  Whether the high-five was popularized at that moment or not is lost to history, but it might be noted the boys were sitting in a Chevrolet Corvette with the top removed, so only a moron would arbitrarily deny the possibility.  In any event it was time to report for work and they drove off.
      
      No one drowned, and that has to satisfy any lifeguard on his first day of work.  The two worked for several hours with thirty kids, then a small swarm of parents descended and plucked a couple of dozen, leaving six between eight and twelve for the Stay After session, four boys and two girls.  The small group was allowed to run and the drill was to dive from the high board, sprint the length of the pool, vault onto the deck, run back to the ladder, climb it, and repeat.  Huge workout with near zero impact, coordination and endurance wrapped in a bundle with a cool splash thrown right in the middle.  Five cycles and they were still going strong, except twin sisters who, new arrivals, weren’t yet in the kind of shape looming in their immediate futures.  But after six, the group stopped by accord, and a psychiatrist could have probably unearthed two reasons, a brilliant one, four.  First was the new girls, they were friendly and way popular, pretty ten year olds, and all the young veterans wanted to be polite and inclusive.  Second, was a new pair of lifeguards, and instinct told each and every one of the four established members that it would be an idea not to crawl exhausted to the locker room this particular evening, why? because new lifeguards often came from outside, and were given virtually nothing in the way of detailed instructions.  So, six laps it was and the group toweled off in front of Stan and Brad who’d seated themselves on the low board.  In a few minutes they were a small tribe around a pair of teen chiefs, silent as mice.
      
      “How many could you go if the winner got his choice of pony, horse, or Winchester carbine?” Stan asked the group, hoping he’d picked a suitable array of fantasy prizes.  He had, every eye glowed happily.
      “Half as many as we would do to keep you guys from leaving,” a voice belonging to a mature looking boy who must have been one of the twelve year olds said.  “We deem it our duty,” he went on, “to protect our interest in ourselves in a world that doesn’t care much for kids, and therefore our immediate responsibility is to keep you here at the club, under lock and key, until six o’clock this evening.”
      
      Could six heads nod two hundred times in ten seconds?  Miss or make, it was a nice welcome.
      “What’s your name?” Brad asked the lead boy.
      “Benny Scott,” the swimmer replied.  The instructor nodded to the others and each gave name and age.
      “And you girls are brand-spanking new?” he asked Debbie and Glenda, the twins.
      “Yes,” they chorused, one allowing they’d lived in the borough just a few days, hailing from Ohio.
      “They could sit on your laps,” Benny said, “it’s usually pretty casual after the workout.”
      “Benny,” Brad said, “could you kind of guide us?  Ian outlined the tradition, but…?
      “He leaves the rest out,” Benny said with a shy smile, “on purpose, that’s why he gets a one hundred percent gold star rating every season.”
      “It’s good for kids to teach once in awhile,” the smallest of the six, a female, piped up, “plus, it’s lots of fun to watch big boys learn.”
      At this point, the twins reached the laps of the lifeguards, sitting facing the four kids remaining on the deck of the pool.  
      “Tell us more about teaching,” Stan suggested to Ellen, a plain faced eight year old whose tomboy look had seemed a constant attraction since she’d arrived.
      “It only happens when there are new kids our instructors,” the child explained, “because it’s kind of a once thing, since there is practically nothing to really teach, and the ‘once’ thing would be boring if it happened more than once or just a few times, not absolutely only once.”
      “And…?” Brad prompted the little princess.
      “The once thing is stories,” the girl replied.  “You have to quiz us and we have to tell the truth about everything that’s happened, about everything we feel, and about everything we would like to happen, and we not only have to tell, we have to act things out by playing roles with each other, sometimes boys substituting for girls and vice-versa, depending on what really happened.  But, as I said, that’s just at first, after a week or so it will only happen if another new kid joins us, and most of the time it will be a ritual we’ll establish after the story time.”
      
      “And we don’t have to worry about time,” Nick, a boy close to Benny’s size, said.  “The ‘rents go to the restaurant or play squash ‘till we’re done, and any time before ten is okay.”
      “What I’m worried about now,” Stan said to the group, “is the cement.  Even with towels under you, you must be wearing holes in it, so maybe you could show Brad and me a better idea.”  Benny led and they filed into the club changing room marked Men, a venue that would alternate, so they were told.
      
      “Are the stories really mature?” Stan asked Benny when they were all comfortably seated, most leaning against bean-bag chairs that predominated as locker room furniture, while the twins sat back wriggling against the athletic new lifeguards, obviously feeling less strange in their new environment minute by minute..
      “Ian describes it as sort of an enigma,” the boy replied, “because in a major way they’re kids’ stuff just a few steps removed from cooties and bogeymen, while, at the same time, they’re very intense and directly responsible for fully adult activities, even with a girl as young as Ellen.”
      “How much is private and how much happens in this part of the locker room?” Brad asked.
      “About half and half,” a new voice, Will, said.  “But I’ve only been here for two weeks, so I don’t know everything.”
      “He’s right, though,” Ellen said, “at first, out here, but in a few weeks it starts happening in the office and sometimes the boys like to go into the toilet stalls with the adults, and, anyhow, we can’t all attend Stay After every time, so once, last year, my friend Joan in the B class stayed with Henry and Ned all by herself for two hours.”
      “And there’s more to it than that,” Nick added, “because after the first week, when you’ve had the whole class for Stay After, we’re allowed to bring guests for the hour after the workout, so that prevents stagnation.”
      “Are they guests from your stories?” the senior instructor asked.
      “Mostly,” Ellen nodded, “but once I brought my visiting cousin instead of my four brothers.”
      “Do you all like having older males as guests?” Brad asked.
      “Yes,” they tribe chorused, Debbie and Glenda perhaps relying on anticipation rather than experience, but still part of the chorus.
      “I brought my granddad once,” Benny said.
      “Did he ever,” Ellen giggled, a most unusual sound from the group.
      
      “How about female guests?” Stan asked.
      This caused a strange response.  “My god,” Brad whispered, “maybe I could bring Nancy.  My sister.  We’ve been I guess sort of sort of but there’s something about going all the way at home that just doesn’t fit either one of us, and she wants to join the club next year, anyway, because this year it’s been mostly music lessons…”
      “Girls are okay,” Kenny said, and I suppose even a woman would be, though I don’t suppose that’s ever actually happened.”
      “And Kenny,” Stan added, “he’s my new girl’s brother, thirteen.”
      “Just bring them different days,” Nick suggested, “that way we can have a story time with each one of them.”
      “And meantime,” Ellen observed, “you can tell them everything when you get home, this evening or tomorrow, whenever you can be alone with them, every detail, so they won’t be kept waiting.”  Everyone nodded and the little girl smiled happily.
      “Benny?” Stan asked after a few moments, “what do you suggest from here?”
      “Well,” the boy mused, and he might have been circling his toe in the sand had he been standing on a beach, “since Debbie and Glenda are new, plus Brad and you, maybe Ellen could start off, and then one of us three boys could tell something, and the twins could whenever they want, and Will’s new, and he didn’t have anything to tell, which is a hundred percent okay, and sort of go along that way.”  
      
      I was a little disturbed that Will didn’t have anything to tell, but let Stan continue without filing a grievance.  We’d fill the evening somehow.
      
      The eight year old smiled shyly with the honor accorded her not only by Benny’s words but the eager whispers that propelled her to sit between the young adults and face the three eager faces, Benny, Nick and Will, as the twin ten year olds turned in their respective laps to face her.
      “Remember what I said when Benny told you about bringing his granddad?” she began, and everyone nodded.  “Well, there was a reason I really liked it when he visited it, and my story is about that reason.”
      The awards could have been a real pony, a real horse and a real carbine, but she couldn’t have gained the attention of her audience any more completely or rapidly.
      “This happened at Christmas,” she continued, “and I was visiting granddad Rick on his dairy farm in Wisconsin.  He’s my mom’s dad, and I was sort of shocked when he picked me up at the airport because you think of grandfathers as, you know, kind of older guys, but he wasn’t that way, not at all.  And that’s not like he wore a wig or did things to try to look young, he just did, kinda like a shaggy poet, if anything.
      “At the start, we were complete strangers because he’d been out of the country since I was five, and now he was back and raising special angus for the university, plus having a couple of hundred for production.”
      
      “How many men do you have working on the farm?” the girl asked as the car left Madison.
      “Heck Nelson and his wife, Katy,” Rick said, “and they have three, Jason, eighteen, Mike, sixteen, and the girl is Clover, and she’s just your age.  They live in the big house because of the sense involved, and I have the little brick guest house.  Then there’s Wayne and Carlos who come every day, and a couple more fellows who work part time, plus Dr. Glass, the vet, who’s spends a couple of hours a day, plus various people from the university, mostly men, who come from time to time, but usually stay in town if they end up spending several days.”
      “And with me just at the age I’m starting to like boys,” the pixie mused, “the older the better.”
      “Not to worry,” the fifty-five year old laughed, “you wouldn’t believe how many restraining devices we have on a dairy farm.”
      
      They rode on in silence for some minutes. the unfolding fields innocent and suggestion purity unlimited under a generous dusting of fresh snow, fortunately, for this story, the kind that melts.
      
      “So you begun liking the boys, have you?” the tall, hard muscled man said.
      “Men, Grand Rick,” the girl said, not giggling nor doing strange thing with neither her mouth and eyes; pouting, vamping, or lolling languidly in her seat, legs spread wide.  More the schoolgirl that she was, politely expressing a preference.
      “Well,” the man said after a pause, “I’m not the one to have any kind of talk with.  As I said, Clover’s your age and to tell the truth, she can’t get enough of her brothers, as boys, though they’re older teenagers and could be called young men, and she’s as nice a girl as you’ll meet in a month of Sundays; normal as apple pie, so you’ll get no cautions from me, Ellen, and neither any disrespect in the form of categorizing you arbitrarily as anything or in any way because of your age.  You’re smart enough not to get drunk and try to mow hay by moonlight, not that it’s the season for hay, or dance in front of the bull all dressed in red, and as you act in a safe and considered way you and Clover can have the run of the place.”
      
      “Is she friends with just her brothers?” the girl asked.
      “What she’s decided,” her grandfather replied, “is that there’s something to be said for the life of a slut, but that such behavior could get in the way of being happy as an adult.”
      “Good thinking,” Ellen nodded, “and there’s not going to be a revealed-identity scene during the holidays wherein it’s revealed she’s my separated-at-birth twin, is there?”
      Rick drove in silence for several miles.  “Have you been talking to your mom?” he finally asked.
      “Just the usual stuff,” the eight year old replied, on a state of alert that would have done SAC proud.  “Why?”
      “Well, as I said, darling,” the man mused, “I think age is at the bottom of the Z-list if important things.  Intelligence, responsiveness, curiosity, and not choking yourself with food until you’re bigger around than you are tall; those are important and completely transcendent.  Girls half your age are engaging companions to one and all, and girls three times your age, simpering morons who’d faint at the sight of indiscreet frogs.  That’s the truth of the matter in theory and in practice, but we can’t go around making a custom set of laws for each and every person, so benchmarks have to be established and the rules have to be arbitrary, even though they actually fit a small segment of the population, generally, and maybe nobody, perfectly.”
      
      “And Mom was like me with rules?” the girl prompted, averse to anything she regarded as a runaround, “very respectful, but alert for imperfections?”
      “Yes,” Rick replied, “that says it as well as needs be.”
      “But,” the girl went on, “how come most of them make so much sense, from house, to school, to driving on the road.  All those rules fit natural behavior and all you have to do is what’s sensible to stay in compliance.  Except…”
      “There’s another way to look at it,” the driver said, “because as it actually happens, the rules are very lax.  For example, when you get older you’ll have to fill out applications for a number of institutions, perhaps even some government spy agency or the FBI, and you will never be asked about certain events of your childhood.  Your teachers won’t ask you next year in school, just as they didn’t last year, your principal, your dad, your uncles, or your granddad.  Not as long as you appear healthy and happy, and even if you were sullen and morose, it’s probably the last thing even your mom would ask you, because she’d take you to a doctor, and at that point someone might ask, although even then it would be the last question.  So there’s a little wiggle room, and the nicer you are, and the more responsive and helpful, and the more diligent and everything the teach you in scouts, the more wiggle room you’ll be allowed, and the more you’ll be able to handle.”
      “And the happier I’ll be,” the girl smiled.
      
      That settled the matter for about three minutes.
      
      “Grand Rick,” the little voice piped up after that interval, “if you had a really big secret, would you tell me?”
      “Why, sweetheart,” the man drawled, “plumb nothin’ I hanker for more that being put on the spot, havin’ me own words used to beard me in my den.”
      “I’m sorry,” the girl said.
      “No,” the man responded, “it’s me, not you.  My own hypocrisy.  My own prejudice against you because you’re eight years old.  I say this, but do that.  Say you’re bright and aware, and then want to avoid certain things because of the number of candles on your last birthday cake.”
      “The big one in the middle was to grow on,” the pixie observed.
      “And we’ll be growing in traction and body casts, if you come up with many more observations like that.”
      “Guaranteed, if you keep avoiding the subject,” the child responded, suddenly lunging across the seat and tickling the rugged driver while she played at grabbing the steering wheel.  Her foolery only lasted a few moments, and she settled back into the seat of the cruising Buick, nestling close to the driver.
      
      “Please,” she whispered.  His right arm went around her slim shoulders and he hugged her tightly before returning to driving.
      “And your mom said nothing special?” he asked again.
      “Just that she wants to come and spend the summer with you, herself, and that’s she’s glad you’re here and not in Australia, and that she’s sorry not to see more of you, and she even said if I liked the farm we might consider moving to Wisconsin; she can be a doctor, anywhere.”
      “And your dad?” the man asked.
      “She just says that’s something we’ll talk about when the time comes “
      “And what about your interest in boys – the older the better – any running commentary to fill the time?”
      “I guess she said quite a bit, after all,” the girl mused with a shy smile, “but I guess it’s more what she did that counts, and what she did was buy me a ticket on a Super Constellation with four twenty-eight cylinder, compound supercharged, three thousand horsepower engines.  When I opened the envelope, she played the wolf in ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’  ‘All the better to teach you with, my darling.’ she growled.”
      “I see,” the rancher said, “and if the best part wasn’t having you here with me now, it would be your moving out here someday.”
      “But she wasn’t wrong about teaching, was she?” the girl asked, “I mean, the subject at the time was men.”
      
      “Well,” the driver mused, “I guess there’s teaching and then there’s providing an educational climate, and they’re not necessarily the same thing.”
      “Well,” the girl mused herself after a minute, snuggling a little closer to the athletic driver, “if mom provided the climate, and it could be construed that she did, what does that leave?”
      “Me, ‘construing,’” the fifty five year old replied.
      “Oops,” the pixie chirped, “she did warn me about using doctor language in Wisconsin, said it could be off-putting, and thusly construing it wasn’t a cultural ideal, but an empiric reality, and that I should even try saying ‘shit’ before the vacation was over.”
      “Well, cows don’t ‘daisy,’ I’ll have to admit,” Rick laughed.
      “Closer to ‘sun-flowering,’ wouldn’t it be?” the cutie asked, and the snow hadn’t begun to melt.
      “Grand Rick,” Ellen whispered after a few quiet miles had passed, “there’s another word.  Two girls in my class know it, and they both say it means the same thing, and they know a girl in Miss Farrell’s class that’s experienced, and she says so, too.”
      “Did they tell you the word?” the man asked, knowing his granddaughter even on relatively short acquaintance well enough to know the conversation was not likely to go elsewhere.
      “Yes,” Ellen said, blushing, “but we have to be parked before I tell you, maybe on a back road somewhere with the heater running, and I can’t just tell you the word, I have to use it in a sentence.”
      
      Silence.  They drove.  They slowed.  “The Buick’s a truck in the mud and we’ve got the best snow tires in the world,” Rick said as he eased the car over a cattle guard onto a State road, then in a couple of miles, slowed again, a passable lane leading to a wooded ridge on his left.  He swung the car again, and in a minute they were parked overlooking a postcard farmscape, except the snow was beginning to melt.  Blushing, Ellen got to her knees moving back a little so she could focus on the handsome face of the tall, powerful man.
      “Grand Rick,” she whispered, “I love you and I want you to fuck me.”
      “Baby,” the adult whispered turn in his seat to face the kneeling beauty, “I fucked your mom.”  Neither ever used the word again.  She moved to him, tilting her face and he carefully found her tender mouth, kiddie kissing because that was enough.  
      “Has it happened to you with other males?” he whispered as he moved to his knees and bent over her, his fingers working at the clasp of her traveling dress.
      “No,” Ellen said.  “I kissed Jenny Walker, that’s when she told me the word, and we took our blouses off for a little while, and kissed some more, but then she had to go home.”
      “Well, I wasn’t trying to pry,” the man said, “but if you’re a virgin I should get a towel from the trunk, because there may be a little blood.”
      “That part I do know,” the girl said.
      “And we’d probably be more comfortable in the back seat, is that okay?”
      “Yes,” the girl said, “and how about my dress.”
      “I’ll unzip you,” Rick replied, “and you can take it off while I get the towels, and I’ll bring a blanket too, that way we can be like an old married couple in bed.”
      “Okay,” the girl nodded with a shy smile that went unseen as the man ran down the zipper, then kissed her, retrieved the trunk key from the ring, and left.  Ellen carefully slipped out of the dress and draped it over the passenger’s seat, took off her slip and panties, folding them on top, then tumbled into the back seat, lying on her back, hands behind her head, with her right foot on the transmission hump of the car and her left ankle gripping the back of the rear seat.  Rick opened the front door, staring down at the girl as he stripped out of his clothes.  He handed her the towel, saying, “put it under your bottom, love,” and in a few moments was naked and entering the back door, then kneeling between the child’s legs.  He lowered over her, Ellen’s hands still behind her head as she let her eyes do the welcoming, his left arm moving under her to cradle the child as he guided to her with his right.  “Well spread the blanket later,” he whispered as he found her, “because I’m going to be with you for an hour or more.”
      
      Ellen nodded up at him.  He probed and guided, the girl moving carefully and attentively beneath him, and her slight gasp told him when it was right.  Gently the muscles of his back rippled, and almost softly he began moving, the female more urgent in meeting him.
      
      “I think we’re together now,” Ellen whispered, thrusting more firmly.  They were, and Rick brought his hand free so he could hold the young beauty in both arms and rise up to stare down into her schoolgirl face as he continued entering her with a long series of gentle surges.
      “Did it start like this with Mom?” the girl whispered, her hands going to the face and chest of the athlete over her.
      “No, darling,” Rick whispered, “it was different.”
      “I want to concentrate on this part,” the girl said, again placing her hands behind her head, “but tell me when you’re inside me.”
      “Yes, baby,” the young grandfather said, becoming more deliberate with the slim-legged filly, then whispering, “this is the sting part,” and licking her tears, holding rigidly against her, until the girl again began moving beneath him.  
      No longer a virgin, Ellen assessed her status intellectually, but moved childishly, willfully, demandingly, mewing aloud as she bucked against the beautiful stallion panting above her.  “Now tell me,” she hissed minutes later as she felt his rough, male body fully, fully against her own tender thighs and wrapped both arms and legs as far as she could reach.
      
      “She’d gone to a birthday party and sleepover and Kelly Bemis’s,” the man whispered, rigid now against the naked girl, “and she came home about ten o’clock. I was reading in bed and she came into my room.  ‘It’s all right, Dad,’ she said, pulling her dress off.  She wasn’t wearing her panties and her belly and thighs were sopping wet.  ‘I wanted them to,’ she went on, and came and sat down on the bed.  She said they’d been very gentle and hadn’t hurt her, and that Kelly had taken the youngest, Doug, while she watched, then it had happened with the four older brothers and Kelly’s dad, and it almost kept getting better and better, and then they brought her home to me.”
      
      “Did she spend the whole night with you?” the panting girl asked 
      “Yes,” Rick said.
      “And what happened from then?” the trembling child wanted to know.
      “We slept together off and on,” the man explained, “and she’d have sleepovers with Kelly on Tuesday nights and Kelly and sometimes a brother or two would stay over with us on Saturday night.  We had a particularly nice milk truck driver at the time, a nineteen year old named Ken Williams, shy, with acne, but serious and responsible.  I left them alone and she took him for her lover, and you, my beloved, came from one of his sperm, something she was most careful about, and she had you when she was twelve.”
      
      “Then how can she be a doctor if she’s only – twenty?” the girl asked, fascinated.
      “Because she didn’t date and play around in school,” Rick said, “she went through it like a truck, college like a bulldozer, and she wrote a paper on neurosurgery when she was eighteen, so they decided to shunt her into medical research without teaching her bad habits in medical school.”
      “And I just thought she was kinda busy a lot of the time,” Ellen mused.
      “We’re very lucky,” Rick said, “I was able to fully support her, so she could provide good care for you and set her rocket’s red glare against the sky at the same time.”
      
      “And how about my dad?” the girl asked.
      “He’ll be thrilled to see you,” the man said, “and he manages a fleet of trucks at this point, so you don’t have to worry about ending up a waif outside the door of a saloon, but he’s a local guy without your doctor speak, so he married a vixen of the region, whom he’s impregnated with that hot seed of his no less than six times, and, since the car remained parked in the drive for a suspicious amount of time after the two of them left the house the other day, it’s a good bet number seven is on the way.”
      “Will he want to do this with me?” Ellen whispered, moving her hips against her stag.
      “Yes, darling,” the man said, “it’s what we were talking about before; laws that are tolerant as long as you don’t step on a tripwire.  Farm life is often what they call free-spirit, like the Bemis family.  Incest.  It built the breadbasket, because there was a lot to work for, and good reason to nurture the home fires,  if a fellow had a cute daughter or two.  He grew up in that environment, so did Maxie.  His eldest daughter, guess who, Ellen, is seven, and the two of them spent the night just a couple of weeks ago.”
      “Grand Rick,” the girl whispered, “if you buy me so much as a peanut for Christmas I’ll be mad as shit.”
      
      “Darling,” the man responded, “you’re the right girl come to the right place, and you can be with all the boys and men all you want, just like your mom, and if it does you a tenth as much good as it did her, you’ll never need a Christmas present until your great grandchildren notice something strange and buy you some teeth.”
      
      The girl now began, levering her legs firmly to her male partner, then wrapping around again to pull him to her.  Rick took her fully, his muscles rippling in quick, tight tugs as he responded to her silky thighs.  Even the well maintained Buick squeaked slightly on its springs as the car rocked to the hard fast rush building in the back seat.
      
      “Does my dad really have lots of sperm?” the girl panted, now clawing at the powerful athlete wantonly lunging over her.
      “Maxie says she married him because he covered her breasts twice as much as any other male,” Rick replied.
      “That’s what I want,” the girl hissed, “I want to see it.  What a man does.”
      “You just call him the minute we get home,” Rick said, “and you’ll be the wettest dairymaid in a state with a zillion of them”
      
      And it went on, both gasping, he rising and then lowering, she clawing, then stroking his face, her legs splayed wide on the seat, then her knees raking his flanks as she beat her heels against his muscles, trying to drive him to her.  She came tentatively, half letting herself go, half afraid, and, the second time, to the point of glazed-eyes semi-consciousness, as he froze over her until she’d recovered, then became very gentle and almost femininely delicate.
      “Your mom didn’t feel it happen at the birthday party,” he whispered, “too much lust involved, but she loved feeling it with me, and even more with Ken, so we can try that way if you’d like.”
      “Yes,” the girl responded immediately, relaxing as an unformed question was answered.  Both of them calmed and Ellen’s hands slowly moved back behind her head, her legs spreading wide.  Rick rose above her, slowed, and then pressed fully to her, becoming motionless.  The girl lay waiting, then her eyes flew wide open and she stared up at her mate.  “If daddy was doing what you are,” she whispered, “but on my chest so I could see it happening, it would be perfect.”
      “Well,” the panting adult was able to gasp, “I hope the phone’s working.”
      And it happened again, hard and fast, and again, slowly and gently, and it was two hours, and they slipped back into their clothes, and didn’t need the special tires because the snow was gone.  “I guess something bad had to happen,” Ellen said to herself as the car reached the State road.
      

“Sex with Boys and Girls”  End – File-2

xxx
      

