BEYOND BREWSTER

(THE Horatio Alger Story) 

(M/b/f, inc., rom., lit.)

by

T.C. Emerson


BOOK I


 "Daddy?" Billie-Jo asked, "do you remember Miss Fox from the open house?"
"She's your art teacher," Neil McAlester said, "sure, she seemed very nice.  A little young to be a teacher, I suppose, but then the police are getting younger every year, so it may be something to do with perspective."
"The fossil and the fawn," the eleven-year-old giggled.  "I don't know what's going to happen when you reach thirty.  A complete mystery.  Will you melt and run down the shower drain or get all crusty and brittle like bread that's been left in the sun all day."
"I haven't decided that either," the young father laughed, "but what brought up Miss Fox? not that you need a reason."

"Well," the pig-tailed dart of a girl responded, "some of the older teachers thought it would be a good idea to make Nancy - Miss Fox - do the dolls.  Do you know what they are?"
"Well," Neil hemmed, "I've got a delicious one riding with me; sweet, cute as all get-out, and I wouldn't trade her for a salad bowl full of snow."
"How 'bout a punch bowl full of punch?" the diminutive tigress asked.
"As long as said bowl would fit on the table in your doll house," the young father said, trying to get some grip and trying not to be prejudiced or judgmental when it came to his own flesh and blood, but she was, honest Injun, a supreme combination of girl and boy, a gamin virago, oddly, until she donned her baseball cap, at which instant, and all following instances, until she took it off, she looked fragile and feminine.  Now she was the pixie-cut tomboy asking about - those - dolls, because her dollhouse was relegated to a nostalgic corner of her bedroom closet, only to be hauled out when Regina Maverick and other girl/girl friends visited.  

"I thought you had those in third grade," Neil noted.
"That was nothing but Introductory Nonsense," Billie-Jo chirped.

"I thought the point was that nothing be 'introduced'," the father quipped savagely.  He and the eleven year old shared reading duties, often two hours of an evening, and had since the girl was three years old.  She did not talk like other children, even the educated ones, except with other children, and he sometimes wondered if he hadn't unintentionally intruded on her childhood, substituting the simple pleasures of toys, video games, television, concerts, parties, clubs, sports, music, drama, and a short list of other diversions, topped, of course, by boys, thought suitable and proper, and thus encouraged, by the adult community, with half a library of ever thicker books, with ever finer print, and ever fewer pictures.  In short, had he done the kid wrong?  Here she was talking about dolls when she was usually more interested in topics like whether or not the Russians had used an old ship to build a hydrogen bomb that could split the planet in half, when they said they hadn't.  Going retro at eleven?  What had he done?  Her latest project had been an attempt to refute his, Neil's, hypothesis that, when the final tally was added, Adolph Hitler would be seen as the preservationist of free will and Churchill and Roosevelt would be unmasked as face-proud monsters, willingly allied with Stalin, who had something of a face of his own.  It was the fulcrum of modern history, and the girl had seemed secretly quite proud that her efforts to annul her handsome dad's theory led to one dead end after another, ending, at least as far as she'd gone, with the deductions that indeed the winners got to write the history, making something of a clever game of it (will anyone ever find out?), and that was the long and the short of it.  Now her young art teacher and dolls she'd had when she was nine.  H'uh?

Nor was it a safe time to be talking, if he had the first inkling of where the conversation might lead.  They were on their way to a long weekend at the beach, destination remote and lonely; surf, dunes, and breeze for the bugs.  Books and surf casting.  Swimming, tanning, and hanging out.  Additionally, there'd been what Linda hadn't said which included the whole gamut of behavior expected of a twenty-eight-year-old male off in the tulies with a freshening minx of a pre-teen.  Nope.  Not word one, and, if he interpreted with a razor ear, hadn't there been a sensual lingering in her, Linda's, tone when she'd spoken of going to stay with her father for the Fourth weekend; something of a passive, preoccupied urgency?  While none of his thoughts, of and by themselves, was anything like coming across a man with a girl spread-eagle beneath him on a blanket in the lee of a sand dune, they triggered a heat in his loins and Neil felt himself pumping hard against the restriction of his jockey shorts.

"If there's a beginning," he suggested to the girl in the passenger seat, "you might use it as a starting point."
"Oh, clever, daddy," the girl giggled, "that's just it.  'Beginnings.'  That's what Miss Fox wanted to talk about."
"Well, then it looks like we're both on page one," the young father allowed.
"'In the beginning,'" quotth the child, "there were the dolls.  They made no sense, and it didn't seem to be because they weren't meant to, I mean, since when were dolls ever meant to make sense? but, rather, because Mrs. Isaacs was restricted by codes and protocols from presenting anything but noncommittal, formula answers, forgivable, I suppose, because next to behavioral scientists, preachers, politicians, and lawyers, teachers are the most brainwashed category of society running around loose."
"Their needs for militancy and the adversarial paradigm of the tradeunionist does interfere significantly with their classroom spirit, their duties, and their humanity," Neil concurred with a nod.  "Wouldn't it be comfortable to stay on such safe topics," the engineer mused to himself, realizing, present company included, there was about as much of a chance of this as finding a bowl full of snow under a dune.  Dune. Blanket.  Man and girl in full display of passion.  Sanctuary?  They were made of sand, for god's sake - only the spiders and lizards could hide.  (No walks in the woods to get her out of sight.)

"Miss Fox, Nancy, thinks they're funny," Billie-Jo said, "she says modern liberals are what humor is all about.  They hair split and nitpick every radioactive waste sight out of existence, leaving the stuff spread all over the country, and the lot of us with a bright, glowing future."
"Well," mused her father, "they may not me as bad as you think.  Don't forget, they give you forty-seven years to pay if you want to buy a raincoat to keep the dust off."

"We started talking about stuff like that," the girl went on, "but we were each preaching to the choir, so, guess what? we changed the subject."
"I might have known," Neil McAlester said to Barbara, his daughter, tomboy enough to have thrown something off the Tallahache bridge, and so Billie-Jo McAlester.
"And I knew you'd be a doll about it," the cutie replied with a smug glance.
"Yes," her father responded, "we all have to begin, somewhere."
"It wasn't just me," the girl said, "Sonja Bristol and Meg Carver, too.  The three of us.  Nancy asked us, individually, to have lunch with her.  She said she'd met our dads, and Sonja's three older brothers, and her dad, and she wanted to talk with us, together, about mature things having to do with what we'd learned in fourth grade.  We talked it over, the three of us girls, and agreed to join her, and not to squeal on her or each other if she trusted us enough to be honest, no matter what she said, unless she'd killed someone, and all of could tell she didn't have anything like that in mind."

"Good," Neil commented, "too much loose sand on the Cape to make it a comfortable place to camp with a partner nurturing homicidal proclivities."
"How 'bout just 'homo'?" the pixie asked brightly.  (They were headed, after all, to a site not twenty miles from P'town.)
"Find me a boy half as cute as you are," Neil replied, deciding, with a complete lack of vulgarity, if you couldn't lick 'em, you might as well join 'em, "and you can call him anything you like."
"Now that you mention it," Billie-Jo said, "Nancy said I might be cute enough to loosen you up pretty quick, you know, when the time came."
"To tell you the truth, darling," the father responded, "your Miss Fox thinking the materialistic scuz responsible for half-century credit cards should be run offshore on a rail, and the fact she apparently dotes on you, is as much a loosening-up influence as your own beauty and charm."

Neil McAlester was a man who actually knew how to please a girl.  They rode out the Mid-Cape, often making half the speed limit in the three a.m. traffic, the young female only appearing to doze.

"Nancy, Miss Fox," she said, "didn't have any afternoon classes.  She gave Sonja, Meg, and me a slip, so we could ditch and hang out with her.  She even sent you a note."  Here the girl retrieved a pasteboard card  from the pocket of her uniform blouse and handed it to her father.   Neil availed himself of an opportune moment in the light morning traffic and passed a truck, reaching for the card as he settled back into the travel lane.  "The plot thickens," he said, recognizing longitude and latitude expressed to the hundredth of a second.
"Meg and Sonja will be there," Billie-Jo said, "and Nancy, of course.  
"Don't you think it's neat to be able to meet someone in a trackless wilderness?"

"Undoubtedly why the government spent billions on the GPS," Neil nodded.  Yet the precocious eleven year old had a point; the ability to rendezvous in extreme privacy, while unimagined by other than those trained in navigation and survey, was, and he looked at his young beauty, a salient addition to the chances of success should one venture in pursuit of happiness.  A second look at the card gave him to know the location was within ten miles of the place his daughter and he had picked over the preceding week, and he wondered at the level of coincidence involved, but didn't let the anomaly worry him.
"Perhaps it gives the boffins who operate the spy satellites something to spy on," the girl noted.
"What's the key to learning?" Neil asked, on a seeming tangent.
"Review," the girl parroted, having heard the question before.
"Good," her dad said, "because in the tech leap to spy satellites, I got left behind."
"I think you're just being coy," the girl responded, "I think you know what I'm talking about, and you're as excited as I am.  Mom's almost your age and she's so excited about going to see granddad it hangs off her like a wraith, so think how I feel?"

As ever, it seemed, she had her point.  "I'm just defending myself, darling," the man said softly, "thirty miles an hour is the speed of the gods around Taunton, and if I think about how you feel there could be a three car pileup."
"Okay," the sweetie said with a thoughtful nod, "I'll start at eleven this morning when Nancy came to get Sonja and Meg and me.  They're renovating the teacher's lounge, so she took us to her apartment which is just a couple of blocks from school.  She asked us if we'd talked things over amongst ourselves and felt comfortable being alone with her.  We nodded like mice, more excited than comfortable, I suppose, but she hadn't asked us about that."
"I see," the young father said.
"When we were all having chips and dips in the living room, she reminded us she wanted to talk about very mature subjects, and that we could go in her bedroom and watch television or return to school if we felt uncomfortable in any kind of negative way."
"I know where she was coming from when she stressed the negative possibilities of discomfort," Neil said, positively.
"Then you understand," Billie-Jo nodded, a hint of relief in her voice, "because I guess we were all kind of squirming, you know, uncomfortable, there's not word for it, is there? in an affirmative way, like on Christmas morning."
"Well, she is only eleven," the male thought to himself, but he knew what she meant.  The intense discomfort in his own loins, for instance, going on too long and continuing to build too fast to be classed as mere excitement.  As ever, they were on the same page.

"She brought some hangers in from her bedroom and handed each of us one for our blouses and skirts, figuring the shock effect would winnow out any girl who didn't belong.  Just handed them to us, like a grownup, and if we gawked at each other for a few seconds, that ended when we found out there were four hangers, one for her."
"Perhaps we could hire her as a consultant to test the durability of some of our plastics," the engineer said, always interested in the resilience of the materials he worked with.
"I guess we did kind of blush," the girl admitted, "but she didn't do anything bawdy or weird, she just knelt in front of me and started unbuttoning my blouse.  Meg and Sonja knelt on either side of me, so she did us together, and we did her.


"What I wanted to talk to you about," the young art teacher said, "is the males in your lives.  Billie-Jo and Meg, your dads, Sonja, your older brothers and your dad.  Is that okay?"
The three fifth graders nodded quietly, trying not to stare at each other as button after button yielded to their teacher's gentle fingers, and finding considerable relief at staring at the twenty-four-year-old beauty as they took lingering turns with her buttons.

"My instincts tell me," Nancy said, "that none of you have been touched by any male, but it's okay if you have."  The three girls shook their heads.  "I thought so," the teacher went on, "and that's a shame, though I suppose there's a lot to be said for men who have the character and breeding never to think alternative thoughts about their flesh and blood.  At the same time," she went on, "one does wonder how they will feel over all they've missed when the days of final reckoning arrive, for it is the harmless things one failed to realize in life that are the ultimate burden, more so than things you tried which didn't work out as well as they might have... at least you tried.  Not trying is the sin. Deliberately leaving stones unturned and logs unrolled, not that you should roll and turn them, gratuitously, or for the sake of turning or rolling them, but out of being bred to fear what might crawl out, when nothing ever does except a few larva and salamanders.  Religion's job is to make these hideous, but some of us know differently from extensive experience, and we'll have none of it, thank you.

"All three of you have outstanding males in your lives, or you wouldn't be here.  We're not exactly about cheap, lazy dad's boinking their kids for lack of anything better to do, or drunken big brothers huffing off on their kid sisters, probably because no girls will date them.  Those girls are who both the moral strictures of religion and the codes of the judicial system are designed to protect, and, in the course of human history, it is entirely possible a lecherous father has left his daughter alone our of respect for either church or law."

The teacher's three young companions were versed enough in the ways of the world to giggle at Miss Fox's reference; knew that one girl in five ended up in a relative's hands before she was of age.

"On the other hand," Nancy continued, "there are girls like you, pretty super stuff, in your own rights, but lucky to have dynamic, focused - and, essentially, nice - males in your ken.   For you, there are no rules.  Whether it was intended there should be, I don't know, but I think most fair-minded people have a live and let-live attitude toward intense relationships between people who have a long-term commitment to each other, regardless of age or relationship.  You will never be asked, should you decide to join the CIA, if you were especially close to, say, an older brother, and if you should spill the beans in a psychiatric interview, it would mean about as much as if you'd unwittingly run over a frog on your bicycle, unless, of course, you bring it up, and that would obviously send out warning signals that an individual was issue oriented and likely to be ineffectual, whatever the issue.
"Does that make sense?"

"So it's a really big secret?" Sonja Kelly asked.
"The reason the three of you are here," Nancy said as they removed each other's blouses, draping them over the back of the sofa, "is that you're capable of absorbing the secrecy thing and storing it in the right place, neither on the coffee table, nor under the mound of coal left over when the gas heat was installed.  If pressed on the issue, I think all of you would not be overly hesitant to say my dad or my brothers are extra cool, and I was, or am, as the case may be, extra close to them.  Again, if I wasn't pretty sure of this I wouldn't have singled you out."

The three children nodded silently, feeling their beautiful young art teacher had hit the male on the head.  Skirts and slips came off, went on the hangers, then the blouses, then they filed into the bedroom to hang their clothes in the closet before returning to the comfortable living room.  Nancy knelt on the Persian rug, Billie-Jo in front of her, flanked by her young friends.  "There is usually a lesbian side to the kinds of relationships free-spirit families espouse," the teacher explained, "but if any of you want to opt out, you saw where the television is, and it would be okay to just sit on the sofa and watch.  Nothing you can do is wrong, though running down the street yelling for the police is on the B-list."  The swollen nipples jutting from each training bra gave the teacher to know she had nothing to dread. 

"Another aspect," Nancy said, "is the secrecy cum privacy thing Sonja asked about.  In other words, if you're with somebody the way we're starting to be together, do you share experiences, and, if you do, how graphically?  In how much detail?  As always, or at least so it seems, sometimes, a middle-of-the-road approach is best: yes, you share explicit details with a curious partner, but, a, you do not embellish or exaggerate - fake it - and, b, you realize it's pretty much a one-time thing; your partner is unlikely to want to hear the same story over and over, so the message is: keep voyeurism in its place, as an intense enhancement of the first, or first few times, but nothing of enduring value and therefore nothing to build a relationship on."
"I think talking about it does make it extra exciting," Meg Bailey said. 

Nancy laughed.  "If you feel that way with us, you better take a Valium before you start telling your dad your secrets," she said.  The eleven-year-old beauty giggled happily in response, then retreated into herself a bit.  "If I can get him to notice," she said.
"That's as much a reason for our little get-together as any," the teacher explained, "to empower you.  None of your fathers - I know because I've met them, even if briefly - are going to haul you off to juvie if you get a little carried away in your flirting, or, heaven forbid, state baldly that you want a real relationship instead of the insipid nowheresville that is the norm between fathers and daughters and brothers and sisters.  You can be forward, even bold, if your hand is forced, and, specifically, you're under no pledge of secrecy as to what happens here this afternoon, so you go across the threshold armed pretty much to the teeth, and if I though any of you came from brittle, arbitrary stock, again, you'd have received the conventional run-around and been left to your own devices."

"Aren't we kind of really extra-special lucky?" Billie-Jo wanted to know.
"What if you got run over in a week?" Nancy said, "don't you think your last thoughts might be along the lines of, even at your ages, having experienced something of enduring satisfaction.  How many other girls your age could have those thoughts?  Most would be regretting all the things they never got to try, never got to do."
"But what if we get addicted?" Sonja said in her turn.
"I think you're smart enough to figure that out, all of you," Nancy replied. "There are a dozen major addictions waiting out there for you, and spending lots of time with an attractive male is likely to take most of them off the table, especially, fucking food."  The children looked at each other in their bras and panties.  None were in any way emaciated or anorexic, nor were there five extra pounds amongst the four of them.  
"Then how much is too much?"  Meg said, taking her turn.

"It's like alcohol," the young teacher replied, "too much is when it starts interfering with your so-called normal life.  On the other hand, it's better than television, hanging out with lazy friends, and a dozen other common wastes of time.  The three of you are way beyond what our unionists can teach of you, so, for you, it's better than homework.  In my family, with my brothers and my dad, being together came after something like two hours of reading aloud, almost every day.  That was always first, by accord, and it was rare for anything to happen until nine in the evening, which was practically bed-time, anyway."
"Every night?" Meg asked to her teacher's blush.
"Yes," she whispered shyly.  "I don't mean to make light of the addictive and narcotic quality of what happens.  And it gets more intense as time passes, as you come to trust your partner and give yourself wildly instead of just willingly."
"And it really is better with males?" Sonja asked, her hands the first to reach hesitantly to her teacher's mature breasts.
"The most amazing thing in the world is that some girls don't think so," Nancy sighed, her nipples swelling notably at the touch of the schoolgirl.  "It's beautiful with another female, but what happens with a male is its own special world.  The truth of the matter is that a girl hasn't lived until she's held a bellowing male in her arms and legs and felt something like a bucking horse high between her legs as he inseminates her."

"Can we take it off?" Billie-Jo whispered, speaking for her friends.
"Yes," Nancy replied with a shy nod.  Sonja unfastened the young woman's bra and all three girls removed it as Nancy arched and laced her fingers behind her neck.  For long moments Billie-Jo, Sonja, and Meg stared.  Their teacher was more beautiful than huge, pert and perfectly conical, with cherry-size nipples jutting almost angrily from her half  melon-size mounts.
"Size matters with girls," she whispered as her students began openly touching her, "the smaller the better.  Best of all, aesthetically inclined males like a flat-chested child, which is slightly on the ironic side, because when a girl becomes active with a mature male, or, especially males, the rush of excess hormones in her body augment her development at ages even younger than the three of you."

"Is that why Audrey Nelson is the way she is?" Meg asked.
"I got the same way in a matter of weeks," Nancy said in answer, "with three brothers and a father, it was probably lucky I stopped where I did.  It doesn't really change anything, your genes in that department are your genes, and it makes little difference, unless you get fat, anyway, but it does make things happen dramatically earlier in a girl's life, as much as five years.  Faster, not more."
"So we'll all be like Audrey?" Billie-Jo asked.
"Sonja in a few weeks, you other lot in a few months, assuming your dads keep you under lock and key."

"Is that important?" Billie-Jo asked, "that we only, you know, spend time alone with our dads?"
"It's just the opposite," the teacher replied, "assuming you don't become sluts or call girls, and you wouldn't be here if I thought there was much chance of that, you should have a restrained number of partners as you grow.  This is hard to quantify, because, on a daily routine, the number should perhaps be four, at the outside, but that leaves room for an occasional fifth, as a lover, and, more excitingly than that, in fact, downright provocatively, healthy girls should have an occasional indulgence, way, way outside the rules.  Most free-spirit families form clubs for a restricted number of continuing partners, a father, brothers, and as many as two or three friends, but they spend a week every six months at a resort with other free-spirit clubs, and thus maybe a hundred or more families.  Every girl should spend time in a place where she knows all the males are medically and psychologically safe for her to be alone with.  It adds a dimension to life that's on a par with the modern computer and the best of the cable documentary channels, though, of course, short of being well-read."

The three students nodded against the chest of their lovely teacher.  Nancy hugged the girls to her, mewing softly to them as she unfastened their training bras, an artist's eye for the three slim, white backs spreading from her like (and she almost giggled aloud) flying buttresses   "Look at each other," she coaxed softly, easing the eager faces and hands from her.


"Oh, daddy," Billie-Jo McAlester sighed from the passenger seat, "that was my first sex.  Feeling Sonja's eyes on me, and all of their eyes, and knowing in a flash tonight it would be your eyes."
"The thing is," the young father noted, "is that it is art.  Children are art, especially from seven to eleven.  Boys, the more so, but the girls are close enough so you'd have to have done graduate work in nitpicking to care about the difference."
"Are boys better lovers?" the girl wanted to know.  "Nancy didn't cover that, just said her brother, our age, would be in the dunes."

Neil was interested to see that there was a primal response.  Asked under other circumstances, he would have temporized, unsure of exactly how he felt on one of the world's more complicated issues, but mention of a juvenile male, on site, so to speak, did send a hot, fresh surge through his waist.  "Technically," he answered, "boys may have something of an edge.  They obviously know what feels special to another male, and watching a young male ejaculate is elementally erotic."
"I'm glad they're better at something besides football," Billie-Jo noted, once again making a good point.
"It's just temporary," her father added: "a few times, perhaps more in an intense relationship, and the novelty and excitement begin to fade, where, with a steady female partner, it's more the opposite; the intensity builds for years, and, assuming the girl stays slim and is reasonably attractive, it lasts longer than anyone would think possible, or so they say."


"Does this kind last as long as with males?" Meg whispered to Billie-Jo who had now begun to openly fondle her friend as Nancy touched Sonja.
"No," the teacher said, "this is more a novelty and a side show.  Girls might become friends through touching each other, even lovers, but lesbian relationships, of and by themselves, are short-lived.  There's often no reason for them to last, and the nuisance factor of having to please another person on a daily basis usually comes to outweigh what happens in the bedroom, which, by necessity, is much the same as happened the previous night.  Over the years, it's been repeatedly noted by scholars who,  examine the free-spirit lifestyle that it's the underlying friendship, regardless of who the partners are, that is vital.  What we're doing is a delicious side order of exotic mushrooms, but you'd get tired of them in two days, if they were the whole meal.  For now your dads and brothers will be your meat and potatoes, someday, for all of you, I suspect, rather devoted and active husbands."

"Especially if they get us pregnant with little girls they can molest," Billie-Jo said, unconsciously earning herself a gold star in "The Book of Overall Awareness", and a hug from her bare-chested teacher.
"That's a chapter or two ahead," Nancy said, "but, yes, it's becoming common, with today's advanced clinical intervention, for young girls to safely give birth to their incest children.  There's even an intellectual subset in the genetics community who believe father/daughter and sister/brother pregnancies should be encouraged, that the chance of retardation, not necessarily a bad thing for a child from a stable, secure home, is offset by the chance of producing a child of exceptional brilliance and talent in a home where dual love, so to speak, assures him or her the best chance of developing any gifts, which happens to be a whole different thing than simply having them."

"Plus, today we have invisible braces for the kids," Sonja observed.
"Not a joke," their teacher said, "but symptoms like that are more likely to be acute after a long sequence of cousins marrying cousins than as a result a one-off baby where the partners come from historically separate gene pools, and there are so many factors in physical and mental development, overall, it may be as much a wive's tale as anything to do with any taboo is"
"Does the club really study it?" Billie-Jo wanted to know.
"Not to any extent, at present," her teacher replied, "ways to go before that can happen.  There's a chance society, in general, may one day realize what a bill of goods they've been sold by the bible beaters and crack the whip over the scientists, but for now officialdom is in your Mrs. Isaacs' camp, swimming in foggy circles and heedless of progress as long as they stay afloat."
"And they're not the types to let go when they come to find out they're drowning," Billie-Jo said, adding another star to her clandestine portfolio.

"Just ignore interventionists with care," Nancy reminded her girls.  "There is a great deal of tolerance, and the truth of the matter is my father and brothers found more goodwill, and even bantering, teasing encouragement, when it was more or less obvious what was happening between us, than they ever met with hostility or judgmental bigmouths.  At the same time, some few people are essentially bowling balls and you never, ever, want to be in a position where one can fall on your foot."

Three pretty heads nodded in unison as the girl's followed their teacher's example and stood to slip out of their panties.  Naked, their immature breasts stood even more proudly from their slim, young chests.  Nancy guided one child's hands to the next girl's chest and her own and for long minutes the students tentatively and hesitatingly found each other and celebrated being young, very alive, and entirely female.  "This is how an adult takes a child," Nancy whispered, pulling Billie-Jo gently to her and guiding the eleven year old's hands behind her, Nancy's, neck.  "No arch and spread your legs a little," she coaxed, wrapping her left arm around the pretty girl's slim torso and massaging the youngster's lower belly with her right hand, slowly moving down between her slim, silky thighs.  Sonja, the tallest of them, took Meg, the shortest, the same way.  "Also, the way a mature male takes a young boy," she added, "only males stroke each other to masturbate instead of the way we're doing it." The tableau lasted some long minutes, then the four settled to the sofa, Billie-Jo and Meg lying back, legs splayed, in the arms of their taller lovers.  "There's more to girl/girl activities," the teacher assured her girls, "but we'll save that for after the weekend, if you'd like to come over again."  Again, three nodding heads.  "By then," the teacher concluded, "you'll all be fully experienced, and in furtherance of that I've schemed my little heart out."

So saying, the teacher opened a box on the coffee table, handing each of her students a card with ten numbers in groups of two separated by colons: "that's the longitude and latitude of where I'm going to be for the weekend," she said, "along with my kid brother, Pete, and my daughter, Cindy, who's six.  It's lonely, private, and safe, just bring,  a, your males, and, b, camping gear, and you'll be assured of a very warm welcome."
The students looked at each other, eyes wide and perhaps slightly glazed.  "Any questions," Nancy wanted to know.  She glanced at the clock, hardly past one.  They had lots of time.
"Miss Fox?" Billie-Jo said, "can you tell us about the first time, you know, something exciting happened with you, you know, while we're still naked?"  Two vigorous nods accompanied the question.

"Birthdays come in different forms," the young woman answered, "for example, after years of suffering with computers, I finally got an XP machine.  That was a birthday.  My dad bought me an unrestored  turbo Corvair for my sixteenth birthday, so that counted at least half.  Then there was my seventh birthday, and that puppy was, and always will be, the day I was born."

Billie-Jo McAlester wanted to ask about the ride, but realized the time and place were wrong for discussing exotic Americana that actually worked.  She tried not to be opinionated on the subject, but it did anger her.  America had become Mustang country, and the crummy Ford was nothing but a stylebox dropped on the chassis of a Falcon, the dreariest mass-produced object of an entire century.  The Chevy counterpart was innovative from bumper to bumper and at least five times as cool, in every respect, as the dumpy Mustang cum Falcon.  Yet it was Mustangs, forever, ugly, leaf-springed, straight-six powered, and with an interior designed by the blind, that dominated the butt-simple media.  It wasn't a nice distinction, but a gross one.  The two-door Chevy, even without a turbo, in both first and second editions, was a truly beautiful automobile, Porsche-style boxer engine, independent rear suspension, and, with the blower, dead quick at any elevation.  The Mustang just got bigger, became grossly bulbous, and was only incrementally superior to a Model A.  One died, the other lived, and in a very real sense an essential fire in the American spirit died with the first.  "Watch the little things," her dad had reminded her a time or two, and especially at the death of Napster.  "They add up."  And Nancy had actually owned one: came from THAT kind of people.  When it rained it poured, they said, and that made her wonder if Nancy's car had been a convertible.  (She had THAT kind of mind.)


The last-day-of-being-seven girl was dressed in a red tank suit.  She was an image of the pixie in a cruise ship commercial (the little "cruse director"), and she loved to put on a similar bathing suit, stand in front of the mirror in her bedroom, and run the lines in the Disney ad.  She wanted to be an accountant, not an actress, but she wondered, as girls will, if she might have just a little talent.  After all, she drew far beyond her age; crayons seemed made for her hands, so maybe she could mug, just a little.  Or was it just that?  She was mature enough to wonder and even to analyze her thoughts.  Was she practicing this nonsense for a reason she couldn't quite admit to herself?  To cut to the chase, so she could let her dad, and Brice, Jeff, and Dirk, her seventeen, fifteen, and twelve year old brothers, look at her in the skimpy suit?  Be a girl right out there in front of them, like the little actress in the commercial?  If it was hard to put a thought away, did that mean it was a big thought, even though, at a glace, the whole thing seemed silly and frivolous?  And how about her beautiful mom, who so favored the other actress in the little piece of film; twice she'd caught her in the act, thrown her on the bed, tickled her, and, the second time, whispered: "you are growing up, you know,"  words which had biggered the big thought as well as unlocking the door behind which she kept it hidden.  Again, she ran the hundred or so words of dialogue, perfect, ten times in a row.  But why?  And, since her IQ topped the charts, she knew there was only one way to find out.

"Is everybody here?" she called out her bedroom door in the direction of the kitchen.
"Yes," somebody called back.
"Everyone go in the living room," she responded, "just for a few minutes."
Funny thing about never playing the princess, everyone did as you asked.  "Okay," another brother's voice called.  Nancy gave herself a final glance in the mirror.  "I may not look like much of a girl," she whispered to herself, "but at least I am one."
"Get ready," she called, "move the coffee table away from the sofa a little, and all sit on it, the sofa, not the table."
"You got it," a voice she recognized as Dirk's responded.  She gave them a few moments - did they call them "beats" in the theater, she'd have to find out, but later.  She slipped from her room, a towel around her slim shoulders, and down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the living room, which modern realtors obsessively, as if it were both a personal and professional mantra, called the great room.  Morons.  Anyway, it was where she went, strutting as much as she dared on knees that seemed to be turning weak as water.  Handsome dad, three cute boys, and girlish mom, it was a bit much, plus, she'd forgotten that the so-called coffee table was piled high with books and magazines, and was hardly the stage she'd envisioned for the one and only performance of her life.

"What's wrong, bug food?" Kit Fox, her dad, said.
"Nothing," Nancy replied, "it was just dumb.  I'll go up and get dressed for dinner."  She tried not to let any tears show, but they had a will of their own, not that she burst into tears or anything dumb like that, more just felt a little scared, silly, and out of place.  Bathing suits were for the beach or pool, not for performing in front of males who made her heart skip a beat when they were close, under any circumstances.
"Your mom let the cat out of the bag, bug food," Kit said, "and she said you were gall-darned cute as pixie of the high seas."  He reached for her and she lunged into his lap, hugging him as his arms went tightly around her.  "It's really goofy," she said.
"Your mom said it was kind of exciting," her father whispered back.  "She said she'd have wanted to do the same thing when she was your age."
"Do you really want me to try it?" Nancy sniffled.
"Darling," her dad replied, "we were going to have a very special talk with you, tomorrow, when you turn eight years old, but we're all here, and there's nothing topping you on anyone's agenda, so why don't you just stand in front of us and drop the towel on top of the books, then come and sit in my lap here next to your mom, and we'll have a mega serious talk."

"But I don't have to wiggle around and pretend, right?" she still sniffled just a bit.
"Save it for a random moment," Kit suggested, "for now just let us look at you as long as you think you're ready for us to look at you as a female; not a kid, not bug food, not as daughter or sister, but as one hundred percent girl nearing a certain age."
"That's how I've felt for ages, or so it seems," Nancy murmured, "and I thought I knew what to do about it, but between my head thinking and my legs responding, something got all hot and fuzzy feeling."
"Do you think letting us see you without the towel will make it go away?" the handsome father asked.
"Only if I pass out," Nancy said, no more sniffles.
"And if you don't, if you go back to your room and change, do you think what you're feeling will go away?"
"It would go away even less," the seven year old replied - was there a hint of a giggle?
"You don't have to do even two of the seven veils," the man reassured the child in his arms, "the first one will stop the show."
"Okay," the girl whispered, kissing her dad on the neck and slowly standing and backing against the low table.  She shrugged off the towel and handed it to Kit, blushing prettily.  

"I'm glad I was hatched in this family," twelve year old Dirk allowed, his eyes unabashedly drinking in the willowy chick in front of him.
"I always thought we were a cut above, family-wise, because of the reading," the middle boy, Jeff, added: "but who knew about the bonus points?"
"And me?" Brice said, "I just want to be the first one to formally ask your hand in marriage, if it's okay with your parents, that is."
"Good," Nancy replied, "I need help cleaning my room more often than you can imagine."  
"Darling," Kit said, "the way your brothers are looking at you, and, mind you, I'm not being critical, it might be an idea for you to spread on some sunscreen."
"Me?" the child asked, wide-eyed, realizing, instinctively, spreading anything over her lithe, young body was the very last thing in the entire world she'd have to do by herself.
"I'll get it," young Dirk said, naturally one of those fine childs who like serving, obliging, and making others comfortable.
"Let Jeff go, instead," Nancy said, "I want help with the clasp, it's way, way around in back and I don't want to bend and twist with everyone staring at me."
"Okay," the youngest brother whispered in a rasp that sounded half like a frog, glad, and more so, for every kindness he'd shown to, and good dead he'd done for his kid sister.  It was payback time, now all he had to do was rise from the sofa, athlete that he was, and reap the girlwind.  

"We're going to be quite matter-of-fact about this," Kit said.  "In spite of Brice's remark, this is not a love fest, it will be incest and closer to recreation than romance.  No jealousy, stalking, inveigling or other creepy behavior towards each other, or your sister.  All decisions are hers, from now on out.  Nancy, when you want male company, you hang your panties on your doorknob.  Whichever male enters your room will leave his shorts on your door.  The hour, for the next year, is from eight to nine in the evening, seven days a week, and Sunday mornings, nine to eleven.  Nothing else, any other time, and all males to be accepted, equally; no favorites and no special assignations.  Karen is a very fit and athletic girl, and with a little experience she'll probably want to be mounted several times a night.  There will be no group activities; everything will happen behind her locked door, in private.  If you boys decide to have relations - homosexual - between yourselves, that's fine, but you're not to be together with your sister, at least until she's had plenty of time to get over the novelty aspect of what's going to happen and make an informed choice, as our liberal friends like to say.  We're going off the path, but we're not getting lost.  Tens of millions of families have free-spirit policies, and they run the same gamut as families with left handed children or blue-eyed children - in other words, it makes no difference as long as it makes no difference.

"This was all meant to happen tomorrow," he went on, "after her birthday party, but her little sister act advanced the time table, and, luckily, we're all home so no harm, no foul, and most importantly, no one left out.
"As far as you boys and your mother goes, we're storing that with gay incest, or I should say 'homosexual'  because part of the overall bargain is that none of you become gay behaviorists like the office manager on 'NYPD Blue'.   That will save us all very much pointless grief, especially since the way the three of you are staring at bug food, while she still has on her suit, indicates none of you are particularly smitten with the alternate path.  Try to keep it that way, and pretend I'm Al Bundy and don't want to hear anything different, and if your beautiful mom is involved, you're lucky, and I approve unreservedly, but, again, private stuff
"Voyeurism is a common part of juvenile relationships," Kit continued, "and in its place and time it can be highly exciting as you'll find out if you happen to date girls, or, on the sly, boys who had early experiences, but it doesn't fly, here.  Since we'll be almost sharing the secrets, there's nothing to ask about, and, media notwithstanding, the acts involved are limited and highly repetitive, leaving yet less to whisper about. " 

They sat quietly and Jeff took his cue to go for the sunscreen, his quick mind telling him that it would be an ideal ice breaker.  Kit helped the mostly stunned Dirk to his feet, positioning the boy behind his sister just as the tube of lotion arrived.  He and Jeff returned to the sofa, and Nancy moved between her athletic young father's knees so he could support her while her brother worked at the fastening of her red swim suit.  "Can I kiss your neck?" he whispered as his fingers released the catch and he spread the fabric from her slim, white shoulders.
"Only," Kit cautioned.  He was in a speechifying mood and so didn't leave it at that.  "Kissing can be more intimate than anything else that happens, more a gift to a male than her body, and thus hers, alone, to bestow, and not within the family unless it happens she actually falls in love with one of us, then it's okay the very minute she turns nine years old.  That's as liberal as I care to be."

The four children nodded to each other - seemed fair enough.  Young Dirk, most issues now out of the way, peeled his sister's suit to her feet as her father steadied her, stooping to remove the garment.  
"Darling," Kit said, "but your hands behind your neck and arch your back, that will help you get used to us looking at you."
"Can I spread my legs a little, too?" the pixie asked, posing provocatively.
"It will make it easier for your brother to apply the sunscreen if you do," Kit allowed.

The twelve year old took his sister from behind for some minutes, peering down over her right shoulder as he spread the lotion slowly over her flat chest and slightly soft tummy.  "Would you like Jeff to do the front of your legs?" he asked, knowing a good thing when he had it and deciding his father was right in his call for restraint and sharing.
"If I lie back on my bed on the towel, you could do them, couldn't you?" the birthday girl asked.
"Y-yes," Dirk stammered, expressing every feeling in the room with his quavering voice.
"Go ahead, dolls," Kit encouraged, "but a last daddy kiss for our awesome little virgin.  She bent to him and he bussed her cheek, whispering: "you are a very lucky female child."
"I think you're right," Nancy responded, moving back into the arms of the boy behind her as her father stood and gently manhandled his naked daughter until she and Dirk were headed in the right direction, then giving them and encouraging shove.  

"We don't have to, we can wait," Nancy said before locking the door.
"It's okay," her brother said.
"I guess dad's right about it being mechanical, not passionate or romantic," the girl observed, "sort of like a double life, being together without very many rules at all, while we're young, then settling on maybe no one in particular, or maybe monogamy, or maybe even a small group, where it is love, bonding, friendship, passion, and  romance, not necessarily in that order."
"I'm glad, too," Nancy said, watching huge-eyed as her athletic brother skinned quickly out of his clothes and stood naked in front of her as she sat on the side of the bed, "especially that he told us not to fall in love, because that would be really easy."

"It would be easy for me, too," the naked beauty whispered as he postured in the same position Nancy had on being stripped, back arched, legs spread, fingers laced behind his neck, and his full teen penis jutting over five inches from beneath his flat, athletic belly.
"Now I get it," the seven year old said, gazing hotly up at Dirk.  "It had me wondering there for quite awhile; why people have kids in the first place - what a nuisance - but seeing you explains all, and a drum full of poop, pee, drool, snot, and barf is but a small price to pay for something so out of this world as you are."
"Speaking of bodily fluids," the ace-smart boy replied, "there's more to a boy than how he looks with his underpants off."
"You mean sperms, don't you," Nancy whispered, n exact dummy, herself.
"Yes."
"Millions and millions and millions of them," the pixie added, "I read about it in your science book.  "Do they all come out together when it happens?"
"They don't cover that, even in the book I have now," Dirk replied.
"Does it have to be inside me, or is there some way I can see what happens?" the girl wanted to know, next.

"There's a thing boys do called jerking off," the twelve year old explained.  "I don't know how yet, but if you want to try, there can't be too many options."
"What's in a name?" Nancy asked rhetorically, "jerking, and I don't suppose they mean jerk, as in Tony Hobbs, the jerk.  What are some other bad words for it?"
"Choking the chicken or spanking the monkey," Dirk whispered, blushing.
"Both would seen to indicate a certain amount of vigor," the girl mused, "so what would you guess?  Spanking or choking."
"Choking," the shaking boy said.
"So maybe we could try jerking and choking, first," the girl said, "would that be a good place to start?"
"Yes," came a strangled whisper in response.
"Okay," the girl whispered.  "You look very sensitive on top, and very sensitive down, you know, low, so you have to tell me what the best way to begin is."
"Soon," Dirk murmured.
"I have a bottle of baby oil on my dresser," the child said, "should I put some on my hands so you won't get blisters or something?"
"I guess so," he said.

"I think dad was right," the muffin prattled, "you know, keeping it clinical.  I don't think I'd be as excited if we were rolling around on the bed trying to suck out each other's tongues."
Dirk nodded dumbly down at his naked sister, then moved a step back so she could find the bottle of oil amidst the clutter on her bureau.  "Is it okay if I don't hurry too much?" she asked, looking at his image in her mirror, you look so beautiful I want it to last."
"The aesthetic side of it may be governed by the intellect," Dirk replied, "but the physical side is not, so, while it may be a thing of beauty, it is not a joy forever."
"So I should hurry at least a little bit," Nancy said, pawing through her collection of childish treasures for the baby oil, not so much teasing, though she was a kid-sis by nature, as fascinated and mesmerized.  He was like a rad motorcycle, so beautiful to look at it was hard to believe it actually did something, and that brought to her mind what it did, and that made her go weak kneed and did nothing for her alacrity when it came to tracking down the errant plastic bottle.  "Baby oil."  Who knew it played a role in conceiving the critters?  There it was, ah, and Kleenex, too, which might be an idea because Dirk had mentioned fluids, and she knew from reading there were hundreds of millions of spermatozoa, so there'd probably be more than a drop or two.

"I brought this because I want to see, the first time, is that okay?" Nancy asked, setting the blue box beside her on the side of the bed as she resumed her position a foot in front of her beautiful male brother.
"Yes," the boy replied, "but I don't think you'll need the whole box."
"You're right," the girl said, "mom and dad know what we're doing in here and they'd have warned us if, you know, you were like going to pee all over the bed when it happens and make a big puddle, so," she went on, "how many do you think I should pull out of the box?"  It was a reminder of the clinical side of their relationship, and Dirk did his best to concentrate and come up with a sensible answer.  "Maybe three," he said, "it's come out of me a couple of times while I was sleeping - I used a washcloth, but three tissues would have worked."
"Did they all come out together?" the girl asked, pulling out the tissues and uncapping the bottle of lubricant.
"I was asleep," the boy replied, "but I guess it felt a little like there was a big fight going on; that they all wanted to stay inside me, then big bunches of them would lose, all of a sudden.  I think it had been going on for awhile when I woke up, but I did feel two losses, sort of like the opposite of invasions, but they weren't being evasive, they were like really flying off; routed, with no hope of returning."  Her dad wrote for technical journals but maybe Dirk should try for the fiction market when he grew up, because even as a child he had an exciting way of putting things.

"Dad says we shouldn't talk about what happens with each other," Nancy observed, "but someday maybe you could tell me if something happens that's normal, outside the family; do you think you'd want to, you know, like with a girlfriend or if you get molested by a coach or something?"
"Would you tell me, you know, everything, if something normal happens with you?" the boy asked in return.
"I won't have to," Nancy said, "because I can't imagine doing it any other way than this.  If it was any more exciting, it wouldn't be survivable, so why bother?"
"I'd still like you to tell me," Dirk said, "we always know what's going to happen when we watch 'The Lone Ranger', but we still like to tune in."

"I wonder," the girl mused aloud, her slick hands going to the outrageously swollen male again displaying openly between her legs, "if the 'choking' and 'jerking' things are meant to be subtle and refined or more open and vigorous."  So saying, she fondled her brother low with her left hand, fisting the flaring glance or his circumcised iron boner gently with her right, then practiced moving her hands.  It seemed she could do nothing wrong; she toyed and he shuddered, played and he moaned, and vigorous stoking sent him to gasping seizures which would have toppled him if his knees hadn't been braced against the side of her bed.  Yet wasn't something missing?  Sure, he was excited, but she'd seen him more so at a close ballgame, jumping up and down and waving his arms, howling with the mob, and he wasn't howling now (and, understandably, not jumping), rather, it seemed he could hardly breathe for panting and gasping.  Maybe there was more.  He was so beautiful, his flaring, slick penis inches from her face as she masturbated him intently, wouldn't it be natural too... and that didn't work either, for he certainly wasn't jumping now, in fact he'd lowered his hands to her slim shoulders, apparently to just hold himself upright, and yelling and screaming seemed to be as far beyond him as coherent speech.  Deep down, Nancy knew she wasn't failing, he felt so hot and livid against her lips and tongues, so hard and virile, she must be doing okay, but the girl did wonder if other youngsters might interpret the silence of their partner as a sign of ambivalence, so it was with some relief that she heard a low moaning turn quickly into huffing chant that had no place in public.  And suddenly there was a voice, ragged, desperate, but the more erotic for all of its imperfections.  "I think it's going to happen pretty soon, if you want to watch," came the urgent whisper.  But did she?  The heat of him in her mouth, the salty tang of the seminal fluid oozing copiously from him over the slight taste of the brand-name baby oil, his hands kneading her shaking shoulders, shouldn't it end this way?  But she did want to.  This first time she wanted to see everything, and there'd be time for the advanced stuff in the future.  And here instinct and IQ came together in a crash.  She took him to his length, deep, deep in her throat, and held him for long beats, then released him, running her right hand over his hot slipperiness to his very base in one long, slow, smooth, tight-gripped stroke, then held him rigid and still.    He froze too, but not mentally, not quite completely; if boys will be boys, Dirk would be Dirk.  "I'm glad I'm awake this time," he managed to whisper as his little sister felt a hard bucking in her tightly clenched fingers, and he began cumming hard and fast on her face, and, as she pushed him down so she could see better, all over her flat chest and tiny pink nipples.  Battle after battle was lost in rapid succession, the waves of routed troops gushing over her, milky white and musky, again and again.  She had the oddest thought as she stared in fascination: once she'd seen, well, a cat's stool standing on end, and defined it as obscene, yet how many people would thus classify what was happening as spurt after spurt of hot semen heavily slicked her heaving chest?  Perhaps beauty wasn't in the eye of the beholder but rather in her hair, all over her face, neck, shoulders, and delicate chest.

Slowly Dirk showered to a gentle flow, and slowly he collapsed on top of his sister as she lay back to take him in her arms.  "How long before it can happen inside me?" she asked as they shifted fully onto the bed and instinct bad her lie inert with her legs widely spread and her heels locked into her older brother's sexy, athletic butt.
"I don't really believe it can ever happen again," Dirk said, still panting.  Nancy found him with her right hand and coaxed him to her body, thrusting urgently the instant she felt his hot and still hard penis fully against her.  "Unless I'm trapped by an angel," he added, meeting her at first gently, then firmly, then wantonly.  He rose high on his arms so the two of them could look down between their beautiful young bodies, pre-teen and child, and the sight of her mating brother fevered the girl into a rocketing-hips frenzy which escalated minute by hot minute until she was sentenced to a year on a precipice, then fell off, crashing down through the trees miles and miles to the valley below.

Shouldn't all those splinters hurt?  She just felt lush., and the less woozy, the lusher..  "It does have something to do with  love, don't you think?" she asked Dirk.
"I don't know," the boy mused, "it's pretty physical, you know, partly because you're so, you know, small, it's hard to concentrate."
"Get outta town," Nancy giggled, totally satisfied with her vague young stallion 
"No one's going to be mad if you want to wait awhile before anything else happens," the boy whispered.
"I'm bi-polar," the young prodigy said, "an athlete of sorts, plus, I love classical music, sod, guess what, I loved the overture, and that you're forever and ever the first, but I'm ready for Jeff."  They both wanted to talk more, probably to experiment with kissing, but the vast liberalism of their new family code set boundaries as well as granting extraordinary privilege.  Dirk slipped into his clothes and just beginning to be overwhelmed, the children shook hands before he left.  Terribly cute, she though as she lay back on her bed, drawing her knees to her slim chest and holding her legs widely spread for the mature Jeff.

"Hi," he whispered, entering and closing the door behind of him.  He stripped quickly, standing naked at the foot of her bed.  "Hi," she whispered back, her voice soft and welcoming.  An older version of Dirk, he was tall, slim and athletic, and hugely perfect.  She held her arms  to him, spreading her slim legs the more and raising her hips in display.  Jeff knelt on the foot of her bed, then moved over her.  Nancy was surprised at her strong instinct for sharing every detail of Dirk's mastery of her young body.  Most of all, she wanted to wet her hands with the sperm slicking her chest and stroke him, using not a drop of baby oil.  Rules were made to be broken, she supposed, and someday she might have an opportunity to whisper things that had happened with a male outside the family, so there was that as a palliative, and, besides, once her mature brother's seven inch circumcised penis was in her the finer points of erotic storytelling wouldn't matter much, or, she giggled to herself, at least until there was a mustang boy on the scene.  

"I was thinking about what was happening in spite of dad's caution," Jeff murmured, "sorry."  She was about to ask "what for" when she found out.  The fifteen year old entered her gently but full and froze rigidly over her tiny body.  His hard, rhythmic pulsing started immediately, and this time she was in control and able to judge dispassionately.  If the saying went even when it's bad, it's pretty good, it was also true, Nancy now knew, that when it was good, it was incredible.  She held the darling boy to her for two full minutes, silently save for their panting, and shuddering gently almost the entire time of his release in her belly with her own, long, skipping  luxurious orgasm - no crashing down through heavy timber, just a long bath in a warm, bubbly spring.  

"I didn't want it to be so fast," Jeff said.
"Just means the next time will come that much sooner," she responded, nipping him on his arms as he slowly rolled from her, fondling her young body in after-play as she gazed into his eyes.  If it weren't for the family rules she'd have comforted the somewhat shaken teen by assuring him she'd get Brice to teach her a way to make it last longer while he was actually mating with her.  She didn't want to have any secrets from the nice, thoughtful boy, but it probably made sense to save unequivocal sharing for the mysterious future - a world full of males, and she wanted to tell them all, or at least half the cute ones, about her hot plans for her senior brother, not scheming, exactly, but more just a girl newly arrived at the threshold of some mad combination of candy store, crack house, and three-ring circus, none of which quite equaled the petting zoo.   Jeff hugged her, kissed her forehead, and her hand lingered on his arm as he rose to dress.  He'd been so beautifully male and responsible about the whole thing she was missing him already.  Imagine not loving your brothers enough to want this with them; what a drag, even if it wasn't obscene.

Almost immediately the pixie had to re-think.  Brice was obscene just standing at the threshold of her room, the door closed behind him, naked almost immediately and his maleness jutting almost horrifyingly from his slim athlete's belly.  His legs were corded and long, his chest powerful, his body still lanky and coltish, and beyond all he was a he; nearly eight inches of he.  Jeff had been so awesome inside her, just holding her tight and hard against his sweating, panting chest as he'd flooded her , it was incomprehensible she could accept a male so fully bigger - and what if he moved as Dirk had?  Her eyes glazed as she said, "Hi," and added: "I think you'll be more comfortable if you lean back against the door."  As their dad had said, she was commander of those not in briefs, so the fully mature teen did as bid, his own eyes thoroughly glazed as he watched the pixie tomboy industriously set about arranging a seat cushion and pillows in front of the seventeen year old.  The wit in him wondered at the child's efforts to make them comfortable for an event that wasn't going to last very long - at - all.   In fact, if she didn't get just a little something of a move-on, the event itself was going to be cancelled due to extreme interest.

Wordlessly the little beauty arranged her nest and knelt in front of the six foot teen, not touching but just staring at more of a natural wonder than the documentary channels aired in a month, then up into his rugged face - so cool, at a time like this, he was some kind of juvie stag and not a cutie pie or pretty boy.  He looked as if he could easily take care of himself, but, not to be vulgar about it, what if she helped in the taking-care-of department?  She leaned to him and barely touched the tip of her tongue to where he was the wettest, it being entirely in her nature to find out.  "I know what happens at the end," she whispered up to the beauty leaning, his legs now widely spread and his hands behind his head, "and I want it to happen on my tongue, but I think it's going to be pretty shocking, so try to tell me when you feel it starting."
"In what," Brice thought to himself, "the language of the gibbering idiot, or the drooling fool?"  

She was just a plain old pretty girl, and as her mouth moved purposely to him, he was half amazed that in spite of the heavy slickness of her chest and thighs and the pool of semen disgracing the towel laid across the simple cotton spread her look, as she gazed up into his eyes, was that of a girl just realizing the box she'd opened was not the ultimate Barbie playhouse, but a magnum reloading kit - in other words, mature, yet unable to keep a glow of unabashed, childish pleasure from radiating from her sweet, pixie face.  Then the ability to shape thoughts, much less phrases in the fiend language, left.  Everything left, and even the primal cortex maintaining his upright position would have failed had it not been for the sturdy door to Nancy's bedroom.  Yes, it was enough to hold, and, athlete that he was, his legs not only held but became taut and rigid as the seven year old licked him in gentle welcome, holding him perfectly in both hands than went down forever and stayed forever.  She didn't experiment, she didn't play, she merely took him to the limit of her ability and held him, failing even to tease with her tongue.  The results were all of war with ground zero some few inches in front of his belly as she pressed her pretty brown-haired head against his solar plexus.  Huge battles, waves of combat, rocket powered incendiary devices, no quarter, no retreat, the forces of Last Forever and Now Now Now at it hammer and tongs.   Nancy was panting feely through her nose, so no cease fire was in the offing and that was more than enough to sway the tide of battle.  Since she was so still, so uninspired and uncreative in her action, Brice experienced some return of consciousness; not enough to influence the raging forces centered on the hot, unrelenting nature of what his little tomboy kid sister was doing with her mouth, but at least enough to tell of the outcome of the rapidly escalating conflict.  "I'm cumming off," he was able to whisper, and, from than instant on, he identified his seven year old, birthday-girl sister as firmly and unapologetically allied with the forces of Now Now Now, because his panted warning simply doubled the pressure on his penis.  Both violating and luxuriating in the family rule, Brice opened the floodgates of his suddenly half-conscious mind, picturing his handsome brother, Jeff, between the naked girl's widely spread legs, completing his act with her.  There was such a pool of sperm on the towel, it must have come from his young-adult loins.  Thus sinning, his ejaculation began, with his swollen glans now against held against the tip of her thrusting tongue at the very front of her mouth, not pretty that she wasn't straining to encompass his adult thinness.  He spasmed hard and fast for a fill half minute, the girl mewing with excitement as his heavy gouts of semen shot hard into her mouth, and for minutes more she remained a limpet against him, not moving her hands to stroke him, but just patiently letting nature take its course.

As so often happens, first it was the mental rules that were ignored - Brice had done so by conjuring lingering mental images of Jeff's success with their little sister - and then follows physical violation.  Poor rules.  His own semen exhausted beyond points right of the decimal, he now felt himself seized by an irresistible desire for more sperm.  First, he could kind of tell what she was up to by the expression on her face, so he leaned to her, she rose on her knees to him, and he broke another rule by putting his lips against hers before discipline and respect for the code kicked in, preventing Brice actually kissing Nancy.  Instead, he just held his lips softly to hers, still only half ready for the shock of his own hot semen drooling from her lips to his tongue.  It was too affectionate and friendly to be clinical, and she hummed happily against his lips as she tongued his sperm to him, so it certainly wasn't very businesslike, and, of course, it wasn't sexual, because in that case her tongue would have been far inside his hot mouth, as his would have invaded hers.  Go figure, or, better yet, to an unabridged dictionary.

Was it the saltiness, his own primal salinity?  The stuff did worlds for peanuts, and who ever wanted just one?  He picked up the sprite, stepped over her bower of cushions and pillows and laid her one the bedspread, her slim legs spread widely on the towel.  He lay with his head between her legs and she rose in welcome.  He found her with his mouth, hot and seminal, and in a minute the seven year old was writing wildly beneath him, her legs around his neck as he took her with ever rising   She went through a series of hard, bumping climaxes and he released her, seeming half dead, so he could tongue the slickness smearing the towel.  As Nancy revived, her brother moved beside her, his own mouth now wayward and salty.  Again they didn't kiss, just lay together breathing into each other and licking each others tongues until they felt the tingle of fresh saliva.


"You are one awesome storyteller, passenger-in-the-right-seat," Neil said to, what was it, the bug food beside him?
"Too much reading," Billie-Jo said, "I simply had to come to some harm, you know, seeing as how dangerous  a little knowledge is, and, at eleven, how much can I have, especially with the virgin thing and all?"
"It will be handy, when you're older," the young father said, "to be able to blame, a, your parents, and, b, your friends if things don't turn out on the up-and-up, ergo, I'm glad you have a friend to blame, while, at the same time, thinking it might be a good idea, you know, in case things turn out well for you - there'll be someone else to share the credit, because turning out a wonder child, just with the help of a pleasing wife, is more burden than an engineer can tolerate, you'd have to be an artist to put it all together, they have the luxury of delving into things that don't always work, so, again, a, I'm glad to have your Ms. Nancy Fox to share and grief you bring down on us, and, who knows? maybe share a modicum of the credit if you turn out as some kind of okay person, so I don't take too much credit, thus finding I am something of an artist and start writing novels leaving you all to starve.  Something like that."

"She'll be glad to know she's important," the imp responded.
"A full one hundred on the ten scale," the man said, "and, since you know that could be with ten representing me at odds with the law, all our money going to lawyers, and you in some kind of group setting, in case we don't get around to teaching you absolutely everything,, I feel safe in declaring ten as a positive, still, in case you've forgotten, awarding Nancy Fox a hundred."
"Pretty cool," Billie-Jo mused half to herself, "and you haven't even met her little brother."

"It might be an idea to stick to your story," Neil suggested, wondering if anyone in the long history of the ugly-pine[barren passage through Taunton had ever found the infernal traffic so mellow and easy to take.  This said, it loomed as an imperative in the engineer's mind that however pleasant the interlude, it was necessary that they keep rolling along if they were to pass Brewster by seven and make their way into the wilds beyond Wellfleet in time to  join the other campers for breakfast at eight.  What was Nancy Fox's story, really, but an essence of discipline and dignity; conformity and tolerance, basted in a demigloss of common sense, thus the speedometer kept rising off it's peg, the odometer turned slowly, and whole football-field lengths of asphalt could be conquered in half a minute.  In point of fact, no Pilgrim, desperate to save his family from approaching Indians, had ever traveled half so fast.  

The radio was off.  How cool was that?  Miss Fox may, end of the day, turn out to be a lot of things and have a lot of influence, but dripping along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, in near silence, was a highly appreciated immediate intervention.  Two thumbs up.  
Feeling no  hurry to finish Ms. Fox's story, Billie-Jo smiled shyly at her handsome dad and closed her eyes to doze.  Neil let his mind wander, for which activity the endless town seemed purpose-built.  In a sense, his thoughts were inspired by coincidence - Nancy's group camping proximate to their own intended destination - and, further, by his discovery of Son of Napster, days before, the final dominating force of advanced culture, Kazaa.  The lawyers had slain the father, and, fine print notwithstanding, many a hideous head had to pillow bounce through many a sleepless night, one hopes numbering, in total, in the millions, over killing a beast beloved of fifty million fans.  And now look at the colossus of a son, dwell on this dreadnaught plowing into the world of lawyers, politicians, and any other individual or group with a desire to be reduced, on the spot, to flowing blood with bones sticking out.  The music base was not as extensive as Napster's had been, that might take a year or so, but it worked far slicker and better, and,  transcending everything in human history, it made the most graphic kiddy porn imaginable, totally available.  Images - type in something salacious, like "nude", and a single window asked if you wanted to opt out, to view once, or to view repeatedly, then offered the option of not appearing ever again.  After that, it was Katy-bar-the-door.  Type in a numeric twelve, and some of the boys and girls certainly looked twelve.  The ramifications were overwhelming.  The hoisted log.  And perfectly so; easily, slowly, gently, one inch at a time, though, he mused, there was likely to be little delay in piling up those inches; the snakes, scorpions, and spiders given time to scuttle out of harms way, but, otherwise, the light of day filtering in, one child at a time, one family at a time.  And how long before the guest, so amiable at the back door, was allowed to grace the threshold?   Let the vermin collect in the vestry, handy to the stick, and thus engage the clergy, while the freaking public went free, were practically made free by intense file sharing.  How many letters to officials would soon begin:  Dear Sir or Madam: Please fully support all anti-spam legislations so Kazaa can use the bandwidth.  Sincerely, Z. Voter?  Yeah, they'd done the old man perhaps too hastily and nearly, but, guess what, the son had sex appeal, and not only that but of such a variety that any attack on it would result in vast increases in traffic, putting anyone wanting to play traffic cop in a real fucking pickle.  We are right, we will win, and kids will grow as slim, fit lovers rather than dumplings for the couch and choir, Nifty and Kazaa will see to it.  And, since we seem to be into another novel, with it's inherent space for editorializing, I'll first say hi to ye stalwarts, Samantha's fine; we're all hanging in there, and then get down to business.  First, Kazaa will totally and permanently destroy the porn industry from "Playboy" to a neighborhood peep show in an abandon building; done and gone, their product as worthless as salt water.  No more money in it boys,  bye-bye, as the guy on television says.  Next to go will be the music industry.  Bottom line: we have more good music than one person can listen to in twenty lifetimes.  We do not need more.  You did a great job, insuring your own extinction, but Celine, Marshall, and the rest of you lot, you will be big stuff a hundred years from now, and that has to count for something.  The only thing Kazaa will do is insure your pyramid is the mightiest of all time, and that it will define the end of civilization when it does ultimately come crashing down.  Porn, music; will there be other victims?  Probably massive numbers, certainly enough to threaten the stability of the underlying System.  My most shocking experience since finding a dead mouse in my sink with the wall of its guts eaten away by roaches (I live in the subtropics), perfectly exposing its tiny little intestines, was a recent issue of "Computer Shopper" magazine.  In the early Nineties I didn't subscribe because I didn't want to annoy the postman with the massive bulk of each thousand-page-plus issue.  This issue hardly made it over 170 pages, in addition to being considerably smaller in format.  If the very builders of the new empire are on the scaffold as victims of their own success, who's going to moan over the musicians?  These shockwaves are perhaps analogous, if incidentally, to the call of the early communists for repeated revolution.  The underlying question is whether the foundation of day to day economic survival can withstand the repeated shocks.  In this, America, as a nation, has an advantage by nature of her geospread.  The best example I can give is a blizzard disabling virtually the entire Northeast for days at a time.  We're, by our real vastness, as opposed to Chinese vastness, or Russian vastness, pounded repeatedly by mandated change, and thoroughly used to bouncing back, at least so far.  Compared to the de-revolution in the computer segment, the loss of the music industry is hardly a drop in the bucket.  Porn is another matter, but its loss will actually be praised by some, and the disappearedness of those who make money peddling smut will end up on the emperor's little list.  The kids on Kazaa look like they're having a pretty good time of it, and in the mind of this writer, that's what counts.  Randy is (having a good time).  Turning into a brilliant little lover, and very eager to couple with Fidel for the camera.  And that reminds me of Stephen Rolling, coming into my apartment, and seeing, for the first time, my new video camera.  Although he was not sexually precocious, especially, he was out of his clothes in ten seconds, demanding I turn the camera on, and proceeded to lounge back and masturbate openly, cumming quickly and more fully than he ever had before.  Andrew is eager - hot to trot, in the lingo I'm happiest leaving to others -and was here last night trying to out-stay Fidel, but the latter had walked all the way out to play, so I told A. if he didn't want to at least experiment a little, fine, but Fidel was staying, which he did, very successfully.  This is all to say that before too long you may be able to get a look at the gang, and, perhaps, if you say your prayers sincerely, Randy and Kira.   How amazing it could all happen in ten minutes.  Randy could bring her over.  They could spend five minutes together while I took pictures, which would go almost immediately into the Kazaa share file, then spread to dozens of users in a few hours, and on from there.  I've repeatedly referred to the Net as biblical in proportion, and I guess I really didn't even know much of nottin'.

Aha!  Will I appear, molesting Randy while Fidel holds the camera, for example?  

Aha, what a convenient time to introduce myself to you new readers.  Let's just say I've posted a lot of stuff over the past couple of years, with maybe ten percent essay content.  For "One Fish at a Time" fans, a few updates.  Sloggo, my AMD II machine, which carried me from total obscurity to the forefront of American literature, has been retired with place of pride in the corner of my studio, and I'm falling in love, very quickly, with a mid-level XP replacement.  Nine months without cable or Net service got me a bit out of touch so I only learned of Kazaa four days ago, at which time I spent ten hours replacing many of the Napster files lost to a virus, and ten hours in kiddy porn heaven, believe it or not, the first images of their nature I've ever seen in my life, in spite of modest efforts to link up over the years.  From zero to a hundred, in ten hours of downloading at a cost of fifteen U.S. dollars, all of which went to my ISP.  The one video I linked into by accident was almost surreal in quality, small, but crystal clear.  Wow!  And I haven't said that in print very often.

What have I been up to since posting the last files of "One Fish"?  A fairly hectic domestic routine with Andrew headed for San Diego in a week for what's meant to be orthoscopic  heart surgery, the slow demise of Sloggo, on top of two burned out monitors, and so on.  Some writing.  A long added chapter to "O.F.", a tribute to John D. MacDonald by way of a derivative of "The Lonely Silver Rain", the final Travis McGee novel, (neither of these are likely to be published, but may be made available to readers wanting Complete works, but be sure to put something salient in the Subject Line, or click-and-bye-bye), and a little game of challenge for your duty virtuoso in crafting six short stories, of ten thousand words each, something I've been promising David at Nifty for a year or more.  Nailed them all to within a hundred words, themeing several, as a collections called "Shady's Closet", on the possibilities inherent in rapper Marshall Mathers' relationship with Haley.  That's about it for the past couple of months, except to boast about finally madding it into Nifty heartland with a Celebrity story, not quite Boy Bands but where there's life there's hope.  And, as a note, anyone who wants to post anything of mine in the Kazaa document archive is welcome to do so.  In fact, I can think of no greater thrill, not involving Samantha or Randy, than finding my own work on this new Net colossus.

Again, for you new readers, yes, I feature myself as simply not in the class of the published pros.  They never had the hundred thousand hours to practice, free of editors, readers and deadlines, that I did, so it's not necessarily their fault, and, looking back, many died before they reached my age of fifty seven.  Much of this, as you veterans know, is in my own mind: whether I am in fact the greatest artist ever to live, or not, stiff like that, plus a crystalline American pedigree that would, a, in my own mind, and, b, in fact,  leave me heir apparent in the vast majority of history's cultures.  Yes, yes, but can you write?  Well, one thing I'm pretty okay at is showcasing all that practice, and whatever squib of talent it might be based on.  See, I tell stories as we go along, for entertainment and perhaps the odd morsel of edification.  For example:

Wandering thoughts, come home, come home, your daughter awakens, "Hello, it's okay to sleep, more than natural at four in the morning."
"But I only told some of the story about Nancy," Billie-Jo said.
"Let's say we survived some of your story," Neil responded.
"Was it that exciting?" asked, coming distressingly awake.  Neil had to physically restrain himself from looking down at the radio.  Imagine that.  Wasn't he man enough for her?  Couldn't he take it, a few private insights and he was worried about things as remote as the condition of the brake fluid.  And, of course, they could pull over, all it would take would be a few minutes, then she could begin anew with the next chapter in the Fox saga and they could plumb make it across the canal before another stop would be in order.  But no, not with Billie-Jo; nothing half way for the kid.  And she played along so brilliantly, the wait, the next few hours, promised to pass less agonizingly than might be expected.  Anything was better than riding along with the slim, school-girl beauty beside him, fantasizing ceaselessly about how she'd look in a bra, in a bra and panties, bare-chested with panties, naked, aroused, displaying, and finally lying on her back, legs widely spread and bottom raised off the blanket in welcome.  Then there was the promise of what, with a little experience, she might choose to do with her mouth, and images like that didn't bear dwelling on, not at the wheel of a three thousand pound machine traveling fifteen miles an hour.


"Daddy," Nancy said as her naked father crossed from the door of her room to her bed and sat beside her, "I didn't talk about anything with Dirk, Jeff, and Brice, but I really wanted to.  You know, to find out if anything exciting ever happened to them before, so, even if we can't talk about what happens in the family, could I ask them that kind of questions?"
"It might be a way to keep them on their best behavior, at that," Kit Fox said, "and besides, the rule was only meant to protect you because a lot of people think making love is fine but that it's always completely private and talking about it, especially graphically, is for low-bred scoundrels and old libertines in silk bathrobes."
"But," the girl responded shyly, "I really wanted to know if they were virgins, and if they weren't, I wanted to know everything that happened; still want to."
"As long as you're sure, bug food," the naked man said petting his naked daughter's leg, "that's the only thing that's important - that nothing happens that upsets you, at the time, or later, because you're just starting out.  If you consistently want to hear their stories - kids are sometimes mercurial about that kind of thing - then it's okay to quiz them, but not about each other, in my opinion, although," he added, "if I obey the rules myself, I'll hardly be in a position to stand over your shoulder and nag you on the subject."
"You won't have to," the child said, reaching across with her right hand to fondle the highly aroused adult, to toy with the seminal fluid pooling and dripping from his circumcised nine inch penis.  "It's probably more exciting to have some secrets, especially between brothers and their little sister, because the boys probably fantasize about what happens when my door is closed with which ever boy is on the outside.  If I had a twin sister, and Jeff was alone with her for an hour, I'd wonder what they were doing, so it's probably the same for guys, too."
"There are many elements and ramifications," Neil allowed, "that's what separates us from, say, the Polynesian society of legend, where everyone did what they felt like, anyplace, anytime.  Margaret Mead writes about boys sitting in a corner masturbating each other while she was visiting for an interview, and, accurately, as far as I'm concerned, she writes of it as boring and a nuisance, which, however beautiful you are, and however cute your three brothers, you mom and I, and anyone not actually involved, would find it awkward and embarrassing, more as we would if you brushed your teeth at the table, than because anything carnal was going on.  'Time and place for everything,' as they say."

"I've noticed," the girl said, "dogs and goats don't take too much notice of each other, other than the males fighting over the females."
"You'd, a, be bored, and, b, eventually annoyed if you had to get up early every morning and unwrap a pile of presents.  If it happens twice a year, we call it Christmas and birthday," the man responded, "so scarcity does enhance value, on the other hand, it's a lot more complicated than a trip to the store and a little gift wrapping, made more complex because of the feral and elemental nature of the basic act and all the feelings leading up to it.  Man's second challenge, after English spelling, is keeping his mitts off pubescent boys and girls.  To rub salt on what is already a considerable sore spot, guess what, we find out late in life it's thing things we didn't do that linger miserably, rarely the things we had the gumption to at least try.  Humans' feelings for and about each other are the more mysterious because in the main they're quite evident.  If someone likes you, or doesn't, it's usually pretty easy to tell, but when it comes to the things that happen behind closed doors, there are often crossed wires, misunderstandings, and downright confusion; the one you think doesn't like you, turns out to be in love with you, and the one who seems all hot and bothered, cools off fast as tinfoil.  This situation is bad enough at any given point, but then made worse by virtue of the fact that everything is in a continual state of flux and subject to random intervention, and, to put another nail in the coffin, any serious lack of flux and intervention may lead to a numbing and seemingly endless boredom that is every bit as destructive to a relationship as excessive lying and cheating."

"It would seem to me," the girl mused, "that having a lot going on inside the family would go a long way toward preventing extreme levels of boredom, and, if the husband knew all about it, it wouldn't be cheating and you wouldn't have to lie about it."
"An interesting facet," Neil said, "of a situation that could land your brothers in correction land for five or ten years, each, and myself, for twenty, with your mother good for five as a before and after conspirator."
"How about 'during'?" Nancy asked.
"Interesting," the father mused in his turn, "that was my next question.  Your mom wants you to have privacy, if you want it, but she'd like to be with us."
"Yes," the girl hissed reflexively, then she paused and added: "but on one condition, make-believe condition, and that is you both tell me about the first time something romantic or exciting happened to you.  All the details.  Explicit, graphic, unadulterated, and leaving nothing to the imagination.  Okay?"  At this the girl almost giggled aloud.  Her hand on her father's huge erection signaled, yes, that she'd driven a hard bargain, and that it had been accepted without reservation.  Way cool.

Neil hugged the girl with his right arm, and slowly she freed him so he could cross to the bedroom door.  He gave a hoarse whisper and Kate Fox appeared.
"Have any of them died?" her husband asked as she entered and closed the door behind them.
"No," the slim, red-headed, perennially girlish twenty six year old replied, "and the paramedics were so sweet, they gave us a twenty percent discount."
"Easily revived," Neil mused, "in a way that's not much of a reflection on you, miss."  He nudged the giggling girl now sitting between her hot young parents.
"You left me no option but to obey the rules," Nancy said, "so it's a little unfair to attribute the survival of my brothers solely to the baby in the family."
"I doubt the mortuary would be as accommodating as the emergency response unit," Kate said, "so we'd better stick with what we've got."
"I suppose," the child mused thoughtfully in agreement, "I'd hate to end up a barren and lonely teen."
"I'm glad I didn't," Kate said, "and that brings up our first family secret, and it's way, way beyond the soaps, so tell us if you don't want to hear it."
Nancy, her pretty faced now framed by lankish brown hair, sat mute, her eyes huge and boring into her mother and father, in turns.  "Okay," Kate said.  "To come right out with it, I'm twenty-eight years old, not thirty four.  I had Brice when I was eleven, and we were well-to-do enough that we were able to change a little of this and a little of that in the paperwork department so as to make me look like a very young mother, and not a juvenile; same with Jeff and Dirk, who started off, ostensibly as my brothers, then, after some years had passed, we moved, tricked the paperwork as to my age, and settled here with everything on and even keel, my sons, my brothers, now permanently my sons, and no one the wiser."
"Very sophisticated," Nancy allowed, "and that's not even knowing who their father was."

She was intelligent, both parents saw it in her every day; chopped and bored where others her age were hardly at the dithering stage: a girl you could really talk to.  "Hon," Neil said to Kate, then went on to explain the pretend rules governing their relationship, since it was obviously the time to do so.  The beautiful young mother, who looked all teen to both husband and daughter, nodded, smiling shyly.


The opening scene in Kate Fox's story consisted of two girls, Kate and Dixie Peters sitting on a double swing and whispering to each other. Both girls were nine years old.
"Has anything exciting happened to you yet?" Dixie asked.  It was the first day of school and they were catching up from a summer apart.
"No," Kate replied, how about you?"
"That's what I wanted to talk about.  You don't have to keep it secret, or anything, promise anything, or cross anything and hope to anything, it's not that kind of secret, but you do have to be willing to listen, because it's not like I spilled the sugar then put it back in the sugar bowl without telling anybody."
"Well," the nine-year-old friend said, "whatever happened, you survived it.  That's always a really good starting point."
"I doubt I'd have much luck surviving without it," Dixie half-giggled, though her mien was otherwise on the serious side, as Kate could plainly see.
"Well, I hope you never have to," the other girl said, not knowing what her friend was getting at, but guessing some, and suddenly breathless, though she tried to be ladylike and not show it, to hear everything from her pretty, blond, pig-tailed friend, quite the image of Cindy Brady.
"Paul took me camping," the child began, speaking of her sixteen year old brother.  
"Just the two of you?" Kate asked, not knowing if she'd be more thrilled, or repulsed if Wayne, her fifteen year old brother, and her tall, handsome dad had escorted her.
"Just Paul and me," the girl said, unable to hide a tint of blush.
"Did you know anything special was going to happen?" Kate asked, assuming there was more to this particular expedition than a new recipe for trail mix.
"I guess we both did, kind of half-way, at least," Dixie answered.  "We've always gotten along really well, been pretty close, so I guess we both thought that no matter how nervous we were, something would happen if we spent several days alone with each other."
"And where we're going with this is not him chasing a bear to get his Kelty back," Kate asked, demonstrating why she was Dixie's best friend.
"I could have told that story for show and tell," the cute blond replied, "so you're safe, just as long  - I don't mean to be bossy - as you feel comfortable, or at least sort of comfortable, with what went on between Paul and me when no one else was around."
"Never mind the comfort," Kate reassured her friend, "from what I know so far, that comes afterwards, just pretend you're whispering to your pillow.  If my wires were going to be crossed, it would have happened when I learned that Job fertilized his daughters, successfully, and all I did was start noticing my dad more and getting tingly whenever we were close together."
"Has anything happened between you?" Dixie asked.
"No," her friend whispered, "but I think that's just because I don't know how to go about getting him interested in me, you know, as a female animal.  Of course, I try to hide the 'female animal wildly in love with him' part, because if something happens I want it to be his choice, and not go slinking around half naked and all simpering and flirting and Lolita."
"That was exactly the hard part with Paul," Dixie said, her eyes glowing.
"So way-way-way cool," Kate whispered, "you are an unimaginable and miraculous friend, and if you ever want to make love to a female, lead me off."
"Will I ever, or you can, if you want," Dixie said, eyes on fire, "oh, baby, yes, and soon."  They chanced a kiss because they'd seen other girls experiment a little that way in the park.  (It usually didn't mean anything.)


"Paul," Dixie said [launching her story] "can we talk about some stuff while we climb, you know, go slowly for a little while so we can concentrate without falling to our deaths?"
"I want to talk, too," the boy said, his voice with a slight husk that set Dixie on fire between her belly button and her suddenly quivering knees.  What a sound that was!  Animals sounded sicker, of course, their rutting noises were half like a drunk in a toilet, but those were the cruder points.  The slightly garish timbre to Paul's words was voltage without smoking wires, a hint he felt the same about her as she did him, that they might even find a comfortable ledge and...  It was a long way down, meantime, so her thoughts returned to the climb at hand, and they scrambled carefully on for some minutes, finally resting on a ledge on the wooded slope.
"All these vines," the sixteen year old said, "it's way Tarzan."  
"Nicely done," Dixie thought to herself, "he's opening the door without grabbing.  I knew there must be some special reason to love my own brother."  And it was his gentleness, his sweet grace, that had her in tow, sweet, meek, and scared as a lamb, herself, and, it goes without saying, playful.

"You're overdressed," she observed, "and if we really want to talk about our feelings, and, you know, sort things out, the very last thing you want to be is overdressed."
"I just don't know how much you want to talk about, or what you want to happen," the teen said softly.  "I think about a hundred ways to bring up, you know, what you just said, feelings, and kind of make light of them in case they grossed you out."
Dixie paused thoughtfully.  "I just don't want you to use the bus terms and expressions," she whispered.  "Other than that, I'd like to talk about anything with you."
"Be sure," Paul said, "because I think some people like to be private and just let things happen in private, without talking about them, before, during, or after."
"I'm completely the opposite,"  Dixie assured Paul, "I want to talk about everything, to see if we cant last, say an hour before anything physical happens."
"Okay, me too," the brother said.  "To start with, I guess it's as good a place as any, have you heard the rumors about Coach Cress and me?"
"Nothing weird," the girl replied, "everyone knows you spend Saturday's at his apartment.  Since you skip rope like an over trained dervish, you obviously work out together."
"He's trying to keep me out of football," Paul said, "anything that will beat up my joints.  He says we're not poor and ignorant enough for me to have to be an athlete."
"He should teach English," the sister said, "it would be nice to have someone with a way with words up in front of the class once in awhile."
"He did admit that polishing trophies was something one could do from a wheelchair, if someone handed the high ones down to you," Paul noted.
"So you jump rope?"
"Skip," the boy replied, "light footed as pansies in a hurricane."
"His?" she asked.
Her brother replied with a pleased glow, "No, darling, mine.  I hang around him a lot, and now you know why."
"Well, you're the cuter for it," the girl said.
"And yes," Paul went on shyly, "he touches me.  I touch him.  I've let two of his friends touch me, mostly in private but twice it's happened with the three of us together, and once, one of his friends had his little cousin along, and I watched Jordan touch him."
"Awesome," the young female whispered, feeling her nipples surge hotly and the fire in her belly rage anew, "were you as scared as I am the first time?"
"We'd talked about it pretty openly, first," he replied, "and I'd known him for quite awhile, so it was mostly trying not to pass out with excitement.  I had to hang onto the faucets in the shower when I heard the door to the bathroom open.  I'd never been the way I was when I knew he was approaching, so I stood against the wall of the shower so he couldn't see me."

"Paul?" the pixie asked, "we have all day to reach the ridge, can we stay here for like an hour or two?  I mean I don't mean to be lazy and faggy or anything, but I want to sit in front of you, and not very far in front of you, at that, so you can tell me everything, and maybe even show me the first place he touched you, or we could do that part standing up, if it would be more realistic."
"I guess the vines could substitute for the hot and cold water taps," the boy mused, light dancing in his brown eyes.
"So you're scared, this time?" Dixie asked.
"I might corrupt you or something," the boy answered, "you know, there's a saying about picking the fruit before it's ripe."
"I'm feeling a lot of things," the pretty schoolgirl said, "and the first word I'd use to describe them is 'ripe'."
"Jordan said something might happen between us," Paul said, "and he said we should be very careful, because if it happens a lot between us, the hormones from my body going into yours will make you mature faster, and you could get pregnant, even if you're nine or ten."
"Tempt me like that," Dixie responded, "and I'll insist on spending my Saturday nights with you - all.  If that would help make my dream come true, I'll sacrifice everything from my figure, or one-day figure, as the case may be, to my reputation."

"You've got a beautiful figure," Paul whispered as they shed their packs and made themselves comfortable on the mossy ledge, the girl snuggled, practically purring, in her brother's long, muscular arms.
"And I'm glad you've been thoroughly and repeatedly molested by adults," the girl said, "otherwise we'd be dusting ourselves off and heading up the slope like industrious little climbers, with me feeling all confused and mixed up."
"That's why Jason talked to me, first," the boy acknowledged, "and made sure that the first time something happened, I could spend the whole night with him so everything would be half-way organized, you know, in the psychic department, before I was on my own to dwell on having unnatural appetites and vulgar passions."
"We couldn't pitch the tent here, but the sleeping bags would work, you know, if we zipped them together," Dixie said.
"You know what the biggest thrill, including Jordan, in my whole, entire life was?" the sixteen year old asked his kid sister.
"What?" Dixie replied.
"While we were packing last night.  Remember?"
"Then it was mine, too," the girl whispered, "when you asked me if we should bring two tents, or if one would be okay."
"And now look, we're going to end up with none."
"I don't know how you stayed standing when you heard the door of Jordan's shower click, hot and cold notwithstanding, I couldn't get on my feet for anything."

"It didn't last long," the boy explained, "and he helped hold me up, and dried me off, and took me in on his bed with the towel around my waist, so the standing part was only like ten minutes."
"Well, he is a coach and you are an athlete," the girl reasoned.
"You're plenty fit, too," the boy said kindly, "I'm sure you could have done it if he'd stood behind you, though, I have to admit, the first time you feel an adult's erection press gently to your back, especially if he's, you know, extra big, it takes more than willpower not to dissolve or melt or something completely childish like that."
"How old were you?" Dixie realized she'd forgotten to ask.
"It was the third time I stayed over, I'd just turned thirteen," the boy said, unable to keep from blushing at the memory of the click of the shower door.
"Did he talk to you, you know, in the shower?" she wanted to know.
"Yes," the young stallion said.
"Do you remember what he said?"
"Mostly he just soothed me, told me I could go and dry off if I felt uncomfortable, and that he'd be very gentle.  I almost wanted him to be a little hotter and more, you know, sort of vigorous, but I knew he was being extra solicitous because he loved me, and, anyway, by that time he was pretending to wash my hair, because that's why I'd asked him to come in the shower with me, in the first place, and it didn't matter too much what he said as long as his fingers stayed on me and he didn't waste time with shampoo."

"Let's," Dixie said, speaking a single word with a lifetime of meaning for them both.  Then she was all action, practically leaping up on those watery knees, and shooing him to the end of the fifty foot by four foot ledge as she, tigress that she was, decided on the spot to do away with anything concerning a striptease or lingering, tangential approach with long moments of intense foreplay.  She didn't care if she were pretty or not, she was beyond reserve or self-consciousness, she was wholly his female to take any way he pleased, but, just to be sure he'd be at his best, she turned her back as she slimmed out of her panties and grabbed a convenient pair of vines.  "Break a twig behind me, you know, like the latch on the shower door, so I'll know you're close," she suggested.

The ledge.  There was nothing else between himself and the naked nine year old, half hanging from the vines twenty feet away, nothing but the granite of Mt. Monadnock, and it seemed a paltry support for a tall athletic teenager about to rape his pubescent sister.  Just the thought of touching her gently just above the dawning swell of her hips, as Jordan had first really touched him, seemed to need its own mountain under his elbow if the journey of his entire life were to be realized during the hiking and camping season.  Her belly in her hands, her invisible young breasts which virgin to the eyes or touch of another, then that childish chest panting - he could see she was already panting - against his own.  And after that...?  His penis, so swollen he recognized it by neither sight or feel, against her almost indistinguishable abdominal softness, her arms around his back, breathing into the hollow of her neck, if breath he still drew, and, he could tell, her hands willingly on him, perhaps even a trifle wanton in exiting him and guiding him.  Anything after that had better take place in the Rockies or Andes, some respectable range of mountains, not the solitary peak, no matter how beautiful.  He needed more.  He had a million miles an inch to reach her lily-white, lithe, stretching form   Anything less tall than Pike's Peak would be washed down a river before he was half way there.  Or was he exaggerating to himself, letting emotions run away with themselves when reason was paramount.?  Could he do it, after all?  Others had, or had they?  She was bright without being perky, directed more than casual when it came to being a friend, and just exactly playful enough.  How many girls of any age fit that skin?  Not very many, he was sure.  Yes, the burdens were many, the load extreme, the mountain, too small for the job at hand, yet men had bucked clippers around the Horn, against the wind, through the ice, and as close as possible to the rocks, so, however perverted, the was a valiant side to human nature, and extreme motivations, either positive or negative, could yield great treasure.  And he had the treasure, it was just getting to it, alive, in a condition to do anything but shake in the climbing boots they'd decided, autonomously, to leave on, both perhaps realizing there was an aesthetic value to a willowy young body in heavy boots.  (Manly on his part, accepting of manly, on hers.)

Real time did pass, and not as much as might supposed if one dwelt on the lurid nature of the young male's thoughts.  In fact, it was as minute or two moving down the ledge, as the girl waited, another minute or two to find a proper sized twig, and what had it been the first time, half a minute after he heard the soft click of the door than gentle hands had taken his head?  Close enough.  He broke the twig, waited a final two year and ten months, then gently took her golden twin pony tails.  "No matter how gentle I am, it may hurt," he whispered.
"I've heard about that part, but on a mountain, no one can hear you scream," Dixie responded.  His doubts about Mt. Monadnock notwithstanding, the boy nodded against his little sister's head.
"With me it will be no worse than falling two hundred feet and landing on a fir tree," the male assured.
"If Wile E. Coyote," the girl punned savagely, "was Willa B. Coyote, many of those childish cartoons would have had happier endings, but, "she added, shifting moods as a child will, "are you really big?  If there aren't, you know, special rumors about you and Jordan Cress, then, brother, there are about something to do with the showers."
"Kinda a little more than average, but nothing for a magazine," the boy acknowledged, "Jordan was very careful about that with me.  Getting too many hormones from another male does the same thing to a boy's body, well, more or less, that it does to a female's; makes it, you know, kind of develop faster.  Most of the magazine boys were let run wild with other stallions, so to speak, and they ended up overdone, which can't be much of a treat after the novelty wears off.  Coach had it from some specialists, so it became almost like taking medicine; the right amount does the trick, but watch those side effects."
"Have you ever done anything like this with a female?" Dixie wanted to know.
"No," her brother said.  "Can't either.  On the one hand, we're free wheeling, I guess that's one way to say it, but on the other, pretty strict because of diseases and getting caught by someone with an agenda.  One of his friends that I've dated, Cole Kidder, he was fourteen then, has a sister a little younger than you are, and he wants me - actually, us, as you're hardly a top secret girl amongst the three of us - to come and baby-sit for her one day soon, preferably, for a weekend, you know, so Shelly's, that's the girl, parents can really get away.  Then, that will be it.  Five mature males, two juvenile females.  Since it would be impossible to want more, and unhealthy to experience, we've formed a pact that precludes anything, even kissing, with anyone else."
"Way excellent," the girl whispered over her left shoulder, and her naked brother could sense her relaxing even though his hands were still toying with her hair as Jordan had caressed him in the shower four fabulous years ago.

"I think I'm ready to have your hands down lower on me," Dixie said, "and if you don't think it's going too fast, you can pull me against your body a little bit, if you want to."
The couple moved tenderly together, the males lips on the girl's right shoulder as his hands moved slowly to her gently heaving flanks.  Dixie arched her back, almost pulling herself off the ground on the vines, and Paul responded quickly, tracing his fingers up to her straining chest and her flower-bud nipples.  "Oh, baby, I'm so everlastingly glad you're a girl, and if I drop off this mountain and go crashing all the way into Jaffrey, my last thought will be thank god you're a sister."

"Enough of boys?" the girl asked, no hint of irony in her voice.
"As the main course, definitely," her brother answered promptly, "nothing with guys, way cool as it is, can come close to even the thought of cumming off in your belly, of climbing on up tomorrow, or just spending the day here, knowing my seed is swimming in you is five times what the same thing happening with a guy is.  Cole says the same thing about Shelly.  Being with a male is like Net photography and MP3 music, imitation more than the real deal, nice as it is."
"So this will happen a lot with us?" the girl asked.
"Yes," the tall teen replied, now openly molesting the naked nine year old in his arms, "and if you spend more than a couple of Saturday nights at Jordan's, I'll wear a condom most of the time so you won't end up an eleven-year-old Dolly Parton."
"Will everyone know what's happening with us if I develop early?" Dixie asked.
"It's pretty infallible," her brother said, "a girl with a slim build, from a slim family, who suddenly, you know, blossoms is probably responding to being with males more than once in awhile.  Jordan says it's just a temporary thing, that yes, early, but no, not necessarily bigger, but that's hard to measure."
"It would be easy," the girl pointed out, "if they used identical twins.  They could even do it in a laboratory, you know, give one sperm inside her like boys would, and the other a placebo.  If anyone wanted to know, they'd have the answer in two months."  The boy got a far-away look in his eyes, lost on Dixie who was back-to with him, and whispered in his sister's ear: "That's so perfect I could kiss you," he said, "Jill and Jenny Beauford.  They're identical, right? and just your age, nine, which would be perfect.  Because Jordan said we could increase our alpha group, the seven of us, including you,  if we had a good reason."

"Well," the girl observed, "with NASA wasting billions proving space travel is totally and absolutely, positively, utterly, and forever impossible, it might be useful to do some real experimenting right here on the planet."
"Yes," Paul agreed, bringing the child against him and making her gasp and mew with his fully adult erection, "we could put a tiny tattoo on one of the twins, so they couldn't play twin tricks, not that I think they would, and take, for example, Jill naked while we used condoms with her sister."
"And if we get caught," the girl said, not forgetting to pant at the feeling of her male, both against her slim back and over her immature chest, "just think how absolutely wild and sensational it would be. Israel could burn to the ground in three days, and you'd never hear a word about it if word of our experiment got out, accompanied by graphic graphics."
"You're right," the brother said giving the naked girl half a bear hug, "we could publish in "Scientific American", with graphs, charts, and photographic evidence.  Even if the editors couldn't find anyone to print ten million copies for a single run, it wouldn't matter, because someone would leak it and we'd all be like totally famous practically forever."

The human mind, developed to a certain extent, can eschew sex.  Michelangelo did it, and little doubt others have put the intellect above passion, reason and creativity above romance or lust.  That's why I write about children.  They know better.

"Think of the battle for peer review," the female kitten said, "every university under the sun getting interested in every millimeter of size and every day of age, against every drop of semen.  Everybody happy for a change."

One year younger and they would have been reprising choruses from "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" (the truth is marching on) in their clear, sweet voices.  Instead they luxuriated in the presence of each other, in the naked press of their entire bodies to each other and let the firestorms of raw genius wash over them, then book, leaving them as avid for each other as if they'd been breathing hot, lewd talk into each others' ears.
"Sis?" Paul asked, hunching over the child and holding her tight, "there's one person more that's cool with Jordan, but I don't want to just come right out and tell you who it is."
"It might be a good idea, though," the girl noted, "because I'm likely to be more particular about what happens than, no offense, you or your cute coach."
"It both would and would not be someone weird," Paul responded enigmatically, but he was right.  "Dad, if you want."  There was new lust in Dixie's voice as she replied, simply, "Yes."
"It's going to be normal pretty soon, you know," Paul said, "the Web will make adult play in loving families as acceptable as anything you can think of.  The moralists are in such disarray over the failure of their successes, especially the church, they represent less of an obstacle every day.  'I date my brother, what of it?'  Any girl should be able to say that and walk down the hall without even deigning to toss her hair, and, " he added, "you know what, it would be the greatest thing in the world.  It would put boys my age on their totally best behavior, keep them from getting fat, because they'd have to compete with any male a girl liked from kid brother to great grandfather."

Sure, they could have left it at designing a simple and reliable test for measuring the impact of overt sexuality on both boys and girls, but they were having so much fun - they had three days together - that grandiose visions of a sane world order were as good a way to pass the time as any.
"Actually," Paul said, "we may be sort of half way there.  There are all kinds of tables and charts to do with incest, but they fail, as philosophy fails, over religion, because they don't qualify the incestuous and non-incestuous relationships.  For example, out of a hundred fat, disagreeable girls, probably only a small handful are fully mounted by a male relative or have an extensive lesbian relationship.  But try to guess what it is for girls like you, friendly without being silly and nice without being saccharine, not overweight, and even, last and least, pretty.  Add those up and my bet is the statistics pretty much reverse, so that only a handful of such girls, living with males and with comfortable opportunities, are not hit on."
"Poor things," the bright eyes said.
"Well, now that you mention it," the sixteen year old continued, "you have to qualify the males, too.  Reasonably attractive and slim, also, low-key and friendly.  But that combination together, as I said, with ample opportunity, and it wouldn't surprise me if you made it to the top ten percentile, ninety percent of the girls get raped, and most either love it outright, or learn to at least be highly tolerant of the needs of a man who otherwise treats them well."
"It should be Marshall who does it," the girl said, "he should say, Yes, I'm dating Haley, in fact, we're living together, f--- you, Tipper Gore."
"I just hope," Paul responded, "he doesn't pull some stunt like that when we're getting our first media coverage on Twin Thing."  Oh, that - was - her dear brother, always so sensible and thinking ahead.  And his sister was just like him.  
"We're not going up on that ridge," she said, "because a better plan just popped into my head, and it's good enough to keep us right here, out of the wind and above the bugs, for the entire weekend.  In fact," she went on, "it's the best plan in the whole world, none has ever been better from da Vinci to Palo Alto."
"And for a hint...?"
"Oh," Dixie said, "that's an easy one and it's just as perfect as the plan, itself, the long-weekend plan, and don't you forget it."
"Was that the hint?" Paul asked.
"Don't by silly," replied the girl he was still fondling, even following her tensing and breathing ever lower, until finally his right hand was fully between her long, slim legs, as he continued to feel her delicate pink nipples probing, swollen, from the hint of softness behind them.  The hint is," she said, tugging the vines strewn randomly over the ledge, "that my scheme will bring us full circle.  From leaving the trail and finding this place, to now."
"Well," the naked boy said, wanting to fondle the little blond forever while listening to her sweet prattle, "I said something about Tarzan, after you said you wanted to talk."
She couldn't help looking a little disappointed, it would have been nice to tease him a little, but in no way did Dixie Beaufort allow her chagrin to influence what was about to take place.  "Well," she mused silently, "at least it's on a par with our scientific discussion, even if it belongs more in the world of art."  Out loud, she said: "That's close enough.  Tarzan, vines, and the rest I don't think you could guess because it's off of something I read, just once, and no full description, just four words, but the vines got me thinking of them, those four words, and knowing we could benefit more from executing my design, based on that simple word sketch, than hiking up the mountain."

"Well," her brother mused, "the only thing that makes any sense, from what you say, is that we spend the weekend basket weaving.  I'll be we'd by the only couple to come off Monadnock with baskets on our heads, made in situ, in about ten years."
"Any more hints I could give you would just slow you down," Dixie murmured, "so I better tell while I have something left to tell: the four words are: 'Girl in a basket.'"
"Talk about a first place finish," Paul half whistled in admiration.  "I was never in the race."
"I think the point is," the girl said, "and I don't know why, that, you know, you twist the basket with the female, the it slowly unwinds, and, since it's happening, the girl is slowly spinning, over the waist of the boy, there's a bad-boy element to it, but," she added, "it will be complicated to build, even with the hatchet and camping saw, but the upside of that is..."
"It will need lots of testing," the brother chipped in, secretly glad to, once in awhile, steal the little lightning-brain's thunder.
"I'll bet all I would have had to say was 'basket' and you would have figured the whole thing out in ten seconds."
"It's you, Dixie, who's turned me into a basket case, so it hardly seems fair to criticize."
"Then you'll be a great help," the sprite noted.
"There's something about boys you should know," the sixteen year old told his sister, "and that is if they stay, you know, the way I am for too long, well, to be a gentleman about it, aspirin wouldn't do much good."
She backed gently against him and fired off her massive brain.  "Well," Dixie cooed, "at least you can't call it a hangover."  
"I don't know if 'so sensational' is textbook usage," Paul whispered , "but, sister, you are ever so sensational."
"All it took was a big brother from heaven," the girl responded, "and, since the timing seems ever-so right, why don't you teach me about sex before we start building our basket or trapeze, or whatever it ends up."

"What do you want me to do?" Paul panted.
"Tell me about the different things," Dixie whispered back.
"Well, you know about sperm, right?"
"Just in the abstract," the nine year old replied.
"Well," the teen said, "it's a thick, white fluid, and when a male ejaculates - cums - it spurts out, and that can happen between your legs, inside you, or, when you've had some experience and decide you really like it, in your mouth, and, usually the best for beginning, because it's how Jordan began with me, I can cum on your stomach and legs while you watch."
"I like 'all-of-the-above' questions," Dixie said, "they make life so simple.  Do you have enough sperm for that?"
"The most advanced way is inside your bottom," the shaking teen said, "that hurts at first, even if your lover is gentle, but a young body is, you know, pretty tight, and that feels good to a male, so it's a way a female can be sure a male has been absolutely complete with her, but, if you do like it, it's important to do it just once in awhile, so you don't stretch certain pretty important muscles and have to wear a diaper, and," he concluded, "I'm off limits because I am kind of on the big side."
"I guess three out of four makes sense then," Dixie said, trusting her brother, something that had always paid off in the past.
"It happened on my belly on Jordan's bed," Paul said, "and I still think that's the best way for guys, even though using your mouth with the right partner can be exciting too."
"Has Jordan been up inside your bottom?" Dixie asked.
"He's sprayed inside me once," the young athlete whispered, "I guess it was sort of a fantasy that took  over for both of us.  I dressed like a schoolgirl, and we pretended he was my daddy and wanted to get me pregnant.  One performance, only, or maybe one per year."
"Does the novelty wear off pretty quickly?" the nine year old wanted to know.
"Yes," her brother replied, "with guys, but with a female partner a guy doesn't even need it, in the first place.  I'd prefer a girl I loved, if she lay still and did nothing, to a trained acrobat."
"But if you were in love with the acrobat..."
"I guess it would be time to send out the clowns."
"Touch me where Jordan sprayed his sperm on you," the child whispered.
"It started right here, just far enough from my eyes that I could focus clearly," the boy said, foundling his naked sister at the base of her ribs.  "After that, it sort of showered all over me for awhile, then when there wasn't so much coming out, he held the tip of his penis against my boner and got me all wet."
"If it happened that way with us," she whispered, "some of the sperms would find their way up inside me, wouldn't they?"
"Only the best and the brightest," Paul said.
"Then we've got a date for tomorrow morning before the pancakes," his sister responded, "on the theory that the early girl gets the sperm."
"I can't imagine it happening twice, that's all," the boy whispered, "cumming off with you, once, seems like all the awards possible in a lifetime, and I've got Jordan and I'm not even out of high school."
"Maybe virtue is a bone reward," the girl , now that she'd been very thoroughly molested, twirped, as vaguely bawdy as she'd ever get.
"You obviously get the point," the cute male replied in kind, realizing any further byplay was rapidly becoming out of the question.  "Let go, Jane," he whispered urgently, and Dixie released the vines she'd wrapped around her wrists and sank into the strong arms of her male

"This is how I started the first time I masturbated Jordan," Paul explained, lying back on the moss and positioning the little girl so she straddled his right thigh, then lacing his fingers behind his neck and arching his back.  "He let me experiment."

It was Dixie's first view of a male and she sat, wriggling slightly, staring at him, then into his eyes.  "I don't know how big you are," she whispered, "compared to other males, but you are so sexy you could rape me all weekend, use me, abuse me, do every potty word and do it again, and I'd just come crawling back for more, as long, of course, as," she added, "you were nice about it."
The handsome teen had always admired his kid sister's way with machinery.  She took after her bike with a set of sockets and an adjustable and the job was done in less than no time with every nut and bolt clinched tight.  In other words, she threw like a boy, and wasn't timid about bearing down when it was appropriate.  Not hard to see where this is going, and, for assurance, Paul's panting, sweating, quaking, thrashing body would stand as evidence.  Verbally, he was reduced to yips, moans, and grunts, but his eyes blazed up at the pixie straddling his thigh with open adoration, and, though his arching, straining, male body was all the inspiration any partner would need, the girl nonetheless was inspired by the wanton love glazing his eyes.  Instinctively, she used both hands, instinctively, as was her boyish way, she used a hard grip and firm stroke, and, instinctively, she occasionally leaned forward, stilling her hands, to lick and suck him avidly before continuing to jerk him off hard and fast.

"Stop," he whispered, gently slowing her hands.  "Lie beside me like I did with Jordan."  He guided her into position at his left, supporting her neck on one of their backpacks and arranged her tiny hands behind her neck, then lay on his side, holding the tip of his heavy, hard penis against her tender, white belly.   Knowing from experience the importance of an aesthetic height to the first time, the mature male engaged in no dramatics, just stared into his pretty little sister's smoldering eyes as he began to tense 
"God you're beautiful," she whispered.
"Are you ready to find out how beautiful you can be?" he responded.
"Yes, darling," the said.
"I'm cumming," he groaned.

With a last linger look her eyes left his and traveled down over her white heaving belly.  She saw Paul fist himself rigid and still, and, with a grunt of oh, sis, he began spurting heavily on her, slicking her low on her chest, on her heaving stomach, and especially high between her slim, childish legs, spread wide in welcome.
"I've just started," he whispered after about twenty seconds, "do you want me inside you?"
"Yes," the female hissed, ripping her left hand from behind her head to guide him as she raised her hips.  She found herself immediately, and her stallion took her a little roughly, simply mounting fully and holding her tight.  Both her arms and legs went around him, the sting of his rape faded, and she lay her head back, lolling on her improvised pillow as she felt the hard pumping deep inside her, then he moved, she moved, and for the next half minute they were frantic with each other, her bottom bouncing off the thick moss as he pounded her in long, lighting fast strokes.  "Oh, what...?" where her puzzled last words as her first climax slammed from the base of her spine and raged through her innocent loins.  She gurgled and cried out, clawing him, and finally tensed in a final rictus before losing consciousness, thrilled with the knowledge her beauty had cum so easily and fully with her and, in turn, had made her cum violently their first time.
She awoke, and it was in just a few seconds, in a daze, the first thoughts filtering up in her consciousness having to do with spending the weekend = with him - building something together, thus the dreamy smile when she looked up into his soft eyes.


END OF BOOK I

