





BEYOND BREWSTER – BOOK II

THE Horatio Alger Story

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

By T. C. Emerson

BOOK II

              
              
              
              “That was one way to get rid of Taunton,” Neil McAlester said, trying not to let his mind wander into the breakdown lane where they could park for just a few minutes.  He noted he could remain absolutely erect for an extended period of time without suffering as Paul, in Dixie’s story, had, and as he, himself had on occasion as a teen.  
              “A girl can age a lot in such a place,” Billie-Jo said with a pixie smile and glowing eyes, “fall even more in love with her dad, even.”
              “Has to be good for something to be stuck out here in the pine barrens,” the young father agreed.  By accord they postponed an immediate return to the mountain high adventures of Nancy Fox’s childhood friend and rode a mile, ten minutes, both mature enough to realize passing the unprepossessing burg had done nothing to ease the practically insane pre-weekend traffic.
              “Seriously,” Neil said, breaking the silence, “there’s been one thing your mom and I have overlooked in your up-bringing, probably for sound reasons, and that is teaching you to type.”
              “Well, that’s a change of subject,” the pretty eleven year old murmured.
              “Not so fast,” her dad said, “you should write it out and publish it on the Web.”
              “You’re the writer in the family,” the girl said.
              
              “Guess what writing is,” the young man suggested, “it’s having something to say.  I have things to say in my field, so yes, I get a few checks every so often, but guess who has something to say, in her own right, and says it extremely well.  You’re twenty-six keys away from immortality, to say nothing of being at least something of a contributor to the Net, which is about what’s holding everything together at this point.”
              “Do you really think I could?” Billie-Jo asked.
              “With your hands tied behind your back, except, of course, for the typing,” Neil assured the child  
              “Can you guys, you and mom, teach me?” she asked.
              “I doubt it,” the man responded, “it’s something that has to be learned by drilling in a structured environment, preferably coached by a dragon with a stick who flogs you if you look down at the keys, then it takes about a week to learn enough to practice without cheating.”
              “Why don’t they teach it in school?” the girl asked, the subject never having had come up before.
              “ Due to its terminal lack of trendiness, I suppose,” the dad said, “because there can’t be any sane reason.  Your entire future will be dedicated to one keyboard or another, and they send you out in the world pecking like a chicken, probably on the theory the teachers’ unions are such marvels of activation and solidarity the students they grace with their wisdom will, one and all, be able to hire someone to type their pearls and diamonds.”
              
              “Is it even possible to be cynical anymore?” Billie-Jo asked.
              “Gets harder every day,” the father said with a nod.  “How is it possible to speak of McDonald’s and children without dripping irony?  The company is in savage trouble and will probably die, the kids look like walruses, but it’s unlikely most could dive to the bottom of a six foot pool; absolutely total failure, yet you could go into the cheese‘s office and he’d grin you into the next county and grind your paw until you needed surgery to get it to work again.  Glitz, gloss, and some bizarre combination of numbness and incompetence; get it perfect, and you end up with FLIP ONE on your vanity plate.”
              “Well they often call them ‘sandwiches’,” the father’s daughter noted, “that shows a little something, don’t you think?”
              “Hipper it doesn’t get,” Neil agreed.
              “The Germans have a word for the enjoyment of suffering of others,” the little reader said, “but I wonder if they have one for glorying in the death antics of a soul-stealing monstrosity defining the lowest common denominator at every turn and crossroads.”
              “They’re so clever at sending square jaws before the town councils and killing off everything but their spawn that no conceivable hell is bad enough for the top thousand cheeses.”
              “If things get real tough, maybe they could give the illustrious ones a pleasant weekend at a resort and then drop them into the sandwich grinders.”
              “Anything for corporate unity and the bottom line,” Neil said with another nod.
              
              Yes, it was hard to be cynical, but the young couple enjoyed trying.  You know, it helped keep their minds off the breakdown lane.
              
              “With the typing thing,” the girl said after some minutes of silence, “couldn’t you like have something called Keyboard College in all the malls.  Offer intense twenty-minute drill sessions that students could take any time and in any order that was convenient?”
              “And where’s the beef in an idea like that?” Neil asked.  “It’s the era of the schmo, and the schmo needs flash, puff, and bombast, nothing else registers, so, how much  of that do you think you could eek out of the thoroughly mundane task of drilling at a keyboard, whatever the premium of the skill.”
              
              
              “Iridium must have been built on such thinking,” Billie-Jo noted.  She’d been the one to bring the disaster to her father’s attention and the fact so many cloud angels could be so utterly wrong had shaken them both; and the story ended with a laugh in that the government had seized the system, not wishing to take the heat if someone got hurt when the eighty three satellites returned to earth.  It was reverberating insanity, the kind that causes trouble, but, to look at the bright side, it opened new avenues for smart people living under a system that probed with a random ineffectuality, denying, for example, an international flight to a family of seven because one child had no second color identification, and, while it’s attention was diverted, a thousand mice could play for every one caught – healthy, if backhanded.  And while Iridium, per se, was probably expendable, how many like enterprises were?  How far could it all go into the realm of dance before some prick came along and asked his fee for playing the tune?  Would more motivational seminars help?  There was so much cash in the banks they paid no discernable interest, yet they say Howard Hughes died of starvation.  But, if you were smart enough, it did add up to a most precious gift, again, backhanded, but of no less value for its perversity: to live, smugly, if it was your style, with the knowledge all bets were off when it came to the immediate future.  The fat people would take care of everything if one looked twenty or thirty years ahead, but, meantime, what?  When did an individual or family decide enough was enough, that the rules were so full of low quality thinking they could be simply ignored as one ignores a sidewalk bellower of scripture or John posters when they went to wrestling.?  One thing was for sure, they made the choice easier every day including Sunday.  And now long would it have been?  How long before he’d moved on Billie-Jo, traded on their closeness and her trust to get his fingers inside her little panties?  If he believed in himself wouldn’t he have started at least bathing with the child a year or more ago when her body had developed enough to take him safely?  Did that make in paranoia,  the fact he hadn’t been motivated to act on his beliefs, however closely he held them?
              
              How used humans were to scraping off and leaving behind.  How quickly they actually did adapt.  So much had been taken away as they quickly gave over their six thousand classic American towns in the name of Sam Walton and hypermaterialism, what were we left with at least some enduring quality but out books and our children?  The crazy ball was crossing the net and would soon strike in the court of the status quo allowing any slim, fit kid to cackle at the chub-chub moralists – fat lot they knew, or, fat lot, they didn’t know.  No fat kids on Kazaa, not even chubby.  The adults didn’t fare so well, but were far from obese.   Of all the hundred and fifty image he’d seen only two female children had the hard, early-adult look, not at all extreme, common to the victim; most were smiling, obviously happy, alert to the presence of the camera.
              
              Rationalization.  Was it?  The advanced world was sure to trip over something, and so delicately was it constructed, all the kings horses and all the kings men could sleep ‘till noon, ergo, one must grab for the gusto as the ancient beer commercial said.  If two wrongs didn’t make a right, did one?  How long would he be able to count to two?  Fortunately, he was able to put the conundrum on a back burner because the kitten in the right seat was reanimating.  “Dixie told little Nancy more,” Billie-Jo said, “do you want to hear it, and, I promise, it doesn’t go off the deep end, you know, with one story leading into another.  Just Dixie and her father, then what happened a few days later when, guess what, Nancy got her dad to take her camping.”
              “It that’s an absolute promise,” Neil said, “because if you keep it up, we’ll drive right off the end of Cape Cod, and end up feeding the dumb things.”
              “I do promise,” she responded, “but once I learn to type I want to be able to get a lot of practice without typing ‘the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’ a thousand times, so I like to pass on all the details Dixie told Nancy and Nancy told me.”
              “The joke is,” the father said, “you could learn at home.  If I get the right size transformer I can wire a chair for a very uncomfortable eighty volts or so, and link it to a motion sensor so if you looked down at the keys it would zap you,  plus, it might be an idea to link it to the keyboard, too, so if you made a mistake, a terse reminder that keyboard skills are about as important as walking.  In fact,” he went on, “I’ll be every president in the last fifty years would have given a year off his term to simply be able to sit and rattle something off quickly and accurately.  Maybe ninety volts.”
              
              Sometimes it was hard to tell if he was kidding.  He was a hawk-faced man with eyes that could get awfully fierce, but neither harsh nor hard, as far as she could tell; sort of an edgy dreamboat, who, if the need for a leash arose, in the first place, would respond to a ribbon so long as her hand held it.  It made her feel warm and woozy, but, if we can share a little secret, hardly like holding a ribbon.  If Taunton had been endless, they were now released into the heart of the pine barrens, flat and ugly as possible for a natural landscape, the equivalent of Mother Nature’s strip mine where nothing times less equaled a scrub void best transversed after dark or before dawn – great place for liberals, they could hug dem pines, scaggy, skanky things, back to health; probably just what the sandy soil needed, a rich mix of their everlasting caca.  Grind up all the Jews and Muslims, for good measure; spread them along the right of way, and the trip, if still not a scenic wonder, would at least pass aromatically.  Thinking like that would get him nowhere, but look at all the cars around him with Massachusetts tags, liberal to the extent they were letting thirty-dollar-an-hour sandhogs dig their grave across the very path of the revolution, and they weren’t getting anywhere, either.  Miles to go before the bridge.  
              Neil McAlester reviewed.  He remembered talking with a war veteran who’d served in the signal corpse and had learned fluent Morse code in a few weeks.  Remembering his father’s long struggle to get up to thirteen words a minute, he’d expressed surprised and asked how, realizing immediately the answer and having it verified by the older man’s silent smile.  Eighty volts across her cute butt might not be the equivalent of staying out of the infantry, but the principle was similar: extreme motivation.  Hot, fast jolts of drill, with the sky practically falling if you slacked off or faltered.  Instead, it was just the opposite; every phrase from the lectern dripped from its marinade of political correctness; rainbow this and inclusive that, with coalitions for breakfast and faith a bedtime snack, engendering, after four decades, a teaching class largely comprised of that particular genre of folk who go through life with little idea of how really stupid they actually are, but it wasn’t a conundrum, for their intellectual inferiority was plainly evident in their students (so-called).  Wire a chair with the transformer from an electric fence, so the kids would learn to type by age eight, and they’d type out a warrant.  There was no dealing with their numbing cruelty – ever smashing the poor with their lotteries, tolerance of real crime, and five-dollar-a-pack smokes – and a level of mindlessness that affixed nutritional guidance, expressed usually in ‘zero percent’, on bottles of condiments.  Their building codes mandated insulations standards for light switches, while they let rich fuck live colossally overhoused and drive perfectly stupendous vehicles.  They were the absolute garbage of civilization, dauntless in their efforts to bring it crashing down over this nitpick and that split hair.  They’d reduced a proud, half-fine country to a trembling wreck, and if its key was offered a king, he’d respond, nervously: “You are kidding, aren’t you?”  In fact, so reduced were the circumstances of the culture, they’d do best by just shrugging their shoulders and picking a clown; leave the laughter to a professional.
              
              But sex, as always, was better left to amateurs.  And how shocking was that going to be; when mom and pop operations with little Billy and littler Becky pinch hitting for the pros in the game?  How long was it going to take the country to adjust to rambunctious activity in vivid video, with sound, what, four five clicks from every mouse in the land?  He recalled the story in the respected book, “What Cops Know” of a young prostitute possessing “no characteristics of a woman” – always picked up by the first cruising car, always.  Everyone wanted them young.  Put one issue of “Playchild” on the stands and it would sell as well as “Hustler 8-12 Edition”, but New York better get it in gear, because if they didn’t, Kazaa would.  How long before there was a cable channel for left-out families?  Since it was a given nothing could possibly exceed “Dragonball Z” in numbing monotony, why would it even be taking a chance to program alternative material?  If women had leached men of much of their manhood, didn’t it make sense they were fit only as companions of children?  It was a thought, though he supposed if he articulated it people would just laugh.  H’mm.  Where was he headed?  To a Sahara like scape of white, rangy dunes.  Good.  With whom?  A pretty eleven-year-old female.  Good.  Who was going to have the last laugh?  Marvelous.
              
              “You’re cute when you smile to yourself,” the girl beside the young father observed, “but this time it’s more like licking your chops.”
              “Subconscious,” he grinned at her, “nothing to worry about.  Look at how well I’m handling this car at speeds up to twelve miles an hour.”
              “Well, Speed  Up!” she yelped, mimicking Beverly D’Angelo as Ellen Griswold in the original “Vacation”.  One thing about leaving for the Cape on Friday, any imperative to do with speed came with a giggle.
              “And miss your sensational storytelling, Miss?” he queried, eyebrows arched.
              “I want my own,” the luscious preteen replied, “cool as Dixie’s and Nancy’s were, there’s no substitute for the real thing.”
              “Don’t get carried away, darling,” Neil advised, “I doubt many people would have read Dickens or Shakespeare if they’d gone all diary.  What’s happening around you, and especially the stories of others, are your meat, just as the complexities of engineering are mine.  Since these are bound to be repetitive, you have to learn to work inside a formulae, just as you walk down a sidewalk or drive down a street.  You don’t loop and slide, you proceed, most miles much like the one behind them; it’s what you notice along the way that counts.  Just the other day I read a story about a girl being mounted from behind by her father while she was doing the dishes – she talks of her hair floating in the water as he took her for the first time, and that gave the story a real touch.  Possibly it actually happened that way, or maybe it was a random experience and the writer included it like an athlete head-fakes an opponent.  The variety of ways a male can be with a female is limited to half a dozen or so survivable scenarios, about like the rustlers and stagecoach robber in the Westerns, so, again like driving or walking, you learn to pace yourself; move briskly along while taking an ample look at the passing parade.  You’re getting outstanding experience with your teacher, so you get to practice with preordained action and drama, and, with luck, when you come down off that high you’ll have perfected the craft of just telling a story, without any carnal aspects, though why you might want to is another question.”
              
              “And the humor thing?” Billie-Jo asked, “does that come naturally, or is it like a zillion hours of practice?”
              “You leave that up to others,” Neil said, “they do funny things – the O.J. case and Florida vote – so you just write them down.  They never stop, and keep getting funnier.  They pay Larry the Chair and  Gap Idiot of World Wide Pants thirty million to show up, and the whole country hasn’t produced even an interesting novel in a decade.  If that isn’t funny, what is it?”
              “Good news for the kids that don’t read,” the girl replied, “they won’t be missing anything.”
              
              Father and daughter.
              
              “One technique in fiction,” the driver said, “is review and recapitulation; reminding your reader where you are in the story, who the players are, what’s happened so far, and maybe throw in a little foreshadowing, for example, if someone wrote about us on this trip, they might create a sudden break in the traffic and we could zoom ahead, leaving the reader to know something was in his immediate future.”
              “But that was funny,” the girl observed, “and you didn’t need the studio moron breaking his ten thousandth piece of glass as a victim.  You have another way of doing it.”
              “Well,” he quipped more or less on purpose, “I did mention there were half a dozen ways.”
              “You said ‘survivable’,” the girl rejoined, “and half the time, the way you do it, I don’t see all that many surviving.”
              “I suppose it does open the pattern a little,” the father mused, “you know, pretending you don’t care and letting the enemy have it with both barrels, when, in fact, you do care, only about the victims of the very specific enemy, not the crud that’s gumming everything up and has been since the huge faced Dutchman used his oratory cadences and practiced resonance to sell his populism.  Even Ladybird Johnson admits his disciple, LBJ, was a political goop and huckster, a thousand times better at arm twisting than head shrinking.  Both needed the swing vote of the urban socialists, and got it.  After that, it gets funnier by the decade.  How to you look at Carter without laughing; he was a disciple of Rickover, and Rickover cost the United States of America one trillion dollars with his absurd and almost unbelievably hazardous submarines.  Of course, to see the real humor you have to imagine the money, skill, and labor expended in Central America and the Caribbean, which keep us living large twelve months of the year, and have for over two centuries.  That’s a tide that floats all boats in Hilarity Harbor.”
              
              Billie-Jo sat quaking.  Imagine having a father like Neil McAlester.  How had she ever left him alone for eleven years?  Well, count it eight, and perhaps at three, her feelings on the subject had been a bit vague.  Three?  Assuming the traffic eased a little, they’d be in Brewster and off on the back roads in three hours.  Better get back to her story while there was still enough time.  Heeding her father advise, she reviewed before setting forth anew.  She was eleven, her friend and teacher, Nancy Fox was twenty four.  Nancy had invited her, Billie-Jo, to a long lunch with two of her classmates.  During lunch at Nancy’s apartment, the teacher had told of her early experiences, which had led to her mother’s story of a childhood friend, Dixie Peters. 
              
              
              “Dad,” Dixie said as they were packing their tennis rackets after an early-morning game at their club, “there’s kind of a big secret in my life, you know, since I went camping with Paul last week, and I don’t want to keep it from you.”
              “As far as I can see,” Tim Peters said, “he, a, didn’t sell you as a milk maid to a dairy farm, and, b, he didn’t feed you to a bear, so it can’t be much bigger than a breadbox.”
              “You might be surprised,” she thought to herself, reining in her bawdy ponies so that aloud she said: “He told me all his secrets, mostly about Jordan Cress and a small group of his friends, and, I guess if I let that cat out of the bag, if it was ever in one in the first place, my secret, our secret, will be pretty predictable.”
              “They’re making big money putting in the fix?” Tim asked.
              “No,” she said, “they’re bringing out a comedy in three acts to do with an obtuse father.”
              “As long as it isn’t a tragedy concerning a precocious nymphet,” the thirty year old said.
              “So you’ve noticed me dragging my heels and lurking mute in the shadows,” Dixie said.
              “Just assumed it was too much drugs and booze,” the dad responded.
              “Well,” the girl said, “you got the too much part right, or almost too much, as the case may be.”
              “Sweetheart,” Tim said as they headed up the path of the empty club, “you’ve been practically glowing since you got back, and those were only the times you weren’t actually glowing.  You don’t seem preoccupied, neurotic, defensive, or any of the symptoms associated with abuse, so that’s also a point in your favor.  I’m not saying you seem better, but some how more complete and filled out; a tiny bit less than little girl, a tiny bit more a young woman, and, since you’re not the kind to set your parents to worrying if you lose any interest you may have had in dolls, I just keep a watchful eye and think to myself what a lucky girl you are to have a brother like the one you have, precisely as he is lucky to have you as his sister.”
              
              “Can you tell that something actually happened between us?” Dixie wanted to know.
              “I wouldn’t have bet either way,” Tim replied, “you don’t seem different from any kid who’d just spent a long weekend in the wilds, nor from the girl I’ve known the past eight years, so you’re secret’s pretty safe.”
              “How safe do you feel?” the girl asked as they approached the club rooms.
              “What do you mean?” her father asked.
              “About you and I having a secret, not from Paul, not from mom, but sort of a really small one that we only keep from hostiles.”
              “First we’d have to find some,” the man noted.
              “Or,” the highly intelligent creature noted, “we could be a little bit coy and open, and let them find us, then go like all defensive, you know, just to keep things from settling into a monotonous routine.”
              “Adversarialism is inherent,” Tim Peters agreed, “that’s why there were kings for thousands of years; to cut through the squabbling and get things done, which, of course, came a cropper when the kings got adversarial with each other, but, if they hadn’t, there wouldn’t be enough free space to grow an onion in the British Isles.”
              
              Like all couples in all my stories, the two had a lot to say to each other, and were not particularly frightened of non sequitors, nor of letting one subject lead randomly to another.  My readers heap praise on me, once to the extent of one hundred complimentary letters in a row, but critics and other writers will be more chary.  I can let my characters drift here and wander there, throw in sidebars and divergences, galore, and get away with most unprofessional behavior because I write about juvenile sex, which brings everything – and everybody – back into the groove whenever I take a whim to herd them there.  You could not, for example, write a book about a father and daughter sallying forth to by the child’s first horse, and, next thing you know, be dissecting typing as it’s taught in the school system, point out how extraordinarily handy it would be, as a student, even if you went on to work in a mine, to have basic keyboard skills at age eight – there simply isn’t that much talent available, something I’m qualified to comment on, having either the most, or by way of practicing the longest and hardest with what I was born with.  A father and daughter buying a horse, or a dirt bike, if you prefer, needs story on every page.  This did not used to be quite the same, because pre-modern audiences actually wanted long descriptions of everything from women’s hats to the lifestyle of the Hottentots.  Modern audiences have seen it all on cable, plus, in them thar days, a book was a device to fill time, and time was something even the moderately affluent had plenty of.  Life today is a scramble, and when you do catch a break, there’s half a dozen documentary channels, the Net, and diversions from stadium events to back-yard barbeques, so long, drifty novels are out of style, by necessity if not through preference.  Sex isn’t going to do any good, it’s been widely included for fifty years, leaving only children as a subject worthy of intense investigation, especially since Sept. 11, which put the kibosh on bold tales of action and intrigue.   Conflict and resolution.  Adversarialism.  As yesterday as five pages on the wallpaper in Miss Phoebe’s parlor.  The only relevant conflicts today is the individual’s fight with his or her waistline and debt load, and we all know how those puppies will end.  So, out with it all.  Out with music, out with film, out with contemporary printed fiction, out with television, stadium events, and more stuff on the B list, all to be replaced by reading history, fiction and non-fiction, so we live our lives with some real appreciation for the men who jockeyed sailing ships to grow the world, who tunneled the earth, who hand-plowed a billion miles of furrow, but who left us fat, dumb, and miserable, because they took away our kids.  
              
              As mentioned in Book I, I now have an XP machine, and, with a couple of hundred hours of varied use during a time we’ve suffered two major brown-outs and perhaps twenty sudden blackouts, I deem it an appliance.  It’s frozen twice on initializing “Beachhead 2002”, and both times responded instantly to C-A-D, restoring the opening screen.  I’ve never had a more reliable toaster. Add Nifty and Kazaa with their comprehensive libraries of tens of thousands of stories and images of adults sexually involved with children, and that’s where we’re heading.  It’s where we should have been all along, and where the luckiest have been.  While this is all well and good, positive, there is a negative to be considered, and that is that there is nothing else.  NASA is proving it in outer space, Dell has proved with a bullet-proof, stove-bolt appliance computer.  Socialism proves it as long as long as your IQ is over ninety.  Medicine has proved it by burdening us with millions of miserable old folk who should be out of the economic loop and in the ground.  Democracy has proved it for IQs over ninety one.  Nifty and Kazaa can only be (substantially) improved by growing in content and bandwidth.    That’s a partial list as things exist, 2003.  Insurmountable problems with alternatives beyond the biblical.  Simple formula:  hc = lx, where hc = happy culture, l = literacy, and x = pedophilia   If you think the x should be squared or cubed, you may be right, if you thing the formula is complete without it, you win a dozen Big Macs.
              
              Now don’t go around quaking in your boots.  Balm your psyche with the knowledge that your scribe, with well over a million archived words (being downloaded at some astronomical rate like fifty thousand a week), has not had a single reader letter in months, not an attaboy, not a drop-dead, just echoing silence.  No one cares.  They just want lots of sex with lots of kids, thus making my point more eloquently in silence than would otherwise be possible.  Kazaa is double proof.  I’ve accumulated a dazzling music playlist from the original “Twist” to “White America”, including Roger Whittaker’s “The Last Farewell” and Gordon Bok’s “Turning Toward the Morning”, and no one has uploaded a song from me in forty hours online, during which time maybe two hundred users have uploaded kiddie porn images.  Remember the story about the childish prostitute – all cars stopping?  Get the picture?  Children should be encouraged to be sexually active, assuming they have discernable wit and healthy curiosity, with a limited number affectionate, enduring partners, from age three, and emphasis should be placed on remaining slim, responsibility, and perspective, not abstinence, which becomes a silly word for joke as soon as the right backs are turned, but does an all-too fine job when it comes to turning participant into victim. 
              
              Time for a little real-time experiment.  I’m going to log on you-know-where, I don’t want to keep using the name for fear you’ll think I have anything, whatever, to do with son-of-Napster, that I’m some kind of paid shill, anyway, log in, select “Documents”, and type “children”.  The challenge is to find even one posting that is not explicit, if you know what I mean.  “Fours to ya, “ in the dead language of the CBer, which so antiquated it’s probably even necessary to point out CB is Citizen Band radio, and people other than truckers used to ratchet-jaw on it, so, “see you in a short-short.”
              
              First, what’s with the now-on-line user number?  Four million, almost five.  One a Tuesday morning?  It was the same Saturday night, it’s always four-million some.  (This is about half Napster at its zenith, and, if true, good for a site just passing out of studentville.)  “Children” brought two documents, an endless treatise from  more-or-less the government on child safety in the schools.  My guess is: homogenized, banal, and another re-hash of the obvious, but I’ll give it a look.  The second Document was a children’s game, too big a file to fool with during working hours.  Anyway, two files out of four-plus million sharing almost a billion files.  Three guesses – did I have better luck typing in “brother” and “sister”.  Interestingly “kiddie” brought zero files.  “Incest” filled the screen in a few seconds.  Yes, there’s a tiny amount of non-prurient material, maybe a few percent, but if you come across a short story titled: “Daddy and Toni Buy a Pony”, the category will likely be Bestiality.  Anyone but an insidious nitpicker would declare: Case Closed, but allow an addendum stating that there weren’t all that many documents, perhaps a hundred or more, under all salacious headings (or at least the ones that came to mind).  What does this mean?  My interpretation is cowardice.  Since, in the half hour I was online I again uploaded numerous files, porn, only, that’s obviously where the interest lies, but people are afraid to contribute their own original images, or don’t have any (my case).  It’s important to nail down the context as finely as possible – for sure, the government isn’t going to do it, and I don’t have to read the Big Report to know there is not a single favorable story or case history involving a child in a positive and satisfying relationship.  Meaning there are none? 
              
              This still leaves open the question of how many people are visiting my porn collection more-or-less by default, because it’s one of a few, while there are endless millions of music files.  The way you measure this is the same as the way the fish population of a pond is measured.  You tag a few hundred, release them, let them swim around for a couple of days, then catch a bunch.  Your tagged percentage will be true of the entire group, and you’ll have an accurate number.  How many of the images and stories reoccur, and how often do they do it?  This will take a month or two to determine, but early results in my quasi scientific survey indicate a high level of repetition, and thus a limited number of available files.  But this also goes for music.  Burl Ives and Harry Bellefonte often bring only a scattering of hits.  As I said, it will take awhile. I guess I’m getting a little long-winded on this divergence, but when you know damn well you’re writing for the next century, assuming the survival of the Net, you tend to get a little archival – this is how one person saw it at such and such a time, with a little evidence and a few statistics thrown in to elevate writing from opinion without getting all sciency about it.  And one note, early statistics tend not to change.  When I had cable I used to note the responses to various audience surveys conducted on “Tech TV”.  They’d give an initial reading, within half an hour of posing the question, then give the final results, the next day, and the percentages for or against an issue were always almost exactly the same, first and last.  If you get a lot of tagged fish from your pond, you’re screwed, if you find one in some hundreds, it’s time to drown a worm.  In summary, I perceive the level of interest in child porn as red hot, with Murphy’s Law working to fill the available space as time goes on.  Isn’t it nice to read about something that’s on the up and up?  Assuming this to be the case: tennis, anyone? 
              
              The cute architect had designed the club’s locker room with abundant alcoves and playhouse spaces, and certainly business must have been discussed in the semi-private rooms and cubicles.  And then there was the maintenance.  The cute custodian left the hinges on the several doors in the suite un-oiled, so they all squeaked.  Yes, there were no locks, it wasn’t that kind of place, but, also, yes it was seven in the morning, so it wasn’t any kind of place at the moment.  Tim and Dixie Peters entered, because, with so many hidden spaces, it had been decided somewhere along the way, a locker suite could serve both sexes.  Clever.  No distinction was made between adults and children, as in many similar clubs, which was clever on steroids.  The couple nonchalantly checked to be sure they were alone and then put two squeaking doors between themselves and any newcomer, finding a comfortable changing room with a heavy curtain and a single padded bench..
              
              “Finally,” the girl said, easing her handsome, athletic father onto the bench and standing in front of him.
              “I hope your brother was as scared as I am,” Tim said.
              “We both were,” the girl acknowledged, “plenty.  Paul has been with Jordan and a few of his friends, but never with a girl, and all I’d done is dream about certain things once in awhile.”
              “Did he tell you a lot about Coach Cress,” the father wanted to know.
              “Oh, dad,” the girl said, “we talked for hours.  Yes.  Everything.  Specific.  Explicit.  Graphic.  No secrets.  He said it was pretty much a one-time thing, that making love the real way was so good we wouldn’t want to spend time getting each other excited with stories, but I’m glad it happened the way it did, even though it would have been pretty okay if he’d just taken me, and never said anything.”
              “Well,” Tim responded, “we’ve got all morning, and lots of things to talk about if someone takes the next changing room, so, it seems to me, that intricate stories on whatever subject can hardly help but amount to verbal practice, something that is sorely unrealized by a zillion kids – they simply never get a chance to speak other than grunting a dozen or so code words to each other.  Great for Mickey D’s and the day-labor pool, but if one wished to aim an inch higher a premature relationship gives a child a chance to simply verbalize – talk – and is of value for that reason alone.  It’s not something you have to practice, incessantly, be advised, but kids, not you, do need practice, and spending a long weekend camping with a cute older brother seems to me like a good way to do it, especially if you discard enough rules and taboo to have a lot to talk about.”
              
              “And we have all morning,” the Brady look alike tennis semi-pro repeated, smiling shyly and settling onto her dad’s lap, lacing her fingers and arching modestly.  Tim found her cheekbones with both hands, held her at bay for long moments as he trained his eyes on hers, then let her approach until their lips met.   Maybe later for that, the girl just pecked like clashing feathers on her Patrick Swayze (“Dirty Dancing”)-handsome young dad, then retreated a mile of an inch.  “Daddy,” she whispered, “I want to tell you exactly how I want to start our incest, is that okay?”
              “Yes, doll,” the male said, “do you want to tell me how it started with Paul?  No pressure, but I’d like to hear.”
              “That’s exactly what I wanted to do,” she said, “everything, but especially how it started, because I want it to be different with you.  Do you want me to get clinical?” she ended up asking.
              “Yes, darling,” Tim said, “no better place for nudity than a clinic.”  She was quite beyond giggling, but her big blues glowed happily from her schoolgirl face.  He eased his daughter to the floor, and, playing along, stripped quickly and efficiently from their tennis duds, back to back.  But through it all they were going to remain friends, and the young father did his best to ensure this by talking to his pretty daughter as they hung up their clothes.  “I failed in medical school, Miss Peters, the doctor said, “I was trying to take the temperature of a pretty young thing, just made one, you know, huge mistake in placing the thermometer, was caught by an intern, and it was decided on the spot that it was pointless to wait until was eighty years old to let me continue my studies.”
              “Is that why you went to medical school, Dr. Peters,” Dixie played.
              “Yes,” Tim replied.  “Lack of sisters.  Lack of girlfriends.  I had to find out, one way or the other.”
              “Have you victimized other underage females in this examining room?” she asked.
              “Only by prescribing them the drugs they see on television,” the young doctor replied, “but that goes for everybody.  It’s called tradecraft.  We’re developing a pill for people who think they need no pills.”
              “Physically or psychologically-based?” the now naked girl wanted to know, as they prattled, back-to-back.”
              “Miss,” the male said, “the intensity and salience of your questions mean you to have an interest in the healing arts, but you will not even get into med school if you can’t figure that one out for yourself.”
              “Ah,” the neophyte cooed, “I get it.  A mild psychogen.  Sure, you feel healthy now – think all shades are pink and all scents, lilac, but just wait…”
              “Wait?” they chirped in unison, signaling each other they’d waited long enough.  They turned and faced each other, diminutive blond and six-two athlete.  Tim’s penis stood high, almost touching his belly, eight inches, circumcised, and straining hard.  Dixie guided him back to the bench, returning to his lap, facing him, her slightly soft, little-girl tummy inches from her athletic young father.  “Daddy,” she whispered, “how long has it been since you sprayed?”  Yes, intense.
              “Three days, now that you mention it,” he said.
              “Paul, too.  We’re you know, like not doing things until we could be at the club?”
              “I suppose so,” the former doctor said, “not consciously, which, even without your wonder pill, meant totally consciously, counting the hours consciously, and it helped, may I tell you, that you kept reminding me of our date and alluding to it; that told me that you had more than volleys and your net game in mind, and yes, you did seem extra close to your brother, so, while I wasn’t sure, I did surmise, and no, I’ve never molested a child, though several times I’ve wanted to.”
              
              “The reason I asked,” Dixie said in a tone quite appropriate to a clinic, pretend or otherwise, “is that it had been a long time for Paul, too, and it happened a special way the first time.  It happened repeatedly after that, over the whole weekend, pretty much night and day, but, you know, because it was happening so often and he was so, you know, full with me, well, there wasn’t as much sperm as the first time, so, when we did it a certain way, it was nice, but compared to the first time, not as fulfilling as it might have been.  Am I being too oblique?”
              “I guess if a code’s sexy enough it’s worth breaking,” Tim replied.
              “Well,” the girl said, “it was too oblique for me.  I want to masturbate you until you get really tense, and then I want to hold you very still and take you in my lips, pushing gently against your penis with my teeth, leaving them open just a little for your semen, then suck you.”
              “Did you take your brother’s first sperm in your belly,” the young father rasped,  not touching the tiny female panting inches from him.
              “No, darling,” she replied, her voice also thick and heavy, “all over my belly, at first, so I could see clearly, he held very still, then all over me when it kept happening, then he raped me and held still, and I could feel him spraying way inside me.”
              “Did you like watching it spurt out of his handsome, young teen body?” Tim asked.
              “It was the most beautiful thing, and we were one the side of a beautiful mountain, with blue skies, white clouds, and butterflies.  Even if he’d sprayed on the moss it would have been beautiful, but seeing him thick and white, again and again, all over me as I lay sweating and panting beside him, totally submitting, was beyond words for scenery.”
              “Do you want me to rape you after I’ve wet your lips and nine-year-old tongue,” the panting father whispered.
              “If you rape your little girl while she’s still swallowing your seed,” Dixie said, “you will be able to stay inside my belly longer, and imagine your handsome teen son, his bare chest against my wet, slick breasts, feeling the same things you are against his boner and leaving his boy sperm hot and deep within me, as you will your adult cum.”
              
              Gently she lay him back on the bench and straddled his muscular right thigh.  She worked forward and lay fully on him, urgent for the feeling of his hairless, young teen chest against her swollen nipples.  “I’m growing already,” she said, “can you feel me against you?” 
              “Yes, love,” the adult said, “they burn.”
              “That’s from Paul, I think,” the girl said, “jump starting the development process because I welcomed him so completely all weekend long.  We even got scientific about it, at least rhetorically, wondering, you know, if one identical twin sister was active and the other didn’t take any semen inside her, if the active one would develop more quickly, and more in the end, than her good twin.”
              “I understand his wanting to talk about things with you,” Tim responded, “it is a most beguiling  way to pass the time, knowing the best way of all is approaching, moment by moment…”
              “and the more moments,” the girl interrupted, “the more momentous.”
              “I’ve never kissed a child before,” Tim said, coaxing his daughter forward and imagining her brother welcoming her immature body the same way, slithering and wriggling up him, slick with his cum.  But she remained cuddled tight against him, unresponsive.  “I want it to be salty, the first time,” she panted.
              
              The pixie crawled forward on the athlete to pinion his hands behind his head.  “Don’t molest me while it’s happening,” she said, “remember, this is a clinic.”
              “If things get out of control,” he said, “remember I’m a pharmaceutical multi-millionaire, not a doctor.”
              “Stay still,” she whispered, again straddling his right thigh, but this time taking his huge hardness exactly as she described.  She bent to him, and, without licking, kissing, or foreplay of any kind, took his swollen glans between her lips, pressing firmly against him with her teeth while holding him high in her right hand and very low with her left.  She sucked, once, fully, and held the pressure with her tongue while panting through her nose.  After a minute, feeling him tense, she gently released him.  “Don’t tell me when it going to happen,” she said, ,”remain still and silent so I can just think about how much I love you.”
              “Yes, love,” the young man whispered, and immediately she was with him again, taking not more than inch of him inside her lips, but this time pressing the tip of her tongue firmly against him as she held him with her hands and her now urgent suction.  And it was clinical.  He lay back, as another man, feeling in someone else’s loins the escalating tension and the almost desperate sudden slacking of his loss of control.  Was it Paul’s body experiencing the ultimate response to her hot welcome?  Couldn’t be, on reflection, because he’d barely been able to spurt over her tongue and he was even beginning to relax as he did it again and again for a full minute as she mewed with excitement, never relaxing her fiendish pressure, never moving save for the shuddering and panting as she climaxed from the hot, salty rush sizzling over her tongue again and again until she had all of him.  She released him, sliding her naked body quickly over him, staring into his eyes for a long minute, then mating her lips to him and gushing his still hot sperm into his mouth, her tongue following avidly for their first kiss.
              
              Here again, the ways of the clinic prevailed.  She did not gulp him madly like a lover, just held her nine-year-old lips against his for minute after unendurable minute, her legs clamped tightly on his penis so she could feel it harden.  When he was again fully erect she spoke: “Mount me the same way,” she said, “on the floor.”  
              Dixie dropped to the carpet, spreading her legs and pulling her knees against her chest.  Her father huddled over her, she guided him with her left hand, then wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms, under his, around his heaving chest.  He entered her very slowly, trying to obey her wishes by using minimum motion.  In two minutes, their thighs met fully and he went rigid above her , high on his arms, looking down into her schoolgirl face.  “Don’t tell me,” she whispered once again, then pulling him down firmly so her pert, budding breasts again seared his chest.  He felt her cum, her muscles squeezing him in hard, fast spasms for almost a minute before she let slip a hint of a sigh, pulling him, if anything, more fully to him.  It happened again in minutes, then seemed to not stop happening as she lay intense as steel beneath him, every fiber of her being charged by his hot presence, and, finally, by and urgent final swelling followed in a minute by an almost pounding pulse that lasted nearly half a minute.
              
              “Daddy,” Dixie whispered softly as they lay semi-conscious recovering their breaths, Tim’s penis still deep within his little girl, “the next time you mount me I want to be fresh from Jordan.”  That was the end to their clinical experimentation.  The though of his daughter welcoming the handsome coach, of her not using a condom with him, ended any semblance of game play and he began moving on top of her as she experimented with moving up to him.  Again he rose high on his arms to look down and her little girl body, and his swollen hugeness stroking her infinitely hot, tight wetness, then into her glazed blue eyes, ripe with shock as she accepted the first unrestrained partnership of her life.  The females orgasms became almost perpetual as he took her quickly and steadily, his convention rhythm high between her legs gradually giving way to uncontrolled thrusting and finally borderline savagery as her acceptance became absolute and her hot whispers crashed against his left ear. “If I ever have a period I’m going to be moody and pissed-off for a week,” the child panted, “you know why?”
              There was only one biological answer, and it wasn’t the time to go into any psychological aspects.  “Because you’re not pregnant,” he snarled to her muted shriek of affirmation, frantic clawing, and childish hips now slamming hard and fast against him.  Boy, was this a kid who had nothing to worry about.  “Baby, “ he whispered so she knew he wasn’t addressing her, as he rose again on his arms.  It was his warning, and her eyes focused and glowed hot as she surged a final time fully against his shaking thighs and held him in a death grip.  Beautiful Paul had felt her against his body like this, and released inside her, the handsome coach would, one day soon.  If she had one period, it would be a medical miracle, and he had just consciousness left to wonder if she’d need feminine products before she was perhaps sixteen, meantime having populated their wealthy household with a gang of daughters, and maybe a boy toy thrown in.  Her brother and four adults would be taking her constantly over the summer, through the coming school year, until showering with her became a mystical experience to be followed, in due time, with paternity testing to see which of her males could claim very considerable bragging rights.  For a moment his mind was a hippie movie, all flashing images, then a particular scene came into sharp focus as he felt his last ragged grasp on control slipping slowly away.  Paul had  mentioned one of Jordan’s friends, Will Kirkland, he even remembered the name, spent a lot of time with his thirteen year old nephew, Jerry, he’d even seen pictures of the handsome schoolboy.  He imagined the male child naked, his bottom on a pillow, spread eagle as he, Tim, masturbated him openly in front of Dixie, who stared avidly as did Jordan, kneeling close behind his daughter as the girl shuddered on all fours.  Kneeling between the long, coltish legs of the brand-new teen, he stroked his six inch hairless penis, pulling the foreskin especially down so he could alternate masturbating the youth with tampering with his flaring glans, making the child pant and tense until a hot shower of watery sperm sprayed all over both of them, most splashing on the child’s satin-smooth, white belly.  Dixie’s “Oh, daddy,” fit the fantasy perfectly, and made him cum long and hard as she mashed and mewed through a final orgasm, then lay panting and glowing as he slowly rolled free of her.”
              
              
              “Did you like the baby part?” Billie-Jo asked, “I did.  And I’m eleven, not some poor little eight year old that’ll have to wait months and months, no matter how active she is with mature males.”
              “I liked it,” Neil said, “but it does sound like one of those happy-ending tales audiences coo over.  You know, maybe a little commercial and slick.”
              “Life’s like that, sometimes,” the girl responded, “look at us for example.  We’re not even going fast enough to have a bad crash, so what can possibly come between us and a slick, happy ending? and even a little commercial, as I’m sure Nancy and her brother, along with my friends will constitute an audience.”
              
              They sat, cruising a bit faster now, for some minutes.  Five in the morning.  On schedule, the whole day ahead to nap off the red-eye, at peace with the potential of human relationships and such harmonies as were to be found if one had a free spot in his mind, and a pretty kid to occupy it.
              “You’ll be the only adult male,” Billie-Jo said at last, breaking an obvious train of thought,, “which has its sad side because I’d love to have a man behind me, the way Jordan was behind Dixie, while Mr. Peters was doing homosexual things with the boy.  I’d like to watch you, the same way, if you want to see Jason’s, that’s Nancy’s brother, sperm.”
              “Darling,” Neil whispered, “I could be the one behind you, and one of your friends could lie under the boy, so he’d be raised up to you when he spread his legs, and you could use your hands on him.  It would probably be more momentous if the hand of a female child was on him, than that of an adult.”
              “Well,” the girl mused, “I hope Jason’s not gay.”
              “Gay’s just a state of mind,” the father said, “like fundamentalists that go around stiff-necked with pride in the fact others abhor their sleazy churches and the tacky showmanship they make of religion.  Their preachers tell them to do this, take pride in ostracism, something the Jews have been about for centuries.  Same with gays.  It’s more rebellion against convention than anything physical or psychological.  Most people are straight, and they need to be different, in the same vein that most people drink tea from cups and worship on Sunday.  If they drank from glasses and attended church on Saturday, all of a sudden, within a year the rabbinical councils would come up with obscure points of Torah, reversing their traditions so as to be once again be at odds with whatever is normal.  If Christians eschewed brotherhood for materialism, they’d flee the counting houses for the lumber camps.  In summary, the boy would have to have been indoctrinated very thoroughly to find you less than ravishing and your touch less than that of an angel, and, since I don’t picture Nancy Fox as having that kind of brother, I guess you have little to worry about.”
              
              “Do you think Dixie had it happen to her in the right order?” Billie-Jo now wanted to know, “letting Paul do it while she watched, then using her mouth on her father?”
              “Under the circumstances,” the driver said, “yes, but if Paul had, you know, cum, beforehand, so he just had the ordinary three or four spurts of seminal fluid, it probably would have been more exciting if she’d taken his sperm in her mouth, and imagined how it looked until the proper time came along to actually find out.”
              “I hope you don’t feel set up,” the girl responded, “if I ask you, you know, how long it’s been since you…”
              Neil smiled softly at his suddenly tongue-tied daughter.  Fresh as a flower, and she would still be, at noon, no longer innocent, but still fresh, mild mannered, and delightful to be with under any conditions.  “I’m a disciple of Tim Peters in that department,” Neil said.  “Nothing’s happened with me since we set the date for this trip.  Even if Nancy hadn’t reared her beautiful head, I was thinking, from various subtle signs a female gives, whether she does so deliberately or not, that our relationship would change if you wanted it too.  Therefore, loving you as intensely as I do, yes, I abstained, and it’s been four days now, and that’s the name of that tune.”
              “Daddy,” the child said, “I want your sperm to go on your chest, not mine, so when you’re being a stag with me, I can feel your seed all slippery against my back.  Would you like to have that feeling, too?”
              “I want to look into your pretty, eleven-year-old eyes when I first enter between your legs,” the man said, “but if you’ve been successful with me while I’m lying on my back, I should be able to control myself and take you all hunched over your slim body while I feel your budding breasts with my wet hands.”
              
              Father and daughter.
              
              
              Again, time slipped a cog and it was Kate Fox, Nancy’s mother, listening to the conclusion of Dixie’s story in the park after school.  The girl had changed forever, or, more precisely, since she’d continue her happy schoolgirl routine unabated, grown forever.  There was a man in her life, and she felt him from her shaking knees to her suddenly dramatically swollen nipples.  “What would I be up against,” she wondered to herself, “if I was headed home to some pot-bellied, potty-mouthed, brutish, bearded beer hound instead of a trim, tall, affectionate athlete?”  Practically woozy with relief, yet her heart burdened for the moment with the plight of less-fortunate rag dolls, she and her best possible friend chatted on for a few moments, then chanced another kiss good-bye.  “I want to be with you very much,” Kate whispered in parting.  “Your dad, first,” Dixie said, her nipples suddenly visible against her uniform blouse, and with a shy smile she was gone.
              
              “You seem to have the lightest case of first-day-back-at-school blues I’ve seen in awhile,” Karl Nelson (Nancy Fox’s grandfather) said to his little third-grader, “which probably means your friend, Dixie, had a good vacation and you guys talked until you were blue in the face/”
              “I’m glad you brought it up,” the girl said shyly, “she did.  She had a great time all summer long, with Paul and Tim, oops, her dad, anyway, she clued me in on a lot of things she thinks I’m old enough to learn about without going off el deependo, and I trusted her, you know, because we’re the same age, so of course I was old enough, or at least I thought I was, but she knew she could trust me, so she got pretty graphic and explicit with all the things that happened, and I realized I wasn’t mature enough to take it all in and file it away for future reference, which is why I ran the last three blocks as if a dog was chasing me, which, when I think back on it, was a little silly, because I wasn’t hurrying home to be safe.”
              
              Let’s see, how to say this, not that it’s worth the effort.  Okay, Kate and Karl spent a lot of time at their computer, back in the hideous days of DOS, who’s greatest attribute, as far as they could tell, was that it would tell you you were wrong one million times in a row, while remaining mum on what might be right.  Anyway, it was in a day when channels had to be manually selected, modem, printer, primitive sound card; whatever.  Therefore, when Kate snuggled close beside her dad, who was lathering a cauliflower with mayonnaise before slipping it in the oven, he said, unable to resist the savage pun, though he was far from being a lewd man, “what you were hurrying to was portal danger, eh?”
              “Well,” the girl cooed in response, “if you were my brother, it would be to config sis.”
              “Or the other say around,” the young father grinned, “as I can’t imagine anyone conning your figure and not twining himself around your little finger, happy as a baby snake.”
              “But I don’t have a figure,” the girl noted.
              Karl didn’t say anything, just looked pointedly at her chest where her young breasts were straining against her blouse, just as Dixie’s had.  She smiled shyly at her father’s creep behavior, gladder than glad he was responsive to her rather than going all Puritan and retreating into some shell of yesteryear.  She didn’t want to seduce him, she just wanted it to happen as fully and completely as it had for her best friend; clinically, romantically, passionately, or outright rape, just so it was all of everything for hours and hours, and happened again and again until their showers together graduated from the sensual to the ethereal.   Her mother had deliciously, two years past, run off with, no kidding, the pizza delivery boy, and it seemed the very walls had breathed a sigh of relief. The barely tolerated trickle of books and magazines had quickly grown to a healthy torrent, money formerly wasted on cosmetics and fashion, diverted to the then-healthy publishing industry.  In months their relationship had calmed magnificently and they’d settled a dynamic routine of punctilious completion of homework, he made her copy every written document at least once after it was “complete”, her initial bridling dissolving under the warm smiles of her teacher and the respect, in those halcyon days, of classmates who focused on a kid, even a second grader, who knew her stuff.  After the homework, came, regular as the setting sun, two hour of reading aloud to each other, then off to bed without wasting a lot of hot water on ludicrous bathing rituals.  Seven days a week, the only variation that a good story, for example, a Georgette Heyer, would crash the beddy-by time by as much as half an hour.  Dixie and two other friends often visited for supper, the handsome father experiencing little difficultly in training his giggling guests in kitchen craft, starting with the perfect preparation, exactly according to the directions, of macaroni and cheese dinners, then advancing to a Sunday free-for-all when they knocked off six quarts of white sauce while microwaving numerous bowls of side dishes such as shrimp, chicken, and premium hot dogs.  Structured, with a lightning fast spanking for gratuitous non-compliance, yet flexible and free, as the man had no desire to see his girl go clicking off with the first brass buttons to march by for the glory of the fatherland.  And how long had it been since he had spanked her?  On second thought, had he ever really, or had she simply read it so clearly in his eyes the actual event was assumed rather than experienced?  And for the past year?  Not even a hard look.  And his obvious affection for Dixie and friendly way with Paul, the few times he’d visited.  There was a lot of water in their pond and it was beautifully set in the landscape.  She was a happy girl, and the cauliflower was in the oven, set to three-fifty.  Kate fiddled with the dials lowering the heat a hundred degrees and setting an “off” time.  “We may be late for dinner,” she said, looking shyly up at the handsome man towering over her, her nipples sore against her blouse.  Her right hand reached up to him, and, improbably, the shook, murmuring hi to each other.  “Don’t forget to carry me over the threshold,” Kate said as they climbed the stairs, the last words she spoke as a virgin wearing shoes.  They entered his room and he deposited her tenderly on the bed, kissing her curly black hair.
              
              “I’ll give you a little privacy and be back in a few minutes,” the young father said, adjourning to the bathroom where he quickly stripped and took a moment to gaze at himself in the full-length mirror..  “And I missed a thousand lunches for this,” he mused ironically to himself as he surveyed his flat belly and slim waist, then returned to his bedroom carrying a towel.  His pretty nine-year-old daughter was lying on her back, her legs widely spread, her hands behind her head, and her hips thrust as high as she could manage.  Karl displayed for two long minutes, standing at the foot of the bed, then crawled over her, mounted high on his arms.  Kate found him with her right hand, guiding him quickly to her, then wetting him before again placing her hand under her head.  The adult moved gently against his child, penetrating her one careful inch at a time, then bucking hard and fast to penetrate her delicate hymen.  He froze while she shed tears at the sting, then her hot welcome again flooded her big, brown eyes and she experimented with moving against him.  For half an hour the adult remained tense over the little girl, gradually entering high between her legs.  She lay inert, only her eyes fiery with the sensations grinding and ravaging her nervous system.  Then his tight belly with it’s streak of black hair running down from his navel was pressed firmly against her own slightly soft little girl tummy, and he lowered to her swollen strawberry-size nipples, his arms wrapping around her as hers did him.
              
              “No matter what they did,” Kate whispered, “this was always the best.”
              “Then you owe your pretty friend for saving us the time we otherwise might have spent on foreplay,” Karl responded.
              “And being so complete with each other, too,” the girl said, her voice sonorous and ragged, “because if it hadn’t been for her complete descriptions, I would have wanted to watch you the first time, so I’d know exactly what was happening in me later on.”
              “I hope you’ll want to watch sometime,” the male said, “I’d love to have it happen with your eyes on me, especially if you are mature enough to use your hands.”
              “Maybe,” the girl allowed, “but nothing in the world could be like this, and I may get greedy for the best, the whole best, and nothing but the best, besides which, I want to get pregnant as soon as possible now that mom’s gone and stopped wasting all the money and we have enough for like thousands of diapers, when we’d only need a few hundred, and Dixie wants the same thing, so we could pinch hit for each other, and another girl at school we know about who wants her brother’s baby, and have sort of a club built on pregnant ten-year-old girls, like an open, but not very open family.”
              “I suppose,” the father replied, lying gently on the girl, his mouth in her hair, “nature knows what it’s doing, and won’t allow a girl to conceive before her body is ready, by the time she delivers, to deliver, so we’ll call it plan A and save our pennies so I can shag you out of school and off to the hills of Appalachia where I can write and you can get rounder by the day.”
              “Then we’ll move back here,” the girl continued, “with an adopted child, and live happily ever after, especially if the welcome home party consists of Paul Peter’s coach, Jordan, his friends, and Dixie’s dad.”
              “It might even be a plan,” the father added, “to try living together.  Communes always fail, because underneath the altruism is plain old lust, but if that’s the reason, in the first place, plus the colossal savings of running one household, instead of three, it might actually be feasible.”
              “It would be fun to have so many people to read to,” the girl noted, to her father’s great pride.  Break two rules, silly things trying the one-size-fits-all approach in regards to age and familial relationship, and the pursuit of happiness became a duh’uh. 
              “Darling,” the man said, “just to be sure we stay on the same page in the future, I want you to know that you have my permission to stay at your friend’s house, alone with her father and brother, if that’s how it turns out, any time you want, and, to get into some optional stuff, and in the name of clarity from the beginning, yes, I’d like to lie close by your side while you welcome any of the males you mentioned, and I’d like to be with Dixie with you and her father or brother sharing the bed and a candle burning.”
              “Would you like to be alone with Paul, the way Jordan does?” Kate asked, detail minded as always.
              “Very much,” Karl said, “I had a homosexual experience with a young adult when I was a little younger than he is, thirteen, in fact, so I’m rather free of prejudice on the subject.”
              
              “There seem to be a lot of plusses headed our way,” the girl observed.  “I think it would be total perfection just being with you like this a few times a week for an hour or so, but no, there’s Dixie and her males, and Paul, and his, and Irene Ketchum, she’s the girl who’s in love with her seventeen year old brother, and that equals so many pluses, on top of perfection, it needs a new language, numerical and alphabetical, to even sum it up.”
              “They say if you read enough,” the young man said, “the intellectual joins the temporal, yielding a whole a whole lot wholer and more wholesome than anything the Beatles found tripping in Nepal, which is a bit of a plus unto itself.”
              “Maybe it really is time for a New Math,” the girl responded, “not just for the intensity of a particular extended family group, but for the number of groups.”
              “Poster Child with Child,” Karl said, “you and Dixie can both model.”
              “And you, too,” the girl whispered happily, “with three pregnant preteens to make sure nobody in the whole world fails to take a second look.”
              “You’re preaching to choir, darling,” the father noted, adding: “just be sure you’re here all day Sunday, just the two of us, so I get the entire message.”
              “How about Saturday night?” the girl asked.
              “If you want the answer to that,” Karl replied, “just imagine me waking on Sunday morning, with you warm in my arms, and wet with the seed of other beautiful males.”
              
              “And we’re meant to sleep before this happens?” the girl asked with a soft giggle.  Levity aside, Karl couldn’t imagine even closing his eyes on his beauty, much less wasting time in her presence in sleep.  Marathon dancers went thirty and forty hours, and they were hardly dancing, they were warm and comfy in his bedroom with every motive ever conceived to stay wide awake.  Still, it was a sweet and romantic though, and would inevitably happen, one day, so she kissed his arm and looked up into his spare, handsome face, whispering: “I love you.”
              
              Time passed, not the kind that in old movies would have been noted by spinning newspapers or calendar pages, more the length that might be symbolized by a burning candle.  Carefully, Karl would rise high on his strong arms and the couple would peer in fascinating at their mating bodies, then, loving the young girl and never wanted this to change or end, he’d settle again to her beautiful young breasts, hunching to kiss her neck as she welcomed her handsome father back with contented mews, trying not to will her child from his tall, athletic body – on the spot and immediately.
              
              Both had character as well as wit, both realized this was the zenith of their lives; nothing would quite equal it, both, well fed and watered, wanted the beginning to last into the approaching night, and yet this might not happen as they wished, character or no character, if they remind silent and lost in the sensation of their loins.  “Daddy,” the girl whispered after another ten minutes or so, “Paul told Dixie everything about his first time with Gordon, and she said it helped them keep control, so I wondered if you could tell me about the first time you got excited and something happened with someone else?”  Not the topic he’d have chosen to “maintain control” but, compared to the wet, pulsing heat of her muscular tightness, at least something of a refuge.
              
              “It was a homosexual experience,” the male whispered into the hair of his pretty daughter, “it happened a little after I turned eleven at a KOA in Montana.  We spent a summer there and dad spent a lot of time out with the Suburban taking pictures from a step ladder mounted on the roof.  Sometimes I went with him, but he didn’t need any help, so more and more I stayed around our trailer, then I met Jimmy Allen.  He was staying for the summer, too, so we made a special effort to hang out together and become friends.  This happened readily enough, he was a tall, slim redhead and it didn’t take a girl to see he was cute.  I was okay, too, I guess, so I guess we kind of got off on people smiling and treating us sort of special, just because, you know, I don’t really know, or perhaps I can’t say without sounding vain, but somehow we seemed to just satisfy people, and not just on the surface; we’d get homemade meatloaf at the restaurant, because every time we were there people would come in and the customers who were there would stay longer, and Kilen Jeffers, the owner, let us work in the kitchen and taught us how to work quickly and efficiently, mostly, clean-as-you-go, plus, both our families were told our money was no good for rent or utilities, I guess partly because Rick Ashley, the owner, liked us, and partly because – I know this sounds radically vain – people came and didn’t leave as long as Jimmy and I hung out together and circulated. “
              
              Kate tried not to shiver with excitement at her father’s prologue, and was aided by a feeling of chagrin that she hadn’t included this very special plus in her original formula, especially after Dixie’s graphic stories had spawned – perfect word for it – everything that had happened since.  The character lay still as wood, still as a mountain after a landslide.
              
              “Several of the campers  brought horses,” Karl went on, “and weird as things were happening, nothing would do but that Jimmy and I mount the various steeds so everyone could gather around and take pictures.  I guess it was an age thing; a time attractive boys go through when admiration becomes gender non-specific.  Yet, for all of this, nothing awkward ever happened.  We spent hours, by our selves, or individually, alone with Kilen or doing maintenance work with Rick, and they never tried to stand close to us or made anything but nominal remarks about girlfriends and the like.  Very cool, not that we had any real idea of what un-cool was other than media stories about priests and that kind of thing.  Eventually, we had two horses, and every second day, to ride out, and by then we knew enough to enjoy it; half history, half horsemanship.  So at seven we’d head out the gate and start exploring.  The rest is pretty classic.  Three or four hours in the saddle and it would be break time for the animals, and we’d be pretty ready, too.  We’d play cowpoke and lie under the clouds with our heads on our saddles and the horses grazing nearby.  On the third day, we found the pond.  We’d been riding for over three hours so we didn’t have to ask a lot of questions to figure out we wanted to stay.  We had sugar lumps in our pockets so we could let the horses range and just relax and think about swimming.  For awhile we resumed our earlier conversations wondering why people liked us so much.  We knew it was partly because we were brought up to pitch in, so we did, but there was more than, as the English say, two likely lads.  What was amusing was that we both felt it for each other, and I know it sounds silly, and even for eleven, it was, but we used to try imagine liking each other twice as much as we did, because that’s how others saw us.  It was hard to do but fun to try.  Oddly enough, I suppose,” the young father went on, “there was nothing romantic or physical between us that first ten days.  We’d grin stupidly at each other, but there was no awareness as there was with you the minute you walked through the door.  That changed in two giant steps that occurred within ten minutes of each other.  First was when our lazy bones decided it would be more fun to swim in the pond than lie back looking up at the blue western sky, partly because we could float on the water, and the sky would still be there.  That was the kind of thing we thought was funny.  
              
              
              “Jimmy, can I say something?” eleven-year-old Karl asked.
              “Your voice sounds a little funny,” Jimmy answered.
              “Because I suddenly thought of something,” the first boy said.
              “About going swimming?” 
              “Kind of, I guess.”
              “Is it kind of a private thing you want to say, because you do, you sound nervous.”
              “Yes.”
              “I was afraid I was the only one.  That you were cool, and we’d just fly into the water like kids in a movie, and while that would be okay, I was thinking if we talked about new stuff, private stuff, it might make it better being here alone together.”
              “It’s hard to know what to say.  But I want to say something.”
              “You know what’s on my mind, at the top?”
              “What?”
              “That even though we’ve spent a lot of time together and even spent nights in the same room, if trailers have rooms, and we’ve always kept our shirts on.”
              “Did you ever want to take your off and show me?”
              “Yes.”
              “Me, too.”
              “But I was nervous to do so.”
              “That must really mean something, and I’m speaking from having the same feelings.  If we were so embarrassed.  Don’t you think?”
              “Something.”
              “What if there was a pool at the campground?”
              “I would have wanted to go there every day, after everything else, yeah, but also, when I knew you’d be there, double yeah.”
              “Then we would have gotten used to each other in the normal way, you know, like gym, with lots of others around.”
              “My parents picked this camp because it didn’t have one.”
              “They say the older you get, the smarter your father gets – Mark Twain.”
              “So you feel the same way, because we’ve never seen each other, and are alone together, it’s different?”
              “Way different, and the more we talk about it, the wayer.”
              “But you want to, right?”
              “Until the horses have eaten so much grass we have to shoot the morons and walk home.”
              “Should we ask each other like really personal questions?”
              “You mean like ‘have you started doing anything in bed before you go to sleep?’”
              “Yes, to the first part, which concerned asking private stuff, and no to the second part, except lie there, you know, wondering what to do.  How about you?”
              “I know I want it to last all day, so maybe we should do the shirt thing for now, and look at each other, and then wear our underpants when we swim so we can get used to touching, if you want to try it with me, a little at a time, and we can ask more questions while we experiment.”
              
              “I guess now we know why we didn’t do it before.”
              “We couldn’t have kept a look out of our eyes.”
              “And I would have wanted to stand close to you all the time.  Never let you out of my sight.  Not healthy.”
              “And we would have crashed, because I would have been wanting the same thing.”
              “Tell me a secret.”
              “Okay.”
              “You’re taking a late shower after school, and you heard someone come in behind you.  Would you want it to be your coach, a man, or a friend, your own age, assuming of course, it isn’t going to be a girl.”
              “My coach or Tony Christian, he’s sixteen and an intern for the athletic program.”
              “If they got really close behind you, would you move to the next shower head or stay where you were?”
              “I think you were right about the swimming thing.  Let’s get in the water.”
              “Cool.”
              
              “Can you answer now?”
              “Coach, I think, if I had to choose.  I’d stay still if I knew it was him.  With Tony, I’d probably move slowly.”
              “If the coach got really close behind you and started touching you on the shoulders, would you give yourself, you know, lean back against his chest and spread your legs, or would you stand against the wall of the shower so it would happen a little at a time.”
              “I’d stand against the wall.”
              “Me, too.”
              
              At this point Fin Driscoll rode up dragging a heavy bundle of firewood behind his quarter horse.  “One of these days we’ve got to move the camp to the pond, or the pond to the camp,” he called from the saddle.  Both bathing males waved and blushed.  Fin had delivered wood twice before and they’d helped stack the resulting bonfires, trying not to notice his rangy, athletic good looks.  He was nineteen and his father owned the ranch they were riding on.  The boys stood shoulder to shoulder, smiling at the visitor.  
              “Be humane,” Karl said, “let that beast wander.”
              “Come in with us,” Jimmy added.
              “No suit,” the teen said.
              “We’re just wearing our underpants,” one of the boys responded.  “Not a girl for a mile, I don’t suppose.”
              “Well,” Fin said, “as it happens I’m not wearing any; usually do, today didn’t, so it better be some other time.”
              The eleven year olds looked at each other for a half second, then nodded in the direction of the rider.  “That’s okay,” Karl said, “we were kind of talking about stuff and we were just getting used to each other before we skinny-dip, too.”
              
              Fin swung his right leg over and dropped from the saddle, first tending to his horse, then squatting at the verge of the pond as the boys approached.  “You sure you want me to stay?” he asked.  “You look more than perfect together, and like you’re in no need of a third wheel.”
              “But that’s just looks,” Jimmy observed, “and you can’t tell a book by it’s cover.  We don’t know what to do.  We don’t even know what to do in bed at night before we go to sleep.”
              “Well,” Fin said, not chewing on a straw, “as it happened I learned on a hunting trip with my uncle and two of his friends, so numbers aren’t too important, I guess you could say as long as it’s two or more.”
              
              One of the horses came to drink and Fin slipped behind the animal, finally shooing it gently away and standing naked facing the handsome young boys.  He was fully erect, a seven inch circumcised shaft standing hot and hard out from his slim, Nordic waist.  For long moments the males stared at each other, then, as if drawn by an irresistible magnet, Karl and Jimmy moved to the grassy bank.  “Get naked now,” Fin suggested, “so you can watch each other as you warm up.”  Knee deep in water, the boys quickly shucked out of their suits, then climbed out of the pond to join their new friend.  They stood in front of Fin, not touching, a foot apart, arms hanging nervously at their sides, eyes flicking between each other’s handsome faces and down over their slim, pubescent bodies as their limp penises grew fast and hard into five-inch erections.
              “I got that way too,” the teen said, “just from uncle Niles telling me that mature stuff sometimes happened on hunting trips when several men were with a young boy.  That made me know I wanted what went on after we got to camp, so it’s the same thing with you guys; you want what’s going to happen.  Whatever taboos are floating around out there, whatever taboos and prejudices, it will feel natural to you, and, if you’re half as smart as you look you’ll lick the sperm off each other’s beautiful body, put your clothes back on, and head home wondering what the hell all the fuss is about, which information will be revealed to you the first time you have to be apart from each other or can’t find a place to be alone together for half an hour.”
              The two youngsters dried off with their tee shirts and all three moved under a prairie oak.  “Have you touched each other yet?” Fin whispered.
              “We were asking each other questions,” Karl said, his voice low and husky, matching that of their new friends with the deliciously creepy questions.
              “For example…?”
              “If we’d stay still in the gym shower if the coach came in behind us, then if we’d lean back against him, or hide against the wall.”
              “I hid when I was sure uncle Niles came into my bunk room and locked the door behind him,” their new friend whispered as they stood in a tight circle, not quite touching, arms hanging at their sides, heads bowed as they stared at each other, the boys especially quaking at the sight of a highly aroused young adult.  “Bill and John, his friends, knew what he was going to teach me, and the thought of them sitting in the kitchen sort of got me double excited and I stood against a Navaho blanket hanging from the wall because I’d never had such a big boner and I was self-conscious.”
              “Was he gentle with you?” Jimmy asked.
              “Very,” the teen replied, his penis swelling obviously as he relived the hoarse voice close behind him, and the patient coaxing of the handsome rancher as he began molesting his nephew, finally easing him from the wall and coaxing him into the kitchen where the other males were waiting.  “They all were.”
              “Could we hang one of the saddle blankets from a limb of the tree?” Karl asked.
              “Only if you’re cute, smart, and want to hang out from time to time for the rest of the summer.”
              
              You know the story about the yellow ribbons?  Well, take a guess as to how many blankets hung from the old oak tree in less than ten seconds, and how many boys stood very close to them.
              “I raised my arms,” Fin said.  It might as well have been a stick-up.
              “I’d like to take the older of your, first,” came the soft whisper from just behind them.
              “I’m almost twelve,” Jimmy Allen replied, “and Karl just turned eleven.”
              “Okay,” came the whispered response.  “I closed my eyes when my uncle put his hands on my shoulders so I could concentrate.”
              “Were you naked?” Karl asked.
              “In my pajamas, but they didn’t hide anything, and we’d been talking about it.   Bill told a story about the first time a man tackled him, then about the son of a friend who was eight years old, so I was more naked than I’d ever been when I took a shower.”
              “Do little boys like to do this?” Jimmy wanted to know.
              “If you’re very careful, and pick the right boy,” Fin said, “they not only love it, they make superb lover, and they never tell.  Do you have a child in mind?”
              “Yes,” Jimmy answered, “he’s eight, too.”
              “If something happens,” the teen cautioned, “be very careful not to ejaculate your sperm into his mouth until he’s watched you cum a few times.  That can turn an otherwise willing kid off, boy or girl.  Once they get used to it, kids will make their moms buy cupcake mix with candy worms in it, but if you drop a worm on a kid, he may end up with a phobia.”
              “How ‘bout if Jimmy told his friend not to get any sperm in his mouth?” Karl asked, knowing a thing our two about juveniles of the species.
              “It would be worth a try,” Fin laughed.
              
              For ten minutes they were silent save for panting and rasping breaths.  The nineteen year old gently molested the older Jimmy first, running his hands from the colt’s shoulders  down over his heaving flanks, then stepping into the almost twelve year old, he moved his hands over the boy’s belly as Jimmy instinctively reached to the branch holding the blankets and hung partially from his slim arms in welcome of the young adult now firmly pressed against his slender, preteen body.  “He’s really careful the way he does it,” he whispered to Karl.
              “It sounds like you really like it,” the boy responded.
              “Just this part is good.  You’ll know what I mean in a minute.”
              “Karl,” Fin whispered, “pretend you’re visiting Jimmy and instead of me molesting him, he’s touching his little friend right beside you while you have your eyes closed.”
              “Okay,” Karl said, and Fin noted the boy’s penis swell and surge up toward his childish belly.
              “We only live fifty miles apart,” Jimmy said to Fin, “and I’ve heard kids our age can travel faster than light if they have the guts to hitch, so you could do it, you could come and spend weekends, even during the school year, and I could get Mark over.  I know he wants to do this, he’s said he wanted me to teach him before we left on the trip, but I was too scared to try anything, even though I think he’s really cute and friendly, and I wanted to.”
              
              “Don’t plan on sleeping if you can get him to spend the night,” the senior male advised.  Gently he released the older child, moving behind Karl.  The younger boy stretched high in welcome, and the young adult’s hands found him just above the hips, moving slowly to his belly, then, where he’d moved up over Jimmy’s slim chest, he moved down on the second boy, finding his beautifully large and hard-swollen penis with his right hand as he steadied the youth with his left arm.  “This is called masturbating, but most guys call it jerking off,” he whispered as he began gently moving his hand.  “You can do it with each other, and, in case you haven’t found out yet, you can do it on your own penis, though legend has it that the smart boy saves his semen, that’s about the same as ‘sperm’ or ‘cum’ so he can get his partner excited by cumming a lot.”
              “What does it feel like?” Jimmy asked.
              “I’ll have to tell you later, or show you,” came a ragged whisper in response.
              “If I keep doing it, he’ll ejaculate in a minute,” Fin said, “and I think it would be more exciting if you younger boys watched it happen with me, first, because I don’t jerk off by myself, and it’s been like a week since I did anything.”
              “So there will be a lot?” Karl asked, feeling he had half an ocean simmering high between his own long, slim legs.
              “Not cups or anything like that,” Fin replied, “it’s more how hot it is when it starts spraying off than bulk quantity or anything.”
              “Do you want to watch, too, Jimmy?” Karl asked.
              “If you teach me to do with you what he’s doing with you, or even if you don’t,” the boy affirmed.
              “Well,” his friend replied, “you’ll have to ask me a hundred times, then you’ll know for sure, but it isn’t math, so I’d be pretty sure even if you asked once, at least sure enough.”
              “If the two of you ever want to run away,” Fin took the liberty of suggesting, “you’ll find yourselves very welcome at our ranch.  Two thousand books, twenty horses, a thousand head of beef, and so few products of the J you’ll have a hard time remembering you’re in the JSA.”
              “Say no more,” Karl said, “or you’ll have the lot of us on your doorstep in two hours.”
              “And we’ll be there to welcome you,” Jimmy laughed, emblemizing , with his words, many of the reasons the duo was taken as whole value and eagerly included.  There was nothing schlocky about them, no shekel  glint in their bright eyes, but, giving cultural credit where due, both were beautifully circumcised.
              “How long was it before your uncle took you out where Bill and John were waiting?” Karl asked, feeling a tightening through his midsection.
              “About half an hour,” the tall Nordic beauty said, “he got me completely naked, and I pulled his briefs down.”
              “Was there any sperm while you were alone with him?” Jimmy asked.
              “No,” the teen said, “he just told me what would happen, that he’d stand behind me like I am with you, while Bill and John sat on the sofa, and that I’d get to watch them cum off, then he’d jerk me off on their bare chests with his hand wet with sperm.”
              “Is that what happened?”
              
              “Yes,” the young adult said, “only I guess I was more mature than he thought because once I saw how they did it I wanted to kneel between their legs, with him behind me, and do it while they lay back on the sofa and arched their backs.  Uncle Niles said that would be okay, and he added that there would be more sperm if they were extra excited, and they’d get that way if I let him masturbate on me.  He showed me how to stand with my hands behind my head and bend back a little so my belly would be stretched out.  We stood sideways to them and Bill handed him a bottle of baby oil.  He dripped some on his penis, then started jerking off.  He asked if I’d ever seen it happen, and I said no, then he said he was cumming and showering all over my tummy and my chest with thick, white spurts of his semen.  I took him a long time to finish, and I guess there were two or three shot glasses of pearly white cum splattered all over with most of it low on my belly so it dripped down on my boner, which was against by stomach.  When his spraying stopped, he got me back on the floor.  He showed me how to wet my hand on my body, then put my hand on John, first, because he was twenty, and Bill was nineteen.  I played with the top of him, then did what I’d watched uncle Niles do, trying to grip pretty hard and kind of fist the top of his, his glans, the purple or pink part, at the same time stroking sometimes all the way down and holding tight for a second.   The sperm on my hands was just right, sort of slippery and sticky, and it made his penis feel extra hard and hot in my hand, as you’ll find out for yourselves if you masturbate each other with my cum on your hands.  In a minute his legs were splayed as wide as he could get them and he was bucking up off the leather camp sofa.  Then he did what uncle Niles had just done all over me.  He sprayed in big, ragged showers that went everywhere.  Somehow I knew to hold him very low and very tight when his sperm started, and after that he just grunted and came all over me and Bill, because I held him so not to much would splash on the leather.  Uncle Niles took my hand and I got it wetter on John’s body, then he moved aside and Bill got in front of me.  He tensed up like iron as soon as I touched him, and I only played with him for a few seconds before he warned me.  I went hard and low on him, and it happened even harder and faster with him than it had with my uncle and John, totally awesome.  It was two minutes before he nodded to me.  Uncle Niles brought me to my feet, then took me in the classic way, his left arm around my bare chest and his right hand stroking me.  He did it for a minute, wetting his hand on my belly which had more of Bill’s sperm than anybody’s, and that made me have my first full orgasm.  I sprayed almost as much as the adults, all over their swimmer’s chests, then collapsed like we all did.  Everything got back a hundred percent to normal half an hour later, and we went on with the hunt for three days before it happened again, about the same way.”
              
              His story finished, Fin gently released Karl and positioned himself against the tree, his legs spread wide and arched in display.  “The way a boy does it with a man,” he whispered to Jimmy, “is stand at his right hip, then put his left arm around his waist, and masturbate with his right hand.”  In a moment, the older boy was in position.  “Karl, if you want to get wet from me, stand close in front of me.”  That took care of the second preteen.  “It will happen very fast,” Fin warned, and he was right.  In less than a minute he grunted his signal, and, as both boys stared and Karl’s slightly soft, white belly it was covered by the intense, hot spurts of the young adult mal.  The tree held, the heavy, gushing spurts trailed into heavy, milky drips, and the man collapsed slowly to the ground, the two naked young boys in his arms.  He taught them to kiss then let them practice as he gently molested their twining, perfect bodies.  He taught them to masturbate each other for an hour, changing something each time he felt one of the boys tense to a certain point.  They became progressively hotter and more ardent with each other, liking to salt their tongues before returning to kissing and becoming frank and open in masturbating each other as countless thousands of cowboys had under the big blue Montana sky.  As the eleven year olds reached fever pitch, Fin once again dominated.  He positioned Karl, the younger, on his back, showing him to hold his legs widely spread.  Jimmy he took around the waist with his left arm, settled him between his friend’s knees, and, once again wetting his hand with his copious sperm, wet the bottom of the supine boy and the penis of the kneeling boy, then guided them carefully together, entranced as their eyes riveted to each other.  “Thrust hard,” he whispered to Jimmy, “I won’t let you hurt him.  Indeed, he hunched over the boys, molesting them, but guarding Karl carefully so Jimmy could  be as wanton as his supercharged young body demanded.
              
              “Do you love Karl,” Fin whispered in Jimmy’s ear.
              “Yes,” the boy hissed.
              “Then I’m going to trust you to be free with him.  I can even go behind the tree or take another swim, if you want.”
              “No!” the two heavenly voices chorused.
              Nonetheless, he did carefully release Jimmy and return to his kneels, moving somewhat to the side so he had a perfect view of the older boy mastering his young friend.  Jimmy suddenly became almost still he was so gentle.  His five inch penis was over half inside his beautiful young friend, and he moved forward with a series of fast, tiny stokes, no more than inch, mounting the coltish boy fully in a few long minutes.  As their bellies came had together, he settled to Karl’s heaving chest and the boys made out like it was the first time they’d ever tried anything in the world.  The sight of their mating preteen bodies jolted the teenager as only his first time had, and in less than a minute he felt himself tensing once again.  He moved sideways on his knees, shuffling through the prairie grass until he was at the faces of the beautiful, kissing boys.  He eased forward, probing their lips with the tip of his hard penis.  Both boys shared him avidly and the feeling of two tongues and four lips brought his sperm hard and fast making Karl and Jimmy squeal and tongue each other frantically.  His second hot, long climax over, the tall, athletic teen returned to Jimmy’s waist, reaching around the mounted you male and finding Karl with his right hand,  Jimmy rose high on his arms and trained his eyes on his young face, occasionally looking down between their glowing young bodies to watch the way Fin masturbated the younger male.  Jimmy experimented with moving his body against Karl and both boys’ eyes glazed as the sensations of a wet erection in a virgin body washed and surged over them.  Holding the boys in his strong arms, the young rancher could feel them both tensing.  “The older boy sprays first,” he whispered in Jimmy’s ear, slipping his hand again between their young bodies.  Jimmy responded immediately, staring into his young lover’s beautiful eyes.  “I’m going to cum inside you,” he said and Fin felt him begin a hard, fast pulsing almost immediately.  “Oh, god,” Karl whispered, stunned by bolt-action almost clicking hardness of his beautiful friend’s release deep inside his body, “I never wanted to be a girl before, but if I could get pregnant from you I’d let them cut me in half and sew me back together again.”  Then both fell silent as the transfer of hot sperm between their young bodies went on and on.
              
              Gently, Fin eased Jimmy from off the eleven year old, wetting his hand again with the flow of semen from where the males were joined, then he helped the children reposition themselves, and guarded Jimmy for a minute against Karl’s thrusting, releasing the boy when he was half inside his lover, while remaining hunched over their panting, sweating young bodies.  Again their belly’s met solidly and their eyes glazed.  “Cum in me,” Jimmy whispered, causing his friend to tense rigidly over him.  “I love you,” Jimmy whispered, and Fin could again feel the hard, fast pulsing of a child’s tender loins  as he began ejaculating, keeping a strong pace for half a minute, then slowly collapsing so his lips once again found those of his beautiful young mate.
              “Don’t think this makes you gay, or anything,” the teen whispered to the boys as they lay in a sweating, panting, exhausted heap, “it’s just experimenting and doesn’t mean anything, one way or the other, as far as the future goes, other than that you’ll probably be friends, likely with girlfriends and wives and kids, okay?”  Both boys nodded happily, cleared of nagging doubts, and slowly they revived and went skinny dipping.”
              
              “Oh, daddy,” Kate whispered, “ I am a girl, and I can get pregnant, are you glad?”
              His answer made the girl choke and gurgle inarticulately.  “Yes,” she hissed, “yes… yes… yes…!” then she fell back, head lolling, finger’s toying with her stag’s heaving chest as his heavy spurting deep in her belly went on and on.  She was amazed it stopped while she was still alive and lay all but unconscious, a shy smile on her face.  “Darling,” the young father said as his breathing began to return to normal, “why don’t you get on the telephone and come up with some story about a business matter that’s calling me out of town tonight, and see if there’s space at Dixie’s Inn for a homeless waif.”
              “I want to stay with you tonight,” the girl, still panting lightly, said.
              “No, love,” Karl said gently, “this is incest, and I hope it goes on ‘till I’m pushing up daisies, or at least the day before, but I want you to have your first orgasm in the arms of another male as a symbol of your freedom, of you being a beautiful young girl, not some kind of twisted sister under your old man’s thumb.  Plus,” he added, “I’m of a selfish breed and I while I can imagine nothing ever happening like what just happened between us, the next best thing will be knowing you’ve been complete with a handsome young male like Tim or Paul or both of them.”
              “Okay,” the girl said, her eyes newly on fire, “but tomorrow night, business problem solved, Dixie stays here so Tim and Paul can have the same experience with her.”
              “I’ll want you with Gordon’s sperm, too, before too long,” Karl whispered.
              “Yes, darling,” the girl hissed.  A few minutes later someone said: “we better check the cauliflower.”
              
              
              The bridge was in sight which slowed the traffic once again, but they crossed it in half an hour, then were able to fly along at thirty or forty.  “In hopes of not boring you,” Neil McAlester said, “I’d just like to repeat my refrain concerning typing.  You tell a story that bodacious times awesome, squared, and with a little discipline, something you have plenty of, in general, you can play a role in sustaining the Internet, which is quite useful because the Net and Web are about all that are sustaining the world economy.  Bill Gates worked for us, and I’m sure, whether he admitted it or not, he’d be glad to know a pretty kiddo like yourself was pitching in, creating markets for computers in her own unique way.”
              “Do you think it is possible to play a role?” the girl asked, “to make families less uptight about having complete relationships instead of just bouncing tempers off each other, which is about par for the course in most households.”
              “Probably not in a measurable way,” Neil replied, “because Nifty and Kazaa have not been mentioned even with all the stories of priests and young boys.  It’s off the table for even informal discussion in any public forum, but, yes, too, because you’ll be able to talk to individuals, one at a time.  Most of these will be members of the congregation, but others will be on the edge, subconsciously interested, but, as you said, up-tight.  But remember, you wield a two edge sword.  You have to again and again remind your readers that an unwilling child is a lump of cold dough, utterly uninteresting sexually; keep their hands off, but read, be a better person, and maybe something exciting will happen as time goes on.”
              “I think it’s cool that Nancy’s granddad let Kate go to be with Paul and Tim,” the girl said.
              “Exactly,” Neil responded, “every account I’ve ever read about incest, every film that’s touched on the subject, is a derivative of the Jew’s box for incest: a fat, hairy, sour geezer pinioning a child, then abusing her verbally and in other ways.  One stereotype fits all, typical of the insidious sickness they create every time they come of influence, throughout human history.”
              “I like Molly Katz,” Billie-Jo said.
              “Darling,” the father responded, reaching over to pat her leg, “it’s not personal.  I wouldn’t have an objection in the world if you married a Jewish boy one of these days, it’s cultural.   It’s an obsession with things you can hold in your hand over all, and an extreme limitation of creativity engendered by their religious rituals which amount to wailing the same god-forsaken, droning chants, apparently until the crack of doom, completely, with their inferior minds, oblivious to the fact that if there were any form of deity, he’d be sickened unto his soul of their scuttling, puling and emotional vomit in His name.  It’s a narrowness of intellect, I mean if you’re the chosen, what’s to think about, already?  The supreme irony of creating the god diddle that chose them is lost on the Jewish mind, incomprehensible, and this mental inferiority devastates us when it comes to children’s televisions, and it’s cheap squeaking puppets, and overwhelmingly in the film industry, which is why every theater in the country makes more off Orville Redenbacher than they do off the schmos with the heavy lenses and stunted, money-grubbing spirits.  Remember,” he went on, “there are the odd zillion or so blue-eyed, blond-haired Anglos I wouldn’t want trailing you home.  You’re going to grow up in a complex world.  Avoid Jewish things; fashion, glitzy homes, cheese-ball entertainment, but not necessarily Jewish people.  I hope I’ve made it as clear as possible, and you have as much liberty to find your own preferences and develop your own attitudes as Nancy’s mother did when Karl sent her to be with Dixie.”
              
              “I just think it’s funny you never mentioned this before,” the girl said.
              “I was afraid of prejudicing you with my views,” the man said, “of even the possibility of making you a mouthy anti-Semite, unlikely as I guess that would be, but of indoctrinating you so that you might let things slip.  You’re old enough, now, to put important issues in at least partial perspective.  To distinguish between bigotry, and outrage at an often deliberately alien culture which is so badly damaging the essential America, which was plenty rotten enough under Anglo dominance.  It can be said that the blacks play a similar role, but there is an essential difference.  American Negroes, backs to the sun, were organic to the dynamics of the Industrial Revolution; there would have  been limited use for the clever devices and systems of the Anglo without their Herculean and global contribution over at least two centuries.  And take comfort in this,” he added, “the best ten percent of Jews feel exactly as I do, if not more so, because they have finer insights into how ludicrous and destructive their race actually is.  Some kid that grinds away his youth turning out a perfectly-spelled Torah scroll is unlikely to make many happy camper lists when he reaches adulthood and is shocked to find out, say on Nifty, that there’s one whole fucking lot more to good writing than fussy little nitpicking arrangements of letters.”
              Billie-Jo shuddered at the thought.  “Whatever the horrors of them,” she said to her father, “they certainly get to suffer for each and every one.”
              “Every cloud is supposed to have it’s silver lining,” Neil said, petting her again, and they drove on, father and daughter. In a moment Billie-Jo concluded the subject by saying that if clouds had golden linings, things would be gloomier yet for the chosen.
              
              
END OF BOOK II
              

