       The three took breaks from time to time, sat on the sofa of Jeff’s office and not going off into sports or anything but talking while they experimented with watching each other and touching each other.  Jimmy’s sister was the focal point of their whispering, the boy agreeing all the signs indicated she’d like to be gang raped by the group.  “She talks about Ryan all the time,” the boy said, “and not like he’s some cootie bearing monster from beneath the black lagoon.  Twice she’s asked how men are different than boys, I guess to prove a Chinese boy can look like an American redskin, so that fits into the equation.”
       
       His friends nodded.
       
       “Another short sermon,” Jeff said after some idle minutes, “on the subject of an adult with children.  The adult male will usually cum off first, because young boys sometimes experience an emotional deflation after they spray.  Suddenly, carnality is the last thing on your mind, just like hunger after one bite too many.  If a boy’s thus captivated and his adult partner suddenly begins ejaculating all over his chest and face, it can be a gross experience and turn a willing lover into someone who thinks in terms of toilets.  When you’re with children take time to explain that it’s going to be sudden, possibly very messy, and taste hot and salty if it splashes on their lips.  With a fastidious partner, you can even make a game out of it; use it as a talking point.  Stress that it’s messy, in a housekeeping sense, but if you put your left arm on the bed – be specific – and spread your knees on the floor, you can cum on a towel or wad of tissue, and even better if he straddles your back and uses his right hand while looking down so he can guide you when you tell him it’s going to happen.  With a little inventiveness you might even initiate by saying something like, ‘I read a really neat – like in tidy – way to you know, do what guys like to do together once in awhile.’  You might get a kid who’d never had a thought in his life, or perhaps was even mildly homophobic, intrigued with the sanitation aspect.”
       
       “Good sermon, coach,” Jimmy said, Ryan nodding in sync. 
       
       “That’s what I’m here for,” Jeff said,  “not your joints, however remarkably beautiful and macho.  And that brings up language and the idioms and nomenclature of homosexual activity.  Boy lovers use quaint terms, boy users, slut terms.  It’s a class thing, I suppose, any way a sure way to demonstrate you have none.  It’s not that the acts are lifetime attachments vis-à-vis Romeo and Juliet, but neither should they be butt-of-the-afternoon, even if aids and stds were not the huge issues they are.  Gentle language, discretion, and a whole lot of abstinence, those are the options that are more than vernacular deep.  And that brings up your being with other adults.  If you want to thrill and chill yourselves out of your twelve year old minds, dress in a cut-off tee shirt, last year’s shorts, bare feet but carrying leather sandals, and hitchhike anywhere, any time.  First, look at the car.  Late model, or just nice, and a local dealer’s emblem.  Local tag, if you know the code.  Think to yourself: ‘what are the odds some lunatic monster driving a nice local car is going to rape and torture me?’  Carry your watch in your pocket.  When you open the door, look in, first, for an inside door handle, then at the driver.  Hellhounds, with rare exceptions perhaps like Dahmer and Williams don’t look like Mr. Going to Wal-Mart.  If he looks safe, would you want him to come up behind you while you were taking a shower?  If anything isn’t cool, just say, ‘sorry, forgot my watch,’ and close the door.  The driver will be very nervous, so will you.  You can start by saying, ‘I’m just kind of riding around, so if you’re going somewhere like in a hurry I can get out.’  He will not, if his house is burning in the rear-view mirror, be going anywhere in any hurry, and will say, ‘that’s cool with me.’  You ask if you can take your shirt off and if he doesn’t break his neck nodding, ask him to feel your muscle when you’re bare chested.  Do not be at all forward in any of this.  He, the driver’s, going to be more afraid of any kind of hustle than anything else; that you’re going to want money or anything.  In fact, to get a conversation going you might say, ‘a guy wanted to pay me to let him touch me, but I didn’t want the money.’  You haven’t, at this point, said you were molested, you’re just bringing the subject up for the driver to drop, you know, on that million-to-one shot.  He will ask you what happened.  Again, with the anti-hustling lecture.  Never exaggerate, embellish, or go a story tellin’.  You’ll be walking, pronto.  Start with: ‘I’ve let a few men touch me, but that kinda freaks some guys out, so…’  There’s a sentence you don’t need to finish.  Again, if he fails to break his neck encouraging you, you’re in what they call in the south Tall Cotton.  Ask him if anyone ever touched him when he was your age.  Listen for a dramatic change in voice and lots of yawning, and whip up them slaves or that cotton’s gonna smother you.  Then, it’s where you go.  The two choices are his place; don’t ask any questions, you’re committed, just go with him, or a parking lot at a mall.  You can be completely naked with a man for an hour in the back seat, just watch out the windows once in awhile, and have a blanket to pull over you if anyone happens to approach.  Totally exciting.  Any questions?”
       
       “Not so far,” Ryan spoke for both.
       
       “Okay,” Jeff continued, “the sperm.  Homosexuals like to watch each other ejaculate their first time together.  If you’re with an older teen or young guy, there’s like to be lots of semen flying everywhere; in your hair, over your clothes, anywhere the rain could hit, so to speak.  What’s the line from the movie, well, in paraphrase: ‘be careful, be very, very careful.’ as it doesn’t take an once of semen to twig anyone who sees any at all, you know, like behind your ear.  Remember, your partner’s cum is, urban legend aside, body temp when he sprays, so you might not even notice a few small drops landing on the back of you neck.  When you’re older and begin taking adults with your mouth, there are other issues, primarily, smell – penis breath.  Eat something before you go home.  And you probably will get caught.  Simply say lots of kids do stuff like that and clam up.  Don’t let any psychological claptrap get under your skin.  They know nothing, you know everything, they raise horrible, distorted kids, you’re  nice kids.  If the girl’s a babe or the guy a fox, you might try seducing them.  Say: ‘I just feel if someone else could touch me and make something happen that boys do it would be better than wondering about stuff all the rest of my life, you know, if an educated, caring person touched me for a few minutes so I’d know I wasn’t some kind of weird, kinky deviate.’  Assuming you’d say it, you’d have a boner and if the situation seemed cool you could be quite aggressive – after all you’re in therapy – about maybe even pulling your shirt up to your nipples and saying, ‘the first place he touched me was right here.’  I mean is that too much to ask of a highly regarded member of the psycho community?”
       
       Both boys laughed politely.  This guy was show-and-tell in Smallville, and they were entranced.  Naked, masturbating, and talking about sex, with an hour or more free of other demands.
       
       “So,” Jeff went on, “that’s the outline on hitching.  There may be more than one older male in the car, a man and his daughter or brother and sister, what you’re looking for is a nineteen year old geek or nerd, preferably with acne scaring.  That’s the boy you’ll exchange phone numbers with and fantasize about while you’re in the shower without him.  Tall, slim, rangy.  Fat guys will stop, that’s where the watch comes in, and don’t be overly prejudiced.  A nice heavier guy will be three times as thrilled with you as a beauty boy, and that will make the end exciting for both of you.  When the police roll up say, ‘I’m just a kid and I’m looking for some older guys to experiment with and if you don’t think the road is safe, or don’t have time to kind of keep an eye on me, maybe you know a guy who wouldn’t get all freaked out by a kid who’s ready to be mature.’  You should do this one Saturday a month.  You will have at least one full experience with a strange young male each time you do it.  If a second one occurs, that’s your limit and get on home.  You can meet one partner, the proverbial nineteen year old, to bring to each other or to me, if you feel like it.  Think of it this way: the thrill of a handsome stranger spilling his seed all over your bare chest is something you don’t want to lose.  If you’re out there more than once a month, the police will have to get interested because they’ll be getting calls, and then you might not be able to be with more strange partners.”
       
       “Cool,” both boys nodded, wondering if happiness was an actual fourth dimension.
       
       “Alternatives for your monthly version of wilding, you know, inclement weather and so on, is the back row of a movie theater, and rest rooms.  Getting molested in a theater is probably for older boys who’ve grown to like the taste of semen, because letting a partner spray all over your clothes is asking for detection.  And remember, a man with a boy like you two can cum off in a matter of seconds, that’s how exciting it is.  Some poor guy in his forties who has to go through an Act of Congress to penetrate his wife will ejaculate the second you pull is penis free of his shorts, and you can’t be naked with him like you can with a partner in a car.”
       
       “How old do we have to be to let the semen get in our mouths?” Ryan asked.
       “Probably three,” Jeff replied.  “It’s having it start under control that’s important.  You boys licking each other, and finally going all the way in each other’s mouths is probably perfect.  Adults’ semen is more intense, and most men will mildly encourage you to try licking up a few drops.  And remember, all you have to do is masturbate your partner; using your lips and tongue is always entirely optional, though many boys come to love full, hot, salty adult ejaculations so much it can be a physical threat due to the intense levels of hormones that are exchanged between the adults’ and child’s body.
       
       Until you mature a little more, maybe for the next six months, you’re both the ideal physical size to be with very young girls, possibly even four years old.  You’re big enough to stay inside a child’s body, and not big enough to hurt her during the mating act.  You should know the child’s father will want to be with you the whole time, and will touch you, homosexually, at least in the process of protecting the little girl from excessive force, especially if she’s a virgin.  He will want to be naked to, and he may want to follow you with his daughter or little niece, therefore, judge carefully.  He’s going to rape her, anyway, and if you can make it easier by leaving her wet and slippery, you’ve done okay.  
       “As far as being anally receptive, taking another male’s boner deep up inside you, that’s the biggest of the cans of worms.  A, it’s the principle aids vector.  B, it hurts.  C, you will leak semen for a long time, staining your underwear, and, D, you don’t need it.  When a very special situation comes along, safety paramount, yes, you can experiment.  Taking each other would be pretty obvious, but, again, it will add nothing.  The Greeks actually derided sodomy, their preferred activity to stand facing each other, heads on each other’s shoulders, and masturbating while talking.  Part of this is not ejaculating exactly simultaneously.  One should just be finishing, and the second should cum off about ten seconds later.  It’s very easy and exciting to gauge, roughly, but getting it perfect is a hot challenge, and near misses definitely count
       “Molesting children, in general.  Age, over three, is virtually not a factor.  A five year old can beat every Bunny in Chicago, and be more excited by it than the rabbits, into the bargain.  There’s a true story on Nifty about a pool lifeguard who molested twenty five boys, individually and in groups, over an entire summer and every boy loved it.  That’s the dichotomy of the world you’re bound for.  All children sensitively brought up to it will live it like Christmas every day, many of them feel and know they want it, outright, and yet it’s never permitted.  Kids six and seven have been brainwashed, so once in awhile you’ll find a hard case, probably an unlikable chubby-chub, in the first place, who doesn’t like anything, so be on your guard, at the same time looking for babysitting opportunities.  The rule is if you teach a child, teach the full lesson.  If you’re babysitting a five year old, take a full bath with him, talk to him, and cum two or three times so everything about secret things settles neatly in place
       
       “Let’s roll play while we keep jerking off,” Jeff concluded his short sermon, the same one he’d extended to the full engagement of his two handsome students.  “It’s time for you to talk.  Ryan, why don’t you tell us a hitchhiking fantasy.”
       
       “Okay,” the boy whispered.  Spontaneously the three moved to the carpeted floor of Jeff’s office, spread their legs and linked left arms.  “It’s one of those new generation Blazers with the straight six and rear-wheel steering.  It looks so cool I forget about checking the dealer emblem.  When I open the door there’s an athletic guy – not to die for or anything out of a story, but definitely okay looking.  Sitting beside him on the bench seat is a nine year old girl, Penny.  She’s dressed in s miniature dance hall girl costume.  Pink.  She’s wearing white panty house, I mean, I guess, but only most of the way up, not all the way.  She’s pretty and he looks kind of hawkish and fit with a swimmer’s haircut and shoulders.  They both smile and I get in and introduce myself and tell them I’m just cruising around if they have to be anywhere, or anything.  They shake their heads, and say there just riding around talking before Penny has to be at her dance exhibition in two hours, and even that could be three hours.  They ask if I’m hungry and I say I’ve just had lunch.
       
       “Ryan,” Phil Williams said, “Penny and I have been talking about some kinda mature stuff.  Would it embarrass you if we continued our conversation while we run over to the Galleria and just kind of hang out?”
       “No, sir,” the twelve year old said, “but would it be okay if I took my shirt off while we’re in the car?”
       “Sure,” Phil said, “make yourself at home.”
       “Thanks,” the boy responded, slipping out of his cut-off and folding it neatly on the dash.  “You wanna feel my muscle?” he said to the bright eyed cutie.
       “Okay,” Penny said, adding, “see Daddy, I told you he’d be nice.”
       “I saw you pass me once, because of the car,” Ryan said.
       “Well,” Phil responded, “we shouldn’t, SUVs are mankind’s distinctly worst invention, but we actually do use it a dozen times a year, so it’s half reasonable, and with the six, not all that outrageous.”
       “I love it,” the boy said.
       “What Penny and I were talking about,” Phil explained, “was kind of a club they have at her dance school.  That’s where the mature part comes in, because it’s for the girls who really love their dads or big brothers.  I’m trying to play the stern father role, get it? and she keeps shooting me down saying the three girls are the nicest in her school, and they are, and they’re okay kids, and they are, and they’ve been alone together with their dads and brothers in the motels on the competition trips and everybody is always happy at breakfast, win or lose.  If you happen to know any stern-father lines, speak or forever hold your peace.”
       
       “I guess I’d say how lucky I was to have such a friendly daughter and I wouldn’t want to take any chance of spoiling that,” the boy mused.
       “The only way he can spoil it,” Penny said, “is to shrug off what Nancy, Ellen, and Jennifer want, and totally what I’ve wanted since the first time I talked to Ellen, alone.  That was weeks ago.  I still want it.  Total and complete, maybe not this afternoon, because the first time can be problematic, but as soon as Dad and I get used to each other.  Ellen’s with her dad almost every night and she says it just gets better and better.  She daydreams about what’s happening inside her, even if it’s just a lot of swimming for nothing.  She tells me all kinds of explicit things, how he gets her wet on her chest and how she’s really starting to like having sperm on her tongue, and, mostly, how awesome it is to be a nine year old girl with a cute, athletic dad.  Not, to be crude about it, but: not old enough to bleed, but old enough to slaughter.“
       
       Ryan choked happily at the kiddo’s lapse into bawdy vernacular and felt very comfortable riding along in the car looking at the miniature stripper belted into the center seat position.  Phil flushed at his daughter’s glib paraphrasing of the classic locker-room homily, but couldn’t help glancing fondly at the exotically attired pixie that was his natural daughter.  “Have you hitched much before?” he asked the bare-chested colt riding shotgun.
       “This is the first time,” Ryan answered, “but I’ve talked about it with a friend of mine, Jimmy, and Coach Kitt at school.”
       “So you know sometimes men give boys rides because they want to touch them?” the father said.
       “We went over that pretty carefully,” the twelve year old acknowledged, “you know, watching out for missing door handles and weirdoes; mostly extra fat guys, so, even though I’ve never done anything that was complete, except something that’s happened while I was asleep a few times, I sort of know about what might happen.”
       “Okay,” the adult nodded, “I’m just trying to flesh you out a little.  You’re a nice boy, and who ever knows what’s weird to someone else, eh?  Anyway, I think I’m speaking for Penny when I say we’d really like you to stay with us for part of the afternoon, you know, while we park in the shade at the mall and…”  
       Penny nodded along and Ryan did too so the man didn’t waste words and concentrated on acing the nimble two-wheel drive vehicle through traffic.  In ten minutes they were parked.  Phil switched off the engine and they took a minute adjusting the windows so they’d be comfortable without the a/c, in the end even fussing nervously with the up/down buttons as the tension rose to a yawning, dry-mouthed level for all three.
       
       “Daddy should touch me first,” Penny whispered to both, “he should take my garter off my left leg, pulling it down with my stocking.  Ryan can do my right leg as soon as Daddy gets my left one bare.  Ellen said I’d be really nervous whether I was alone with you, Dad, or whether there was someone there to watch what happened, so she put the steps on flash cards and we reviewed them together, you know, like a pilot does with emergency procedures, so they’ll be memorized when he needs them.  The first step is for Daddy to touch me above my garter.”  She moved her right leg shyly toward Phil.  Father and daughter looked into each other’s eyes as the boy trained his on the soft, milky delicacy of the six inches of bare skin between the black garter and her pink exotic dancer’s costume.  
       
       “This is where I find out how natural it feels,” the nine year old whispered as Phil slowly responded, turning in his seat and moving his right hand to Penny’s leg.
       “You’re sure,” he murmured softly, looking into Penny’s eyes.  “Yes,” she assured him.  “The closer you get, the more natural it does feel, just like she said it would.”
       “Has Ellen touched you, love?” the man whispered, just inches from his first rape of a child.
       “Just sort of like a doctor,” the girl responded, “with a magic marker, to make it so it won’t hurt when, you know, the rape becomes complete.  We want to,” the girl went on, “she says it’s nice but no big deal after being with a cute boy or an adult male, but we haven’t done anything yet, but talk.  She said Nancy, Jennifer, and she, herself,  were both first touched for incest, so that’s kinda a bond.
       “Sex as Superglue,” she added with a giggle.
       
       Ryan, for his part, was stunned at the single three letter word.  He was going to see sex.  A beautiful young adult mating with a cute, pretty, willing child.  Were almost all the hometowns in America destroyed to build malls with huge parking lots so dads could have quite a bit of privacy with their little girls?  Cultural development had been so hit or miss for thousands of years it didn’t seem more than mildly improbable, and, present time, present case, it seemed to have worked, for here they were totally safe behind the factory-tinted windows, any intruder visible for a hundred yards, in an environment a retro main street and network of side streets could not offer, however pretty and human their scale.
       
       “Do you have any brothers?” Ryan whispered into Penny’s pretty right ear.
       The girl flushed happily and smiled shyly, “Gordon’s sixteen,” she replied, “and Knott is nineteen and has his own apartment.”
       “Cool,” the twelve year old whispered in response, moving closer to her ear so he could whisper almost silently to the girl.  “Are you going to let them touch you?” he asked.  She nodded immediately in response.  “They’re both beautiful,” she whispered, “aren’t Gordon and Knott, Daddy?”
       
       “Yes, love,” the man said, “and it’s okay for you to imagine them doing this with you.”  He now touched the girl for the first time.
       “Next time,” the girl hissed, panting, “this time it’s all my beautiful dad and the handsome stranger.”
       “Does it still feel natural?” Phil queried.
       “Yes,” the girl nodded, “totally.  Does it look natural to you Ryan?”
       “Yes,” the guest whispered, “and really beautiful.”
       “That’s how it feels,” the girl concurred, “really amazing.  This is meant to last seven minutes, and you can use both hands, Daddy, that’s what’s on the first flash card.”
       
       Phil turned further toward the pixie and she slid her left leg over his as he began to openly molest his young daughter, tracing the soft, childish flesh with it’s slight streaking of blue veins with his fingers until he had her fully in both hands, massaging gently as his daughter thrust her hips modestly to him in shy welcome.  Ryan watched and fantasized over the girl’s obvious pleasure at the mention of her brothers, pictured her visiting Knott for the weekend, her drying the last of the dinner dishes as a younger version of her attractive, athletic father rubbed her neck and unbuttoned her dress in preparation of taking he bride into the bedroom, where he’d spend all night with her.  He went on, picturing her shy smile and soft giggles as she awoke the following morning, her upper thighs still slick from things that had happened repeatedly during the night, and her coos of welcome as her powerful mate opened his eyes to stare into her pretty schoolgirl face.  What a world.  Twenty years hard time for this, the slightest touch, and yet religion and unions were permitted to wrack and ruin society after society with the gavel on their side and politicians lapping them like thirsty dogs.  Yes, the beloved balloteers just a-votin’ for that old democracy and throwin’ kids in jail for pot and dad’s in jail for tampering so they’ll know how upright and good they were.  Well, they must love themselves for verily did they feed unto their corporal embodiments in mass plentitude.  
       
       The boy’s mature reverie was interrupted two minutes into the rape.  “Ellen says no kissing in the family, Handsome Stranger,” Penny whispered, “does that give you any ideas?”
       What had he been thinking about?  Something to do with politics. Why had he been doing that?  He’d have to analyze it later.  Ryan leaned to try, was tugged by the belt to Penny’s giggle, released it, and tried again.  “Never done it,” he whispered, his face inches from hers.”
       “Me, either,” she said.  “You go first.”  Phil removed his left hand from his panting daughter’s inner thigh and placed it gently at the back of the boy’s head, tenderly urging him to the shy, smiling face of his outlandishly beautiful daughter, for half a second jealous of the stranger’s privilege of knowing something he never would  But the girl sighed: “Oh, Daddy,” as Ryan’s lips touched her, and that helped.  The boy, for his part, was torched at the girls news and immediately began wondering if he could spend time with the newlyweds in order to make especially her first weekend with Knott completely fulfilling.  Then the actual kissing got to him, and his mind became leaden with the numbing shock of her tiny mouth and tongue playing eagerly at being female.  Penny’s hands moved to her father’s shirt and fumbled with the buttons as the boyish forty year old hugged both children with his left arm while he continued fondling the girl’s bare thigh with his right hand.
       The mouths of the preteen eventually separated and they gazed adoringly into each other’s eyes.  “Do you think you’d like to visit Knott and me?” she asked with her pretty, shy smile.
       “If I can help with the dishes,” he replied to a hot flash from her pretty brown eyes.  The initial seven minute phase was drawing to a close.  “Nest,” Penny said, “we get in the back seat, if the car has a back seat.”  The Blazer had a beauty.  They giggled guiltily as they scanned the horizon for suspicious targets, then got out of their belts and locked themselves in the rear of the shiny, silver chariot.   “Families don’t have foreplay except for what Dad did with me in the front seat,” she announced, her voice slightly sing-songy as she recited the contents of the second flash card.  “That means Ryan should get me naked, but, Daddy, to make up, you can get him naked and molest him as much as the two of you want in front of me while you’re taking off your clothes.  That way, at least there can be some.”
       
       The three shuffled their positions slightly on the spacious velour seat and ended with Penny’s head against the vehicle’s left armrest, Ryan kneeling between her legs, and Phil behind him, watching intently over the boy’s shoulder as the twelve year old fondled his daughter high on her right thigh, kissing her repeatedly as he rolled her dancer’s fish-net stocking toward her knee, then rose to strip the garment from her tiny right foot.  Her exotic leggings had merely toned her down, both males realized looking at her slim, white legs.  Phil found Ryan’s chest with both hands as the boy raised on his knees, and as Penny watched wide eyed, he molested their visitor openly, his hands roaming over the child’s beautiful bare chest and finally undoing his belt and opening his zipper.  For a moment or two, foreplay was lost on all of them as the males devoted themselves to the mechanics of being naked together.  Penny became engaged to the point of being the first to pull down Ryan’s white cotton underpants, once again whispering: “Oh, Daddy,” as the preteen near adult size penis flared from his boyish lower belly.
       
       “If a stranger’s presence is your happy fate,” Penny murmured softly, apparently referring back to her beloved deck of flash cards, “it is his seed you should first take, while on your breasts and your bare chest, your incest partner’s sperm should rest.”  The didn’t make cards like that for poker.
       No sooner had she recited than the girl blushed, “I think I forgot a whole card,” she whispered.  “Sorry.”  She looked thoughtful, and terribly cute, for a moment.  “Your males naked, their bodies free,” she quoth, “yield your costume, slow-ley”  She gave the bright look classic of kid sis’s performing sports trivia for beloved big brothers.  Fitting action to words, the nine year old kissed Ryan then moved him gently from her so she could move on the seat.  She turned and knelt facing the vehicle’s window and Ryan returned to her immediately, naked and being openly molested by Phil who moved forward behind him.  The boy unsnapped the girl’s pink costume and slowly lowered the zipper, exposing the delicate soft skin of her back.  He spread the straps of the dancer’s getup from the girl’s nicely developed shoulders, and stripped her down to her waist, moving close to huddle over as he began doing with her, especially on her chest, what her father was doing with him 
       
       “How long for this part, darling?” Phil asked in a ragged whisper.
       “Seven more minutes,” Penny cooed, “is that okay?”  And so it came to pass that the cards spaketh and the people, unlike in religion, they did obey.  They huddled panting gently, Ryan’s boner huge and hot against the bare back of the immature female, Phil’s very large near eight inch shaft jutting up alongside his own as both males surged gently against the half-naked virgin.
       “Do you think you’ll go hitchhiking again?” Phil whispered to Ryan.
       “I can’t for a month,” the boy replied, “but then, yes.”
       “If you get molested again, will you tell the man about being with Penny and me?” he quizzed.
       “Yes,” the boy said, “if he asks me, you know, personal stuff about like if I’ve had any experience.”
       “Just don’t exaggerate,” the man advised (much as Jeff had)
       “How could I?” came the response with a genuine note of surprise in Ryan’s voice.
       “You’ve got a point,” Phil agreed, and, though he didn’t chuckle out lout the boy could sense the affection in the young father’s voice.  “Do you know how to make me cum on her?” he asked.
       “I know how it starts,” came the answering whisper, “but I’ve never done it, you know, all the way.”
       “Do you want to watch it happen?” Phil asked, hardly knowing what on earth he’d do if the boy shook his head while simultaneously wanting to be sure the principle of the best surprise being no surprise was adhered to with uncompromising diligence.
       The pixie stifled a giggle, her eyes glowing as she wriggled in Ryan’s hands in order to face both the huddled males.  “If you’re a virgin that way, too,” she observed, “then, you know, I hate to be bawdy, but Dad could, you know, like kill two birds with one bone.”
       “By allowing both of us to seman,” Ryan murmured, the savage pun taking a second and a half to yield to the girl’s interpretation, but then lighting her glowing eyes fully on fire.
       “Ellen says it’s what her dad talk and kid about as much as having his penis and sperm in her that’s exciting when they’re alone together,” Penny said, “and if she’s as right about that as she is about what’s going to happen, then I hope I’ll die half way through so heaven doesn’t have to wait.”
       
       “I’ll have to take your father’s side there,” Ryan said, “you know, the stern side and forbid you to go anywhere.”
       “You mean I’m to be pounded?” the twerp sighed, “that’s something I am too young for.  Mist girls don’t get restricted to quarters until they’re like fifteen years old.”
       “Well, doggone it anyhow, missy” the twelve year old drawled, “I reckon that’s a conpounded shame.”
       “With just you, it would be,” the fiery girl shot back, “but seeing as I’m to be raped by a pair of handsome stallions, wouldn’t it be more accurate to say the confounded shame is ‘compounded’?”
       “Interest-ing point of view,” Ryan deadpanned, figuring if he and the girl were going to fall in love they might as well just go ahead and do it, not bothering to dither over a lot of funny business enroute  According to the girl’s gay eyes, she felt the same and they two ponies nuzzled each other affectionately, Ryan finally pulling away and kneeling for a moment on carpeting of the Chevy as he quickly stripped away the little dancer’s costume, hissing at her responsiveness as she raised her bottom immediately when she sensed the time had come.  Then he guided the fully mature stallion over his delicious filly.  The three made themselves comfortable, Phil braced against the window of the vehicle and Ryan with his bare chest against the tall athlete’s lower back, straddling the adult so he could alternate looking at Penny with looking down at her hugely swollen father.  The naked boy held on with his left arm and reached between the man and the delicate child with his right hand.  Penny stared, eyes trained on her young lover’s moving action as the boy found her beautiful dad and began fondling and experimenting with touching the hard, hot erection inches from her bare tummy and heaving chest.  She held her males with her right arm around the adult’s chest and her left hand on Ryan’s right arm so she could encourage him as he began openly masturbating her dad.  Whoever said whatever, this had to be better than yielding to an impatient jock or any conventional deflowering she could imagine.  Of course finishing the dishes as Knott’s bride would have been exceptionally nice, too, but this had to about define nonpareil, running, as it did, the gamut from the most taboo of couplings to the handsome, coltish hitchhiker who would fit conventions concerning first partners to the proverbial tee.  
       
       “You feel really good against my thigh,” Phil whispered, “but I want you to rape Penny after I’ve cum off on her, so try not to spill while you’re jerking me off on her chest.”
       “It’s hard because we’re both naked,” the boy responded.
       “Were you naked when your coach was teaching you?” the man asked.
       “Yes,” the boy said, “all three of us, and that made it the same as it is now.  It would have happened with him, but we kind of thought up a diversion to make it last, because we had like hours to spend together, so I was able to you know, keep from spilling it out.”
       “What kind of diversion?” Phil asked.
       “Well,” the boy murmured, “when you were a kid, did anything exciting happen?”
       
       
       See what I mean, Erica?  And what if Phil’s story includes a comely partner?  Can you guess what victims of the preacher class would call it?  Quicksand with two s’s.  No double s’s, two.  Here’s a hint, for the readers, as you figured in out as fast as Penny: don’t you get Sick of writers who milk the tired old pun?
       
       Half-page letter from David.  I probably should post it as god knows I use people as they come just like other artists, but I can summarize by saying the word ‘scapegoat’ appears.  I want to get off this subject and stay off it, forever, but not until my viewpoint is unmistakable.  About three years ago I was watching the late news on one of the New York superstations.  Now why they didn’t lose a bridge or two, I don’t know, because a story came in about a fire in a synagogue, and, you know, there are a lot of media vehicles in the big city.  Anyhow, the bridges bore the traffic, Brooklyn Heights was surrounded, and the report was filed.  The scene is the interior of the temple.  Someone had burned something on one of the benches, I don’t know of they call the pews, probably a mortal insult.  About half a trash can worth of charred debris, a little smoke damage.  As the cameras rolled, the rabbi (or his assistant), visiting the scene for the first time, came pushing through the door.  The camera was on him as he looked around for a second.  “Scapegoats,” he said, “we’re always scapegoats.”  Pavlovian.  No other word for it.  The knee-jerk, reflexive  response of the Jew to any criticism.  And the truth is, they’re probably right.  Through a long history in many parts of the world the Hebrew has been known as the well poisoner,  the three a.m. visitor with the bag of salt.  Over the centuries there is no doubt in my mind that decent Jewish families moved into this valley or that valley and a native of the valley performed a little mischief with his neighbors because now he had someone to blame it on, the classic scapegoat.  The “chosen” box, the “scapegoat” box, and the “holocaust” box.  Same ilk as they keep their socialism in.  Mindless, but it seems to work in a mindless land.   Too bad it works only in the sense of domination, as Sid Wasserman and the late Swifty Lazar  dominate with their lenswear,  not in the best long-term interest of a single human on the planet, of any ethnicity.  Anyhow, it was nice to have some kind of human contact with the chap.  Maybe I’m thin skinned, but I do sometimes feel I’m the faithful old mastiff who drags home bone after bone, even the occasional mastodon,  while the yapping little Pomeranian gets all the petting and treats.  It suits me, but maybe not a hundred percent of the time.  I guess I should be honest enough to admit I’d like feeling the tactile ramifications of the spine and ribs of the lap dog splintering in my jaws, you know, so no one misunderstands and takes me for someone who only talks and might be unwilling to destroy our enemies utterly, before they destroy is, if possible.
       
       Over fifty thousand, so we can coast from here if you want to take a break.  One day pretty much blends into another in my life and I’m too lazy to do any research, so I don’t know exactly how long it’s been, but I doubt many novels have been produced and published any faster.  It’s a little heady knowing in another day I’ll be author of something like the six best novels of all time, even though there is no sign of contemporary competition.  I’ve lost count of the short stories and novellas, something like a dozen or twenty, but vanity bids I at least acknowledge them.  
       
       I don’t want to read back through.  Did I ask you if there was an incest vector in your paternity?   I remember a video of a nine year old Chinese girl matching Isaac Stern, ninety, phrase for phrase on the violin; yes, beautiful and brilliant but child’s play in comparison with writing the score.  That you write as you do at the age you do is, even with my modest editing, beyond remarkable.  No real word for it these days, since “awesome’s” been sort of done to death and is more often reserved for tattoos and weed than talent or genius.  Three pets and a doggy biscuit.  You’ve earned them.  Go on sweetie, roll over and make daddy proud.
       
       
E. to T.


       I’m with you when it comes to abandoning the crummy subject.  One final note.  How do you think they’d feel – left out – of your hundreds of pages of social commentary?  If I’d schemed and connived so close to the center of so many vital social areas I’d think it was rude if I was neglected.
       
       I’m going to have trouble keeping our stories separate, too.  Dad, age twelve, with Phil and Penny is so vivid I’ll have to think twice and type once to get through what really happened.  If we do get a little tangled up I don’t think it will hurt anything. The twin advantages of the erotic and episodic novel.  It must be, in a way, kind of a kick for literate people to read a great writer raw and unedited, god’s words to their eyes unfiltered by clergy or scholar.  I know I like it, even to the typos and compositional glitches.  (They make me slow down and smell the flours.)  
       
       Oops, that brings us – just for a second –  back to the first paragraph and subject matter therein contained.  Your box.  The one labeled “guys who can’t spell” and their logic, “oy veh, who’d listen to a schmuck who blots his copy book?”  I think it’s fair to allude to the boxes as ventilated, because Hemingway lives forever in his “great writer” box.  Maybe they’re so stale, they being Salinger and garbage like that, that they don’t need air.  Write and tell me, c/o the outside world (however temporarily).
       
       “MSN” had a feature on GM last week, did you see it?  How they were for the umpteenth time apologizing for low quality and promising they’d passed some crossroad.  I think it’s overuse of the computer, designing parts and systems to the minimum in the name of profitability and at the perhaps unspoken behest of their investors.  In the old days, they couldn’t do this, and, like a pilot carries and extra ten knots on final approach, for granny, so they build everything a little thicker and stronger, in the name of reputation and future sales, than they figured it actually had to be.  Now, if the computer isn’t perfectly programmed, assemblies may come out a little weaker or less reliable and corrosion resistant  than they once did.  Ford’s had astounding problems in this area, but I guess the Firestone nonsense took the heat off them until their number comes up again in the press box.  Then Chrysler’s out there with the Prowler, Viper and PT Cruiser to show it has a styling department run by children.  Guess they know their market, but it makes me glad to be leaning to drive a Rolls, that’s for sure.  And of course the underlying villain, in all probability, is the UAW who does a sloppy “Gung Ho” job of leaving things for the dealer (and his poor customer).  Did you ever think of it?  Every warranty claim for a defect has to be paid by management and the investors, not the union.  Wrong.
       
       Del thinks all the best features, like VW’s window-lowering door key and turn signals in front of the side mirrors, should be incorporated in some design like the Audi A6, and all manufacturers should turn out the same series of passenger and utility vehicles.  Stop wasting time on gimmicks, make parts and service standard, worldwide, and reduce the cost of ownership by forty percent.  Way Nazi, he admits, but then again the National Socialists did flat know how to run a country, so there’s that to consider.  They way things are, anything they did is forbidden for the very reason Hitler tried it, which is about like throwing a cute set of triplets out with the bathwater.  
       
       Speaking about being as pregnant as that, guess when I had similar thoughts?  Do you suppose they were stirred by having Del deep inside me from the dawn of time to the death of the planet?  Triplets?  I couldn’t picture anything less than a house full of his sperms, all growing up, for physical if not psychological and emotional reasons, outside me.  Cradling our daughter’s for their first full rape and placing no restriction on their sleeping with their brothers when they felt like it, not confounded or conpounded, but, blush, well-rounded.  Making sex cute for years so when we’re eighty we can just grin at each other, knowing we bowed neither to superstition nor indoctrination and so missed absolutely nothing along the way.
       
       And I knew I’d missed nothing, however the kiddy thing goes, just as Del finished his story about visiting Mike and the model plane club.  We were lying together almost relaxed and all of a sudden it just started happening.  He didn’t say anything and neither did I, but I felt it clear as bell, you know, a gong you might be somehow sitting astride.  It went on for a long time, just as it had on my chest, then the hammer pulsing softened and slowly died away.  Perfect.  We stayed together a few more minutes, then he got up slowly, tucked me it while I lay flat on my back, kissed me on the forehead, turned out the light, and left one amazingly happy twelve year old girl to fall asleep in her own timing.
       
       
       “You’re just glowing this morning, sprout,” Ryan said as Erica took her seat at the breakfast table.  “Hardly a picture of the wan suburban girl who needs to get out and about for a little sun and exercise.”
       “It’s genes, Daddy,” the twelve year old assured her handsome young dad, “good breeding.”  Del choked, a little orange juice running out his nose before the thirteen year old regained his composure.  “It’s just skin deep,” she added, “and I’m dying to go.  Call it sunshine and health for the inner child.”  So they finished their leisurely meal, loaded their efficient bundle of camping gear and camera equipment in the trunk of the Silver Spur and rolled out across Florida.  Peacefully on their way they soon grew bored with listening to the clock tick.
       
       “Can you tell, Dad?” Erica asked with a soft, shy smile.
       “Yes, love,” her dad replied, “that’s why I wanted to give you an out if you wanted to stay at home.”
       “You’re the most,” the girl sighed.  “Girls and their menfolk.  Wow.  The universe’s craziest world, Planet Hell for ninety five out of a hundred ever born on it, and our house is beyond any fantasy of heaven.”
       “Do you think you’re pregnant?” Ryan whispered.
       “I lay on my back all night,” Erica blushed, “and he told me a long story before it happened, then left me wet as a pack of Irish wolfhounds, plus I can’t stop tingling between my tummy and my knees, so yes, I think I’m going to have a baby.”
       The driver didn’t say anything, just reached to the right and gave his daughter’s leg a tender squeeze.  “But I want to be sure,” the girl responded.  “Not close, but the cigar.”
       “There’s a rest area in a couple of miles.”
       “Yes.”
       
       “Daddy,” the girl said,  “do you want to tell Karl and Sheila what happened when we parked under the big oak tree?”
       The three were now seated on the roots of a tree, a silver labyrinth of gently sloping seats that formed a shaded and private oasis half a mile off the trail.
       “Yes,” Sheila enthused.  “I’ve talked with two of my friends at school,” the eight year old said, “but we never had enough time that they could tell me the details.”
       “Do both of you girls know that we are raping you by even talking about sex with you?” Karl asked Erica and Sheila.  Both nodded, but being mature, and feeling especially mature, they didn’t bother with: “We won’t tell anybody,” and it would have been a lie if they had said it because they both had friends they would be dying to tell.
       “How many times have you been raped?” Sheila’s dad then asked his daughter’s older friend.
       “Del took me twice last night,” she answered, “and Dad came in me three times while we were in the rest area.”
       “And you think it’s okay for my daughter?” the man asked.
       “I don’t know,” Erica replied, “I’m trying to get pregnant and that may color the issue, but as far as I can tell she’ll only like it the first time it happens half as much as when she’s used to it.  I think it takes having a male inside you for two or three hours for a girl to be able to take the time to realize that millions of wives and girlfriends are doing the same things they are and just sort of let herself go and stop internalizing and start not acting, but just being one of the sisterhood.
       “In Iran,” the girl continued to her little friend and the two strapping athletes escorting them, “girls are allowed to marry at nine.  Obviously, you have a Gordian knot of issues, but strip them all away and I say you’ll find this.  That a nine year old wife is just as happy in the arms of an attractive, affectionate husband as a nineteen year old wife (only she has an entire decade amounting to half of her existence to be happier).  That’s so obvious it would be a waste of ink to write it down.”
       
       “I know,” Sheila said, “even if I’m only eight.”  She looked vaguely like a young Olsen girl and her eyes got huge and a little scared looking.  “Erica,” she whispered plainly enough so the adults could hear, “can I tell you a big secret?”
       
       “Just a minute,” the girl said softly, “I want to take pictures and put Dad’s special mic on you, like Madonna wears in concert, it cost eight hundred dollars, would you like to try it?”
       The eyes got even bigger, but were blurred by the child’s vigorous nodding.  Over the next two minutes they all, by acclimation, shed their sandals and clothes as Erica adjusted the headband on the micro Senheiser, placing it over the eight year old’s pixie brown hair and plugging it into the camera held by her father.  The mic had a radio transmitter and Ryan had Sheila test it, then played back a few seconds of digital video to assure himself the system was working.  The technicalities dispensed with, the girls sat on the jutting eucalyptus roots and, especially for the eight year old’s benefit, the men displayed for the females, their penises huge, jutting, and hard swollen, then each took his naked daughter in his lap, the girls facing each other, and huddled together, Ryan leaving the sound capture on and occasionally shooting a short video sequence, close-ups of all of them with the tiny camera held at his knees.
       
       “Okay, what’s the secret?” Erica asked her pretty little friend, thrilled with the way the little girl focused on her swollen young breasts.
       “I have to giggle first,” the tyke said, “because of the microphone.”
       “Why?” asked Erica, giggling herself.
       “Because of what happened with Judy Nestor,” Sheila answered, “she told me about what had happened with her seventeen year old brother, and said if I wanted her to she would pull up her dress and I could take her panties off and do the things big girls do together and if I did that I’d taste on my tongue what a boy was like.  She told me this just when the first bell rang and said Meet me in the girl’s room at thirteen past the hour if you want to.”
       
       “And?” Erica coaxed, to a return fit of little-girl giggles.
       “And,” the child said, “I want to do the same thing with you I did with Judy, but I can’t with this thing on my head.”
       
       It was pretty funny, but there are a million comedians out of work, so we proceed by simply saying that some adjustment were made, the men huddled their daughters together, and that Erica had her first and Sheila her second lesbian experience.  In the end Karl removed the mic from his daughter’s head and held it low on Erica’s belly, occasional moving it to the lips of the panting preteen.  Ryan disengaged enough to shoot five minutes of mostly close-up video of the two girls, then Sheila reached for the Senheiser and put it back on.  By moving the boom mounted receiver just a little, the girls were able to kiss in the conventional manner and murmur in excited discovery as their adoring young fathers huddled close, pressed their hot erections against the tender flesh, and listen.
       “How long’s Judy been with her brother?” Erica asked.
       “She’s been trying for a month, every since she heard Karen Detweiler’s story, but he was really nervous so it took a long time for them to be successful. “
       “I guess I was lucky,” Erica allowed, knowing full well if she contracted ten tumors and an itch in the next week she’d still count herself awesomely lucky, “Del had three hours to teach me in privacy, so it was pretty complete even though we didn’t kiss and have like, you know, romantic foreplay.”
       “Judy and Ken had to sneak into the laundry room in the basement without their mother getting suspicious over their doing the laundry in the first place, and they only had a few minutes here and there.” Sheila explained, apparently having had some time to hear graphic details.  “The first three times she pulled his underpants down he started cumming off all over her before she could even get them down over her knees.  The first time, it almost ended it for them, because she thought she’d hurt him, plus she was just kind of shocked, like suddenly he was spitting or peeing on her.  They talked about it and he explained that he’d been just as freaked out as she had because he wanted to be mature with her and not like some kind of twelve year old.  So they tried again, and that time she thought it was beautiful and totally macho.  The third time she knelt on a stack of pillows so he’d come on her chest instead of it spraying out on the floor and some getting in her hair and on her face.
       “That was a big improvement,” the girl continued, “and began making them feel excited about each other instead of mostly curios.  They liked it so much they tried kissing, even though they knew brothers and sisters aren’t meant to kiss, you know, that way.  That led to them wanting to get naked, and when that happened they started trying to have real sex on the pile of dirty laundry and some cushions from the basement sofa.  That was the same thing, all over again.  Ken would try to mount her and the next thing there’s be sperm splashing all over her legs and tummy.  I guess four was their half magic number because he finally got really inside her before he started cumming.  The fifth time, he’d been inside her for two or three minutes then they both suddenly got hit by lightning, and after that it was hot and perfect, and he could let her cum two or three times before he lost control and spilled in her.”
       
       “I’m glad it had a romantic ending,” Erica said, kissing her little friend once again.
       “It would have been horrible if it hadn’t,” the precocious pixie agreed, “all thinking they were weird and defective.  Bummer.”
       “How much have you done?” Erica wanted to know in her turn.
       “Just a few minutes in the girl’s room at school,” Sheila replied, “and it wasn’t, you know, sex or anything, it was just experimenting.  She could have been showing me a birthmark or scar and it would have been about the same, a little naughty but more intriguing for what it boded in the future than exciting at the moment, except I did like the taste and smell of what Ken had done.”
       
       Done for the moment, Sheila lapsed into silence and they all sat still for a few moments, the men facing each other on their impromptu benches close enough that their daughter’s knees were touching, each with his hard penis jutting up between immature legs.
       
       “Sweetheart,” Karl said after some moments, “you’re an exceptionally attractive girl, especially your personality, so what happened with Judy may happen in the future with you.  Males cum prematurely because, according to the medical books, they are scared of getting caught, getting a girl pregnant, or getting a disease, in other words, stress.  But it also happens when a male really loves a female, wants her child.  Since it’s a basic urge, to use a trite term, the body sometimes pushes the rational human aside, I suppose you could say ‘goes for it’ too fast.  I stress it because, as I said, you’re something quite extra as a female, and boys are going to want to be with you more than they know.”
       “Is there any way to prevent it?” the girl asked her dad.
       “Sometimes, if you’re in the right circumstances,” the young man replied, “you can masturbate a male, stroke his penis until he ejaculates.  That will take some of the pressure off and probably allow him to be successful with you if you want his sperm in your tummy.”
       “That’s where I want my dad’s seed,” the girl murmured, “do you think men have the same thing happen as boys?”
       “Del and I had to be very careful and talk about politics and stuff,” the older girl replied, “and he gave me enough experience so when we were in the rest area it was successful even the first time.  We talked about Tyne Dailey while he was getting me naked and taking off his clothes, then Cloris Leachman, Rhoda, and Marlo Thomas, so I didn’t have to do it your dad’s way, which I would have wanted to do if I hadn’t been raped by Del last night and didn’t know what happened, you know, physically, with a mature male.”
       
       It was apparent the girls were made for each other, and their handsome father happily let them come together and kiss and giggle, mic. or no mic.  They were relaxed, unhurried, and the men stunned half comatose by thoughts of the coming night with, well, two eager beavers.  It was like giving heaven a miss for something way beyond Godsville, here, now, and into the foreseeable future.  Erica was almost as ready to be with her father again as she had an hour and a half ago at the rest area, while Sheila, anticipating her initial rite of passage, was a smoldering brand of hot welcome, cooing, mewing, and enraptured with the huge, hard phallus jutting up between her tender young thighs, toying and experimenting with her dad to her heart’s content as Karl lay back offering himself to the little schoolgirl.  
       
       “He’s really ready if you are,” Erica said to her little friend.
       “Yes,” the girl hissed.
       “Okay, do you want me to show you?”
       “Yes,” Sheila said.  The twelve hear old moved forward on her panting dad’s lap and took Sheila’s tiny hands in her own.  She guided the young female in spreading Karl’s seminal fluid, then taught her to grip firmly and stroke smoothly.  Karl responded with a feral grunting that excited both girls.  “It’s so beautiful when it happens,” Erica whispered, “you never saw anything like it in your born days.”
       “Should I turn around?” the eight year old said, “does Dad want to watch, too?”
       Karl, past speaking, lay inert, every muscle of his rangy, athletic body corded with tension, barely able to breath.  “Yes,” Erica said, pleased to see in her little friend a sensitivity that would yield quite a young woman one of these days.  She and her dad carefully reversed the position of the younger girl, and in her avid pursuit of her dad’s cum she didn’t falter in her now perfectly hard and measured stroking.  The two huddled at her flanks, fondling the child and whispering encouragement.  Karl gurgled and hissed, managing to blurt out a gasping Than you before lapsing again into his trance, not tensing so even the inexperienced little girl sensed an extreme drama was immediately at hand.  “Don’t be scared and keep masturbating him for like ten seconds when it starts, then move your hand down on him, gripping as hard as you right at his base,” Erica coached, shown her friend exactly where the younger girl should squeeze with her fingertips.  .
       “Will it get my hand wet?” the daughter wanted to know.
       “Del let a lot spill on my hand at the end,” the girl replied, “but at first it’s going to go up in the air and splash on your dad’s chest.  If you want the sperms on your chest, hold his penis against your tummy and let him spray it up on you, and some will probably get on your face and in your hair, okay?”
       “I’m glad it’s not a bedtime story so you can tell me how it ends,” the pet observed.
       “That’s like telling you how a birthday cake tastes,” her older friend said.  “There’s a big difference between words and sweet chocolate.”
       “Does that mean I can get it in my mouth?” the cutie asked.
       “Our rule is not with incest,” Erica said, “because some things should be special for lovers who aren’t in your family, like kissing and romance and getting sperms on your tongue.”
       “So you’ve never had that happen?” Sheila quizzed.
       “No,” Erica replied.
       “Do you want to with Dad?” the generous pixie asked.
       “Maybe a little,” Erica said, “Del says sperm tastes nice when it comes from young boys, but what comes out of an adult is more intense and a girl should be careful about getting it on her tongue because she might not like the taste.”
       “Does it get better, you know, with experience?”
       “Del says no, it’s just not very good.  I mean, you know, nothing to puke over, but maybe like mustard – I mean, it doesn’t taste like mustard, more just salty and thick, he says, but you wouldn’t want a whole mouthful of mustard, just a taste.  So if you hold you’re dad still while it’s happening I’d like to, you know, put my mouth there just for a few seconds.”
       
       Ryan had moved behind Karl, kneeling to support the tall, straining athlete as the girls formed a mutual aid cartel of two, settling down to their hot business and improving dramatically with each endless minute.  Karl’s head lolled, his eyes glazed and rolled back like he’d been shot with a bazooka, every muscle corded and straining.  Then as if a spring had broken, he want slack and had just a few calm second to say, “I’m cumming, Sheila,” before a jet of semen was suddenly hanging two full feet in the air before collapsing on a puddle high on his powerful, heaving chest.  “Keep jerking him off,” Erica hissed, and Sheila, gasping in shock at what she already done, redoubled her efforts until another huge spurt appeared as if by magic.  “Daddy, on my bare chest,” the girl coaxed reflexively and instinctively, holding the beautiful male against her as she plunged her hands to the base of his seven inch shaft and squeezed, especially with her fingers on Karl’s seminal vesicle   “Oh,” she cooed, “now I can feel him doing it… there!” and true enough, a quarter second after her squeal, her panting chest was slicked with a heavy burst of the syrupy white semen of her now relaxed and panting young father.  “You ready?” she whispered to Erica, holding him to her.  The older girl responded alertly, taking the flaring purple glans of the ejaculating stallion against her lips and tonguing him rapidly in encouragement.  Seeming to have forgotten himself, Karl grunted and whispered, “oh, baby, I’m going to cum.”  Sheila yipped and an instant later Ryan saw his daughter’s kips disappear behind the thick, creamy whiteness of her lover’s cum.  She immediately pulled away, leaning over Karl so the sperm dripping from her mouth joined the heavy pools and smears covering his chest as the man began spraying with renewed heat all over his naked child.  Finally, Sheila did get her hand wet in a long, steady flow that gently subsided.  “Try licking just a little off him if you want to,” Erica suggested, a neutral expression on her face indicating what wasn’t good wasn’t really bad, either.
       
       Ryan moved the mic so Sheila could experiment with her still rock hard father and concluded the segment of his video with a close-up of her expression at tasting her first cum.
       
       The mounting of father and virgin daughter took place half and hour later.  Her thighs wet with not only her dad’s semen, but Ryan’s as well, Karl was able to enter the pixie hot and wet and she cooed and mewed with pleasure until he had her pretty bottom hard against his loins, her kneels spread and hooked on the man’s bulging forearms.  Ryan entered Eric from the back and positioned his twelve year old daughter so she could kiss and encourage her little friend at will.  Slowly, gently, the four mated for nearly and hour before the time came to dress and make their way to the campsite.  There they would spend the next two days and three nights.
       
       
       The whole video’s forty-one minutes.  It’s the best thing you ever say in all your born days.  We’re going to make a separate audio file for Kazaa, you know, to listen to while you drive.  What do you think?  If a dad and his girl like each other, and are reasonably attractive, and listen alone together while they’re driving along, the girl might suggest stopping at a rest area?  It would seem to me listening might be the ideal way to start; not as embarrassing and intensive of the video, which, of course, they could watch at a later time.
       
       This has all been the biggest thrill imaginable – well, way beyond that, what did I know?  Look back at my first letter – but I guess now it’s over.  If I’m not pregnant I soon will be and I guess you can picture a pretty happy family near Daytona Beach, what with the kid sis going all beach ball, tummywise, and her dad and cute brothers hanging on tenterhooks until a certain birthday, then for the results of the paternity test.  As in the beginning, I have a slight preference for Del’s baby, but the little creep is going to get so much love and affection around here I could run off to Belize in it would be a week before anyone noticed.
       
       I love you very much but feel you dwell in an icy realm, as classic a lone eagle as it’s possible to imagine (and boy, do I know about imagining).  You’ve brought me pounding ahead, so amazing, and even as I write this I think I’m more dizzy than straight.  How will I feel about it ten years from now?  First, that I missed nothing, what words of wisdom, missed nothing I earned by being a nice kid, reading my brains out, and opening myself to highly disciplined alternatives to “Ring Around the Rosy” and “Merry Had a Little Lamb” (and the doctors were surprised, tee-hee)  At present, nothing has changed.  That’s were you’re so right.  In that it isn’t a big deal.  It’s herbs and spices, but life is totally fine and okay without a hint of it, you know, all things being equal.  
       
       I’ll read your chapter on Armando, and I can’t say I didn’t yearn for him just a little in the tent that night when Karl took me for the first time.  But we were able to kiss and it was sweet and listening to Sheila and Dad beside us made it plenty erotic enough for me to have three – huge – climaxes with my first strange stag.  Maybe I’ll write from time to time, but we both have pretty huge lives and so can live happily where we belong.  In the box labeled “very fond memories”.  Again, love, Erica.
       
       
T. to E.


       Couldn’t think of a word to add if I lived to be a hundred.  As a technical note, we’re just short of a novel so I can congratulate you on co-authoring a principle work of, well, sort of fiction.  Your contributions to the Net via Nifty and Kazaa are a lifetime achievement, you could get snake bit tomorrow and hit the big chill knowing you’ve done your share, philosophically, and, well, physically, it wouldn’t surprise me if there’s something of a rush on keyboards for the next few years.  (Possible investment idea for you portfolio, or, better yet, a spray cleaner, brush, sponge, rag kit for those erotic accidents, such as you so skillfully presented with Del and your dad.  (Along with new keyboards and a cleaning kit, you might explore Tyne Daley imagery conveniently  available  – at a moment’s notice – to the user, you know, to prevent accidents in the first place.))
       
       Love hate relationship with reader Mark.  He wrote me a blistering page on the obvious subject.  In the end he mocks me for taking up my invaluable time, I guess little realizing for a short letter to him I got a long one back, which add to the word count just as neatly as anything I type.  In fact, the whole chain of letters, Mark, David, and myself probably has a place here.  This is an immense issue.  Our country has become a cartel for a cult.  Hitler’s problem was he saw them massed in both the Weimar Republic and the Russian Bolsheviks.  If we look at their history in either Hollywood or the rag trade, where insatiable landlords cripple the garment industry, and have for decades, to say nothing of the garment workers, we see exactly what would have happened to Germany, and extremely inferior culture wresting control with every insidious, corrosive, and malignant trick in the book, and the end of the world.  It is an anathema for them to work with any system or program, and they are insatiable in their passion to tear down and create chaos, some vague utopia, I suppose, lurking in their stunted and indoctrinated heads.  Tell ‘em it ain’t so, Mo.
       
       So a little more ranting, we’ll have our sixty thousand, and pass in the night, horns bellowing, a few tears, and the mists of the future.  Good analogy, if I say so myself, for just think how the lookout on the “Titanic” ranted and raved.
       
       I’ve left out a few housekeeping  exchanges, and Mark’s first letter which has some kind of security thing on it.  What’s interesting is, as a supposed a-S I’m derided and castigated and certainly persecuted to the extent no word of mine is likely ever to appear in the mainstream (for which I have cold regard, seeing they’ve brought to where we are – Not! so it’s a fit)
       
       I can’t post in various fonts, so to avoid confusion I’ll separate a couple of choice comments for dissection, then paste in the whole for the one in a million who wants to read it.  You won’t have to skip far ahead to find the return of Armando; feel free.
       
       From Mark: Your karma is totally fucked, man! Turn in ALL of your tickets at the door.
 
       To Mark:  The karma of ghost towns and fat women as zombies in malls is karma’s nether, so I’ll take what you offer and not buy any tickets in the first place.
       
       From Mark  Gotta run for now. (Jeez, think of the waste I just caused-- in the time it took you to read this drivel you could have written 20,000 words! Guilt washes over me like the thin seed of a randy twelve-year-old godling balanced on thin muscular legs as he squirts and squirts and makes little mewling sounds deep in his throat.)
       
       To Mark:  Any time I can click instead of type, you have my attention.  Other readers should be aware that his preferential, and I don’t mean than ironically, treatment is a result of his being the first of two hundred readers to get down and dirty.  You will have to be thoughtful and original to be published.
:
       From Mark: PS...Where *DO* you find these verbose, philosophically minded ten-year-olds! You and Guy Davenport seem to be tapping into the same endless supply. Is there a subscription I can buy?
       
       To Mark:  Here we enter into tragedy.  Yes, Mark, there is a subscription you can buy, half a dozen or more magazines for your kids.  They’re better than books for reading aloud; focused, short and sweet, so to speak.  Picture Haley Mills at ten.  She’s my roll model, not kids who’s vocabulary consists of “gnarly” and seven related words, all prefixed by: “he (or she) goes…” 
       
       
       
       On Mon, 28 Jul 2003, Tom Emerson wrote:

> This is loosely tied in with last posting, "Poet of Phu Bai" (Adult/Young
> Friends), but is more Incest oriented. One more file to come, I think.

I have added this part to your series.

I know that you're an anti-semetic SOB, but could you please stick
to issues and not descend to insults like  [ Copy deleted by T.E.]

Nifty

Nifty Erotic Stories Archive Over 65000 documents spanning 1.4GB.
http://www.nifty.org/

       
        
       Tom to Nifty: 
       
       You might want to try "Ropeyarn" with Andrew Rambanowitz as the perky and
loveable hero.  I stumbled across it the other day in either the Inc. or
A/Y-F Archive.

To be honest, I didn't recall writing the "slur passage" and am pissed at
myself for the lapse; taking your criticism to heart.  You are, whether you
know it or not, a great publisher, in my eyes, the greatest ever, and I'm
sorry to have been offensive.  (Of course, in my eyes I'm the greatest
writer ever, so there's that to consider.)

If you posted "Electric Letters" as written, please drop me a line and I'll
revise and re-submit it.

I realize the volume of ms coming across you desk probably precludes
reviewing much, so I'll be more on my guard against future lapses.  As you
suggested, stick to the issues.

My next story is tentatively titled "Four Nazis and Ten Jews", a Nifty
version of an escape to Switzerland, and, while I doubt it will make bedtime
reading for the tykes, it will give me a chance to flesh out what people
call anti-Semitism. I don't have an anti-anything bone in my body, never
have, never will, (except maybe anti-mother).  Wish it was as simple as
that.

Thanks for your patience,

Tom

ps. In over two hundred letters ranging from complimentary to wildly
enthusiastic I have not received a single word of criticisms related to my
philosophical or political stance, though I did get a flame once.

TE
       Tom to Nifty (2nd response)
       
       You're plain right and I'm plain sorry.  Deleted it, obviously, and made some other minor revisions.  
 
I've divided the story into three files and added eight thousand words.  Hoping for smooth sailing from here,
 
Tom
       
       Mark’s second letter:
       
       Tom-

Thanks for the response.

I'll look for "Beyond Brewster." 

So you're the perp of JIMMY & FROGGER. I read it long ago and thought it impressively quirky. I'm sure I wrote you as I always do when I come across something  "like" JIMMY or POET. Which means I write very seldom.

Not surprised you haven't had much mail on POET. Intelligence ain't what it used to be as an aphrodisiac -- or even a poiint of interest any more.

All best.

Mark 

> -----Original Message-----
> From: Tom Emerson [mailto:thomas@btl.net]
> Sent: Monday, July 28, 2003, 9:44 PM
> To: 
> Subject: Re: The Poet of Phu Bai
> 
> ZipLip: Secure Message (Staged Mail)Thanks for writing and the nice comments.
> Loads more out there and I just posted "Electric Letters" whiich should be in
> the same archive.
> 
> Watch for mention in second file of "E.L.", as you break a long drought in
> reader mail.
> 
> Tom
       
       On Mon, 28 Jul 2003, Tom Emerson wrote:

> My hope is I work hard enough and contribute enough that you or staff will
> review the draft submissions and curb me - delete - when I overdo.  This
> enables me to work freely at the edge.
> Sorry your comments  tend to be negative.  Your message read and
> understood, and you have been most tolerant.

Your comments about Jews tend to be negative.

Nifty

       
       
       Dear A. P. W. (arrogant prick writer)-

I got side-tracked from POET with Santa Fe (just was there, maybe that's why) and then started moving back and forth with other stuff. Probably not good to do that. I should just settle down and read ONE friggin piece at a friggin time. But my mind is fragmented right now. I just got back from a long trip and got another one coming up so I think in little spurts of pseudo-attention and lucidity. Sorry. I know a writer, especially the world's greatest, doesn't like to hear that. But, hey!, you're in the entertainment business and occasionally the audience needs to get up in the middle of a joke and go take a shit.

I don't like anti-semitism. Mainly because to even bring it up is to fall into one of the greatest public relations (and control, don't forget control) tools of the last half century. Like Matty Ross (of near Dardenelles in Yell County), they pull it like a gun. Slicker'n greased lightning and *BANG* you is dead because you is a/s and we all know that is the baddest of the bad. Your karma is totally fucked, man! Turn in ALL of your tickets at the door.

I think you make too much of Darling David. He's not really an editor, as well you know. He's merely an electronic doorman, bringing in the mail and putting it in the (mostly) right slots. He can also be something of a pain-in-the-ass drama queen if anyone questions his...whatever: taste, judgment, awesome authority. But I do agree with you that Nifty is a kind of landmark in the way things get published in these new times. His much praised liberal approach to censorship, as opposed to censership which is mostly Catholic, is primarily the result of not enough time. I get the sense that if he had enough time he would like to be some kind of Factor in deciding what and who gets read and who doesn't.

Gotta run for now. (Jeez, think of the waste I just caused-- in the time it took you to read this drivel you could have written 20,000 words! Guilt washes over me like the thin seed of a randy twelve-year-old godling balanced on thin muscular legs as he squirts and squirts and makes little mewling sounds deep in his throat.)

Sorry for typos. Like David, not enough time!

Mark

PS...Where *DO* you find these verbose, philosophically minded ten-year-olds! You and Guy Davenport seem to be tapping into the same endless supply. Is there a subscription I can buy?
       
       
       
       Tom to Mark:
       
       Now I know why they call it Nifty, nifty letters along with the ooh's and
ahh's.

Are you sure it isn't exactly the opposite, vis-a-vis p.r. control tools?
I've personally been brain- washed, brushed, lathered and scrubbed with the
message of our friends most of my life.  You write like a younger guy (I'm
57), so you probably have more time than I do to see where our ruling class
leads us.

If you continue on with "Electric Letters", first, you'll probably be
chagrined at
seeing "...wise (how wise!)..." in print, and second, get a fuller picture
of the issue.  I've had more and closer Jewish friends, than
average, and probably, your IQ considered, feel about most things much as
you do most of the time.

David admits he doesn't have much time for editing, too busy at the busy
door.  On
the other hand, a couple of years ago I submitted a story without a sex
scene, and it didn't even get acknowledged, so he's not all that oblivious.

The ego thing is meant to be funny(?).  I don't even have a car or a
pot-metal Visa card.

You sound busy, hope you like all the traveling.  I was mad for it - at one
time.  Personally, I like your letter best so far of the two hundred, and
hope you'll write again.

TE
       
       
       And just like that, Erica, we’re there with five hundred words to spare, all counties heard from, as my Gran used to say, and now all we need do is wake the dead, which means sitting in the graveyard for three nights after burial, a length of string extending from the ground to your wrist, incased the deceased is just stupefied by lead poisoning, instead of making with the doornails.  Dead, buried, and forgotten with all points covered.
       
       Since you already have good luck, I’ll just wish you lots of it; great happiness, so lots of that, too, and return us to you and your father sitting on the Florida rock:
       

“Maybe he’d like to tell us a story, first,” the handsome dad said.
       “Cool,” the girl said, not brighter of brown eye for that would have been impossible.
       “Would you like him to tell us while he’s up inside you?” the concerned parent asked.
       “Oh, Daddy,” the child whispered, moving immediately into her athletic father’s lap, spreading her legs and drawing their handsome visitor between her knees.  The beautiful naked Mexican teen moved carefully, Ryan guided him, and with a feral grunt he emerged from the world into the twelve year old’s fiery tight and python tight young body.  Erica held him just above her hip and tilted up her face for her first kiss.  It could have lasted a lot longer but Armando pulled gently away.  “I can really feel what happened with your dad, you know, inside you,” he whispered, “and it’s going to make me cum right away…”
       The girl pulled him firmly the closer, again tilted her pretty face to his hawkish, black-eyed reflection in her eyes, and, lips gently pressed together, she moaned in welcome, then began panting, ‘oh… oh… oh…’ again and again until finally it was ‘oh… Daddy.’  Her hands roamed the nineteen year old’s sweating torso pinching and tickling while Armando came back to his senses, then, her head cuddled against his chest, her arms gently around his waist, he began.
       
       “It was sort of like you Dad’s story,” the boy said, “with a coach.  Like Jeff Kidd, Vargas sort of selected my from my seventh grade gym class and asked me to come back to the gym after the others kids had gone home.  I want to his office and he assured me there were no problems and he didn’t want to talk to me about anything to do with school, but about a personal matter, and that I was under no obligation and could leave without having to say anything   I said I understood.  He asked if I would feel comfortable with the door to his office was locked, and I got up and bolted it.
       
       “This is a picture of my little sister,” he said, “our parents are living in Spain for the next two years while Dad writes a book, and Maria moved in with me just yesterday.”
       “She’s very pretty the fourteen year old said, looking at the pixie, a slightly smaller version of the girl playing the immature Salina in the film.  He almost chuckled aloud, because Coach Vargas looked something like the actor who plays her dad.
       “She’s eight years old,” Vargas Madrid went on, “and the reason this is all hush-hush, to use an appropriate Americanism, is that she made it pretty plain last night that she wants to live with me not as brother and sister.  Plain enough that I had to lock my bedroom door and jimmy a stool under that bathroom door.”
       He studied his student for a reaction, giving him ample time to express negative vibes or leave the office.  Armando look shyly at him, coloring noticeably, but made no sign of aversion.
       
       “On thinking it over, with her scratching on my door, part of the time, like a cat, I decided the worst option would be hanging her out to dry on the line.  The situation is complicated by the fact her older brother, Ricardo, died of meningitis a year ago and I’m worried that she’s so bummed on god for his suffering she wants to sin just to get back at the s.o.b.  
       “That’s sort of a background issue,” the young athlete went on, “because beyond morality there’s a physical problem in that I’m somewhat abnormally endowed, not half a meter or something like you read in stories, but she’s slim and petite and if something did happen, like me forgetting to lock the door for two or three seconds, I’m afraid of hurting her.  Of loving her half to death, because I love her enough that once I knew I might get her pregnant I can’t imagine retaining the slightest control.  Yes, she’s only eight, and it might not happen, but I’ve had a few homosexual experiences with experienced partners and they said I produce much more than average, so that amount of hormone suddenly flooding her young body could radically advance the natural maturing process, so, even at eight, a baby is possible, and, as I said, I just can’t imagine remaining even a little in control, sister or no sister, if there’s even the slightest chance of seeing her belly swell with my child.
       “Do you understand, do you think?” he concluded.
       
       “I think she made the right decision in not going to Spain,” the boy murmured, still flushing and his penis so hard it reduced the rest of his hundred and ten pounds to a blood source.
       “I picked you because you’re the nicest boy I’ve had in several classes,” Vargas said, “and because you’re mature enough to really be with her without hurting her.  That’s being pretty frank about what I want to happen, but I’ve got to be home in fifteen minutes so cutting to the chase is kind of the order of the day.
       “Would you like to come?  Stay for a couple of hours?  You’re welcome to the phone if you want to call anyone, and, just like here, leave any time and I’ll give you a ride if you want one.”
       “Maybe I can teach her a little about cooking,” Armando responded, “I kind of like it and my mom’s an ace.”  Mexico is a huge country with one hundred million people who should co-dominate the hemisphere but prefer politics.  Picture it any way you will, and try to imagine a happier boy than Armando de Lira.  In fact, he had only one equal, an eight year old cutie who, even as late as that very morning, had pictured her handsome, rugged twenty-two year old brother as the very last word in what a lover should be.  How she had damned him with faint praise.  Look what the tiger had dragged home.  And look she did for a full ten seconds before she slid her spatula under a grilling tortilla and flipped it at the teenager, then giggling, ran off to her bedroom.  Armando may have just shed his last puppy fat but still retained more than a vestige of puppy spirit and ran after the sprite as Vargas settled on a stool at the cocina counter to catch his breath.
       
       “Oh, help, my brother, my brother, oh, oh,” came the plaintive cries down the hall.  Shaking his head, the coach went to save his mewing kid sis.
       “Help,” the pixie again cooed as her blood relation entered her pretty room, indicating with a nod Armando’s belt as her fingers completed the buttons on his shirt.
       “My damsel in disdress,” he clucked as he entered and knelt in front of his handsome, coltish student.
       “I can do the rest of him,” Maria responded, “so that’s just what you should be worrying about, disdress.  Not my being in disdress, but out of it.”
       
       Armando, though for the first time aware of the fire in a girl’s eyes, had nonetheless sensed what was about to happen and snagged the flying tortilla out of the air, bouncing it in his fingers as her pursued the young heathen to her lair.  Now it was cool enough, he rolled it tightly and as she got him naked and her brother got her naked, he stuck one end in his mouth and leaned toward the gamin, giggling girl.  Her bright, intelligent eyes immediately grasped what he had in mind and she licked her lips, then took her end in her tiny mouth.  And it was by this simple devise that they coupled, Vargas bringing them together, then his sister urging him with subtle tugs on their floury link.  
       
       Slowly she nibbled, slowly, using dozens of minute thrusts, he entered.  “Make sperm on my chest so I know what’s happening,” she said to her now naked brother, then resumed her nibbling.  Vargas spread his legs wide and braced his knees on the edge of the bed, his left hand affectionately stroking the back of the beautiful young stag raping his kid sister.  As he’d said, his penis was nearly eight inches, uncircumcised, and powerfully thick.  He jockeyed so his glans smeared seminal fluid on the child’s right breast and began masturbating as Maria’s right arm held her stallion and her left urged her handsome brother fully against her.  This only took a few seconds in real time and so she was soon tugging gently at her end of the rolled bread, nibbling toward him as he nibbled his way toward her.  Vargas took his left hand from his student’s powerful back and slid it between the bodies of the young lovers, finding Armando just over half way inside his sister.  He knew they needed no additional stimulation, their panting indicated they were fine for each other, to indulge in a little understatement, but the erotic feeling of a well developed boy entering a prepubescent female’s body was likely a once-in-a-lifetime sensation, plus, both the children panted and bucked in response to his fondling, brazen in their welcome of his touch.
       
       Secretly, Vargas Madrid had been hoping to have his sister as a young bride at some point in time, and it has to be admitted that so strong was this desire that the young man had not jerked off for a week.  Her overt readiness had put him on his guard – fast start / fast finish – and he’d locked out the scratching, mewing kitten in the name of character, that is, letting twenty four hours pass before he reevaluated the situation.  “Sweetheart,” he whispered, “nothing’s happened with me for a long time, so it’s going to be very messy when it does, not just a few drops.  Is that okay?”
       
       “Is it the same with you, Armando?” the girl whispered around her end of the tortilla.
       “Yes,” the boy said, blushing.
       “Wow,” the girl enthused shyly.  “I’m glad you warned me.”  She went back to her nibbling and Vargas monitored the young athlete’s success as a full five inches of him was now implanted in the wriggling child beneath him.  Correspondingly, their lips were now an inch apart, their nibbling threatening to become gulps.  Another lifetime minute they met, both going rigid at the teen’s complete success, save for swallowing the last of their blue-corn staple.  As she swallowed the last bite, and ended the long kiss that followed it, she looked up at Vargas.  “He smells beautiful,” she said, “can he lie next to me while it happens with you?”
       “Yes,” the man said, “now and any time you want.”
       “Vargas,” the girl then whispered, “he must be getting tired being above me all the time.  Can you get me wet now so he can lie on top of me and I can feel his chest against mine?”
       “Are you both ready?” the man whispered.
       
       Both nodded and he whispered “I’m cumming,” and gasped and strained as his hot fluid pumped heavily over the bird-like chest of the panting eight year old.  Armando gasped at the sight, a modest boy by nature and new to such rank displays of machismo.  Like a feral creature he began thrusting against the little girl, and in a minute was taking her hard and fast as her legs wrapped tight around his waist and her heels beat at him.  In the American idiom, he slam-dunked her into her first orgasm, tripped her, ran with her to the top of the bleachers, and dropped her fifteen feet onto her head for the second.  She lay stunned, gasping beneath him and he slowed and became tender, bending to lick some sperm from her throat, getting just a taste on his tongue, then substituting the salty morsel for the long-gone bread.  Marie stuck out her tiny pink tongue to sample, smiling shyly at the taste and saying that was enough.  Her eyes rolled back in her head and she was wracked by a long, delicate climax, her sweet little pink tongue returning to her lips repeatedly.  As she again focused on Armando he said “I’m going to cum in you in about ten seconds” as he rose high on his corded arms, his heaving chest heavily slicked with semen from Marie’s bare chest.  Vargas moved partially behind his sister as Armando rose to his knees.  He propped up her head as her mate looped his arms under her knees, gently pushing them toward her shoulders, bringing her thighs fully to him.  Again he braced himself over and Marie and Vargas panted in each other’s ears for another ten seconds.  Their view down over her pixie body was perfect, Armando was mounted high and forward, so they could easily tell when it began, though the teen merely gritted his teeth and shook.  “It’s really easy to feel it, too,” the girl said to both males as gush after gush of heavy white semen spread over her upper legs and tender belly.  Those were her last words for several minutes as Armando, feeling the end of his ejaculation approach, was unable to prevent himself from suddenly trusting hard and fast against the little girl, drop kicking her through the hoop.  When she came to, she’d been fully mounted by her handsome groom brother.  She screamed in surprise and welcome, and ten minutes later was sound asleep, two young males fussing in the cocina.
       
       
       Good-bye my ultimate fairy-tale princess.  Hope it’s a girl.
       

THE END

Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx
       
       

