       

“THAT VALLEY” – FILE II


       “Why did you wait until I was seven?” Nell asked Reyn.
       “What happened at the end,” the boy explained, “happened a lot because we didn’t need to be naked together to share it.  What I mean is, it happened the other way, too, with him standing over me.  What happened in my mouth was pretty intense, and maybe kind of neutral at the same time, which doesn’t make much sense, but it always made me feel kind of light and good, afterwards, so it happened a lot.  Darl was a very potent young adult, his seed probably carrying a maximum of, well, call it male essence.  The result of our being together two or three times a week, both monogamous and not given to divergent pleasures, was that I kind of grew a little faster and, well, a little bigger than most boys.  Even when you were six I didn’t think it was safe, then you didn’t put on much of a growth spurt, and I sort of did, so I knew it wouldn’t be safe, then I began falling in love with you, so I no longer thought of you as my kid sister, and began not caring if it was safe or not.  I mean, I could hardly kill you.  I’m not like a horse or anything.  But it’s going to hurt at first, and it’s going to make you walk stiffly for awhile.  People will know, but than that’s probably usually the case.  Put enough feet to the fire and the stories would come pouring from every family.  A lot of things, Nell.  Just waiting.  Watching you display more and more over the last few months, make your wanting known without being anything but sweet and delicious.  That was like living a year each day, and with things the way they are in the world, that’s nothing trivial.  Waiting.  A morning prayer, every morning, that a run away truck or wasting disease wouldn’t claim you before I heard you cry out beneath me and felt your tears on my chest.  The chance to pour myself unto you, to get American corny about it.  Selfish.  Wanting you for me.  Then you traded your radio for a new set of batteries, and I became the happiest fourteen year old yet to live.”
       
       “How strange it is,” the pixie mused.  “For the first time in my life I feel like praying for something, not out of ritual, but really, and think of the blasphemy!  Why it’s monstrous.  No color of cloth on earth would share my prayer, light a candle, or bless me”
       “And yet,” the fourteen year old advised, “should you seek a consultation with this minister and that priest, in private, seal of the sacrament, you’d probably come to find that Jesus loved you so dearly his disciples would glory in understanding your wants and meeting your needs.”
       “And I wouldn’t have to pay like we usually do?” the girl asked.
       “If you were lucky,” the boy responded after a moment, “you might even reverse that old collection-plate gag.”  The girl thought her brother very droll and funny even while nurturing just a trace of a grudge against Coach Darl for so endowing her brother they’d had to postpone their talk for perhaps two whole years. 
       
       “Were you ever able to be naked with him?” the girl asked. 
       “We called it going to the fire,” Reyn replied, “hiking by the area we’d first visited on skies.  The first time we were like I don’t know what.  Very bashful.  We made up a game by closing our eyes then sort of playing hide and seek.  Touching each other and seeing who could got the furthest without peeking.  We didn’t do very well, but it was fun, anyway.  He’s so beautiful lying along a log on his back, hands behind his head, his left leg on the ground for balance.  We’d pretend we were artists working with models and carefully arrange each other.  What we liked best was lying on soft grass, on hour backs, me on top of him with his hands going all over me, then touching me while we talked about things like compressing weeks of passion into hours and who knows what else.  My big thrill was when he let me get him wet, first, because usually it was the other way around, and feeling how excited he got – you know, extra – when my hand was slick with my own watery sperm, where usually the end happened with his hand wet with his semen.”
       
       “Did that make it happen faster?” she wanted to know.
       “Abut twice as fast,” the boy answered, “but you know, it’s kind of hard to be precise because before I’d spray off on him we’d usually have been naked for half an hour more.  But starting from being active with each other, yeah, about twice as fast, plus quite a bit more.  If you had pictures of both ways, it would be easy to tell which was which.”
       
       “I liked the part about being naked and lying on the grass,” the girl murmured, “did you ever roll over so you could feel his bare chest against yours?”
       “That’s how we came together when we were playing our hide-and-seek game,” the boy said, “it took awhile, as against just grabbing on to each other, but the feeling was very special.”
       “Say no more,” Nell whispered.
       
       The athletic you teenager quickly stripped out of the remainder of his clothing, the seven year old girl copying him garment by garment.  Closing their eyes they simulated a game of hide-and-seek as well as they could on the confines of their improvised, but very pleasant, bower.  As it had been when he was eleven, the first touch of the girl’s chest against his own was equivalent to what many conventional might experience in a hear.  She felt tiny and soft, he rugged and highly potent.  Just firmly touching they slowly opened their eyes.  “Hi” they both whispered.  
       
       Gradually, their arms folded around each other, the girl wriggled slightly, and in a few minutes was lying on her back on her beautiful brother’s heaving chest.  His penis was huge between her legs, seven full inches, thick, and utterly reliable looking.  How amazing a wonderful boy was attached, a quiet, sensible beauty who’d earn well for his tribe, perhaps their tribe of little monkeys and geniuses.  In her life she’d never be jealous of another female sharing him, how could she possibly blame a girl?   
       
       “Nell,” Reyn whispered after his hands had roamed every beautiful inch of her tiny body for long minutes, “it’s going to happen just the way it did the first time with Darl.  Hold me low down with your left hand and grip he hard and pull down slowly with your right.  You’ll start getting splashed immediately, so be ready, and if there’s too much hold me to the side and let it spill in the snow.”
       “Will there be any for inside me?” she wanted to know.
       “If there’s time,” her brother replied, “you can roll over on your tummy, move back against me, and maybe I can spray some in you without going up inside your body.”
       “If that happened,” the prodigy asked, “would it make it easier for us, later?”
       “It’s very slippery at first,” Reyn acknowledged, “but pretty quickly it gets sticky.  I don’t know if it would help or cause problems.”
       “Then it’s not all romance,” the girl mock-sighed, “we’ll end up experimenting just like other boys and girls do.”
       “What would be absolutely amazing,” Reyn observed, “would be if we lived in a world where you could get up and report for show-and-tell.  Say to your fellow second grader’s that having sperm inside you made it easier or harder to take a mature male.  Even if they giggled, you know, the girls, they’d still learn.”
       
       No, their aspiration to advance the world and set things right was not solely frivolous.
       
       Nell way lying with her hands behind her head, giving herself completely to the lingering touches and feather caresses of her stallion buck.  “Can I touch you at all before it happens?” she asked.
       “It feels like you could for five or ten seconds,” Reyn answered to her responsive nod, his hands now everywhere on the arching, panting, naked child, legs spread wide.  She wriggled lovingly to his gentle ministrations, arching with a gasp when his right hand moved high on her right leg and kept moving against her.  It was hard, keeping her pose of welcome and will, but her hands remained behind her pretty braids and she made do by whispering his name over and over.  Three times he brought her to gentle, fairy cums, and each time she gurgled happily and encouraged him with soft hisses and mews deep in her throat.  Nearly an hour had passed.  The heavily laid fire burned feely, it’s heat collected by the clam-shell design of the lean-to.  The blaze, the story of Darl, their nakedness and closeness, their lives, all moved inward, all centered between their young navels and knees, and her hands came free.  For a few seconds she felt him go to steel in her hand, gripped him hard – he was so rugged – following protocol, and lowered her right hand, instinctively wetting it on a heavy slick of seminal fluid lodged under his full hand heavy foreskin before holding him vertically and  taking him slowly and fully.  His sperming was immediate, the silver spray jetting against the bows roofing their shelter.  So astounded was she with Reyn’s display she gaped in petrified awe before responding to her own needs, and bringing his huge, spraying penis hard against her tender breast, thence allowing him to slick her white and deep just has Darl had cum off on him a few years earlier.  In half a minute the real fire began subsiding, and she gazed tenderly and still awestruck as his pulse lessened.  So enthralled was the act between a mature teen and a wildly young girl she nearly forgot her own suggested ending to their first time together, and so with some haste rolled, her slippery chest and belly helping, on her stomach, moving urgently back.  He helped and they found each other in an instant.  Pushed firmly against her, but did not force.  “I’m cumming,” the fourteen year old groaned at the full touch of the tiny maiden, and Nell, holding still, could feel a renewed heaviness to his pulse as he ejaculated four heavy sprays of semen just inside her.
       
       Again they rolled, very carefully, this time the stag on top of his fawn.  “Hi” they whispered again as she spread her legs widely and moved carefully up against her mature brother.  They were still perfectly positioned, Reyn slightly on his elbows and knees, the girl with her arms around his middle back, legs ready to wrap around his muscular buttocks and pull him to her.  So ready, yet for ten minutes they just enjoyed wiggling gently together to the rhythm of his tender thrusting against her.  His hugeness and her tiny body.  Her hard, athletic banjo string muscles, thighs and belly, the soft stroking of her hands on his flanks and back as they stared by firelight into each other’s wide, blue eyes.  Could there possibly be more?  Wouldn’t a single, quietly passed drop of his spend fill her belly?  Wouldn’t that be enough for the clerics to deny and forbid?  God sure as hell didn’t think so.  And the kids were on his side.  Reyn was guided by unseen hands, encouraged by unheard voices, and responded with power and vigor.  He began taking the little girl, and her legs flew around him with a slap.  His flaring head entered her, and he bucked hard but short.  She did shriek, she did cry, and he felt her tears against his heaving, bare chest.
       
       In a few minutes it began to be complete with the children.  “You’re way inside me now,” she whispered as his huge penis moved to have its length high between her slim, white legs.  He hissed in response, and, though his eyes had grown slack and vacant, he still stared down into her pretty German-girl face.
       “More sperm is coming,” the teen managed to whisper after half an hour, “then we better stop for awhile.”
       “Yes and no,” the girl panted.
       “Are you sure?” he panted, caring displacing the animal in his eyes almost in an instant.
       “I want you to fuck me,” she hissed, biting his collarbone and shaking.
       
       There, she’d said it.  No more dirty little secrets between them.  He wilded at the word, not quite fully raping her, but in less than five strong minutes his lower belly was hard against hers; he was home, he was a man and man enough to hold his manhood.  She panted, resting, for another five minutes, then, with the energy of a tiger, began her own fill rape, lunging against him, biting him, raking his back with her tiny fingers as she pounded on him with her tiny feet.  He responded lie another tiger, now hard and fast with her, studding fully, lunging fully, faster and faster until she screamed and went wild, so out of control she violated their one rule and yelled “fuck me” once again, then her eyes rolled fully back, her head lolled and she died to the outside world.  Twice.  three times.  Then the fourth, gentle and tender as a spring breeze, a gentle shuddering accompanied by happy gurgling as she felt once again the pulse of him so incredibly deeply inside herself.  “Good-night” each whispered, both very thankful the skier and scout  knew now to build a lasting fire (and he was good at woodcraft, too).
       
       
       Note to vet readers.  Just this minute.  Over heard very clearly while I was in the kitchen.  “Mama,” Tonton to Daisy, “Elston wants to take my boty.”  I’m, no kidding, tempted to go downstairs and say “Elston, why don’t you come up an sleep with me?”  I had to go down once a month or so ago for a long distance, collect-to-me, call, and, while I rarely even knock on their door, it is my home, they are my guests, not tenants, so with just a quick knock I opened the  west bedroom door.  As far as I could tell, both boys, nine and thirteen, were in bed with the beautiful – and I mean it  - Queenie, their fourteen year old sister.  They shuffled quickly while I closed the door, Queenie came upstairs to take the call, and that’s the end of the story, for the moment.
       
       
       Heinz could almost sense them.
       
       “Do you want to talk a little?” he asked, assuming they all might appreciate a break in the story telling.   “If nothing’s happened this far, I think we’re pretty safe.
       “Okay,” came Aaron’s soft whisper.  He was a beautiful hawk faced, black-eyed boy, delicate as a girl with no trace of femininity.  Indeed, it was little Nammi who, in her black-eyed face, had some of the boyish essence of her fourteen year old brother.  Both were slim and delicate looking, yet could play, sing, and dance with great energy until late in the night, providing they got ample sleep.
       
       “How are you fixed up for coats and blankets and things?” was the Nazi’s first question.
       “We could start a store,” the musician replied, then giggled.  “I mean is that a cliché for a Jew, or what.  One extra blanket, and he wants to go all mercantile.”
       Heinz laughed.
       “We’re fine,” Aaron answered, straight.  “The only thing is, there’s are a lot of things, I guess you’d call them issues, we wanted to talk about while we were learning about your friends, but we were distracted by the pace of the chronicle and so we’ve just been sitting and moving closer.”
       “I’m glad you didn’t find any of it funny,” the blond noted, “whispering’s one thing in the fog, but a fit of the giggles might be something else.”  They, the eight remaining children, were now enough in sight Heinz could see them nodding and sense their quaking.  One slip of one hand off one tightly clenched lip, and there’s be half a firestorm, that’s how cute and intelligent the little group was.  But there was not slip, and maybe none of it was that funny in the first place, so their lives were saved.
       
       “You probably know the safest way to go,” Heinz said to his age-mate, the leader, Aaron, “so, if you want, you could take me to what you think is the safest place and I could tell the story of Max.  He’s older than Josep, Reyn and me, but he was just drafted so he doesn’t have much rank.”
       “How old is he,” Aaron asked as he led his group, not of eleven, deep in and beyond the cemetery, and far enough into a wood they could light small torches and see what was around them.  They’d only been missing for a day, but had managed to carve a cozy thicket from the summer undergrowth.  In daylight, it would be virtually undetectable, and at night the nearest bad Nazi was a million miles away, for awhile.
       “Nineteen,” Heinz answered, “but very boyish.  We’re almost brothers in appearance.
       “Does he have a sister?” ten year old Nammi asked.
       “Seven,” Heinz answered to a collective gasp, “two sets of twins, so they’re from thirteen to seven years old.”  Another sustained gasp.  Maybe his stories weren’t very funny, but wasn’t this response just as rewarding, besides being so much safer?
       
       
       By the way, not that I left anyone hanging, the “boty” incident passé peacefully, and all is quiet.
       
       “Seven sisters.  Nineteen.  It was almost beyond comprehension that their friendly enemy had saved the best for last.  Gustav and Gretchen.  Heinz and Josep meeting them naked and highly aroused at the door to the captive animal.  Reyn’s hours with the tiny Nell.  And now it turned out Max had seven sisters, six not yet in their teens.  Was it a paean for war?  If out of the slaughter, such a night as was ahead of them could occur, was that not vast compensation?  Only one thing was certain in every young but well-read mind, any outcome would be better with it than without it.
       
       Here, so far, so foggy, they were able to indulge in a fire and spent two hours cooking and getting both acquainted and re-acquainted.  Filled with chicken and fish, the missing children updated Heinz on their various last-they-new stories, Eva Kaluer, summing up for the tribe by allowing that all their parents had to abandon them, trusting English speaking children with at least a few local friends could move south, where, accompanied by their parents, unlikely be successful at any rescue trip in the first place, they’d be dead ducks.  For their part, the children were delighted.  They had oodles of everything, could have started a market if it had been safe to do so, and, as their parents said, local friends.  In fact, the very plethora of transport options had been what drove them into hiding.  They needed time to hear all ideas and decide what would be best. Nor were they half-bad actors.  Their minds already made up; half devastated with being made up, they nonetheless became the picture of shy confusion, agreeing, (and remember, these are all Jewish children) that it would help “so awfully” if, yes, Heinz would be nice enough to tell Max’s story.  Feeling there might be a laugh in it, after all, the handsome boy agreed, suggesting that huddling together in the warm evening air by the warm fire might be favorable to a more vivid story by virtue of less clothing.  In less than a minute all were naked, Aaron and his sister holding Heinz as the young Nazi protected the girl from his brother.  “It really is important she be a virgin, tomorrow,” the outside leader whispered to his colleague.  “Cheating and conniving at this stage of the game would be a disaster, everyone would know.  If she tells them she’s been spilled on, is honest about it, that will mildly enflame, but if she bears the seed of a male in her belly, she’s just another slab of meat.  It’s simple, but it’s war.”
       
       “That goes for all of you,” Heinz whispered.  “Whatever your other options might have been, this seems to be the one you’ve chosen.  If so, stick to it.  Obey?  It’s probably about  fourteen hours  you’ll have to imagine the feelings of brother being with sister and boy being with attractive young men.  You do your part and they’ll do theirs, starting tomorrow on Herr Werner’s farm.  And that’s not much more than half a day from now with ample time to devote to sleep.  It won’t be easy, especially for you girls now coming to realize what you want most in life and dreaming of the feelings Nell experienced with Reyn.  You boys may spill freely.  The men will understand, having been boys quite recently and retaining sympathy for the condition.  And yes, the girls can help the boys, but not brother and sister.   
       
       “Does helping mean with our tongues,” a shy voice asked, and eight year old Hilda, younger sister of Jayz Mullen stood as if she were in class.
       “Yes, sweetheart,” Heinz softly reassured the pretty naked girl.
       “Am I too mature?” Kristen, the thirteen year old asked, indicating her high, pert teacup size breasts, with their golden, upturned nipples the size of small grapes.
       “They’re pedophiles,” Heinz answered, “not peda-morons.  They will love you.”
       
       Already with the first laugh?  Highly averse to smiling for very good reasons, Heinz made an exception, and the woods finally filled with the unbottled mirth of excited kids.. 
       
       Heinz took attendance
       
Kristen Mage – (13)             		here
       Eva and Allen Kaluer (11/12).  		here 
Aaron and Nammi Wolfe (14/10)    		present
Karl Weidman (13			here
Freyer Gunter (13)			here
Hilda and Jayz Mullen (8/14)		here
              Henry Greene (12)			here



     	A hard look from the young Nazi assured no brother was with his sister.  It would take him awhile to have names at the tip of his tongue, and, in the meantime, he felt the group had done a good job of forming small, attentive clusters, in every case brothers and sisters with their backs to each other.  Fed, warm and happy, an occasional slap at a nocturnal fly, and the group settled in to listen to the story of Max Nussle and his seven sisters.
     
     “If we keep him exhausted, in a chemical sense,” the eldest, Ingrid, thirteen said to her six pretty, younger sisters, “we should be quite safe from his seed, though who would want to be, well, that’s another question.  If we wash ourselves, having depleted him on our chests and faces, with a strong solution of vinegar and water, we’ll be safe as whores, who rarely conceive.”
     
     The strapping nineteen year old, rangy and long-boned, was nowhere to be seen and the young females were making good use of his absence.  They plotted, planned and connived; schemed their little hearts out, and waylaid their stallion on his return.  Tilda, the eight year old and baby of the tribe was sent out to the barn.
     
     “Max,” she said, “Ingrid and the rest of us had a big, long talk while you were out in the orchard.  If you had to guess do you thing it was about dolls and pretend tea parties, or something else.”
     “Well,” the nineteen year old said, “if you were part of it, it had to be something about dolls, but other than that, no, I can’t guess.”
     “Quite a lot has been happening with us, and especially the older girls,” the little blond, big-eyed darling explained, “but there’s something that hasn’t happened.”
     
     “Well,” the boy mused, “you and Abba are too young to jump Zel over the gate.  Maybe next year.”
     “Don’t we have Zel because there was no gate?” the tyke asked, improvising as best she could in hopes of pleasing her six older sisters.
     “I guess something sort of accidental did happen,” the beautiful, tall athlete admitted, flushing slightly.
     “Good,” Tilda said, “then we’re on the same subject.”
     “We are?”
     “Well,” the girl mused, “maybe we were headed there, rather than exactly on it.  But no gate is a good starting point.  Not in some big conceptual way, no gate to heaven, so everyone gets to go, for example, or philosophical way, no gate to the future, so we have to make it up for ourselves, but kind of more practical, as in, for another example, seven sisters who love you very much, and no gate.”  Her eyes had that special sparkle of the bright baby sister going through her paces for a handsome, beloved older brother, and Max found it most engaging.
     “Then,” he said, “assuming this gate represents a beginning and not a terminus, maybe we should talk about it, strudelette.”
     
     “I know we act like normal kids,” ‘ette began, “and we’re a happy flock of chicks, but there is another side, or, to be mysterious, let me say half another side.  A secret side and one that’s abhorrent to convention, though we like it well enough – wish I could say that about convention.  It’s something that happened with each of us over the winters.  Sometimes it happened sort of alone, and sometimes with two or three of us, together.  But half of it never happened with any of us.”
     “And it has something to do with a gate?” Max asked, scared stiff at the dawning inkling of where beautiful little Tilda was going with her nervous chatter, and bigger and straining harder than he’d ever imagined he could be.
     “Ingrid knows the most,” the pixie replied, “and she says we younger girls may be stiff-legged for awhile, which will affect our gait when we walk, so if you stretch things a little, yes.”
     “Riding Zel leaves you stiff,” the teen observed.
     “That’s pretty close, too,” his tiny sister responded, “being mounted, I mean.”  He’d been wrong about his erection, it was yet bigger, yet harder.  The eight year old prattled on, her voice dropping unconsciously to a breathy whisper.
     “When we had our portraits done over the winter,” she said.  “Berne Fimeister, the artist.”
     “He was nice,” Max noted of the itinerant artist, “and he beats half they artists in the books when it comes to his oils.”
     “We all liked him,” the girl agreed, “and, as I mentioned, we all spent a lot of time either alone with him, or with two or three of us alone with him.  Mostly for painting, he was very serious, but he also worked hard and fast, so even though a lot got done, there was a certain amount of time when we could do other things.”
     “And that had nothing to do with painting gates on the farm,” the young man said.
     “Nope,” she giggled, “and not Zel, either, though that’s closer.  If you want to know all the details, come up to Ingrid’s room.  We’re all there, mother and father won’t be returning from Aunt Ketchren’s until tomorrow, and we’ll help with your chores to make up for the time you lose.”
     
     Unable to speak, had he been able to think of anything to say, Max allowed himself to be led across the courtyard to the spacious farm house, up the stairs, down the hall, and into the bedroom of his eldest sister.  The youngest parked him on the canopy bed and planted herself in his lap, happily facing her sisters who were gathered close, sharing chairs and hassocks.  
     “He used this room, remember, because of the north light,” Tilda stated rhetorically.  (They all thought their brother’s portrait had come out by a tiny bit the best of all ten.) “so everything happened here.”
     “Mostly I think because he looked like a boy and so much like you,” Janine, a twelve year old twin said, her sister Lynn, nodding at her side.
     “And it was all our idea, eleven year old Nan added.  “He never asked Ingrid to cut our dresses low in front, we did.”
     “And how could he leave our bras off?” the other eleven year old twin, Jill, asked.  “It’s pretty hard for anyone but a girl to do that.”  All nodded.
     “He let us make sketches of him, too,” nine year old Shelly completed the default roll call, “so we were able to suggest things, you know, in the name of art.”
     “Make an Impression,” Tilda giggled, showing a rare juvenile side to her puckish viewpoint of most everything.
     
     With a little bounding around several of the girls produced a sketch book and piece of paper.  They carefully opened the book to a certain page, covering all but the top of the image with the blank paper, then slowly drawing it down.  Max immediately recognized his old friend, and, as the paper lowered against the sketch, there was more and more to recognize.
     
     “Did you ever see him like this?” Lynn asked.  All the sisters were blond, blue-eyed, and pretty, with this twelve year old perhaps by a pinch the most comely of the lot.  By now the screening paper was about half way down the tall artist’s athletic chest.
     “Yes,” Max whispered, flushing, but glad to be where he was and mature enough to realize his nervous embarrassment would pass in time.  He excused himself, rose from the bed and walked down the hall to his own bedroom, returning in a minute with his own sketch book and resuming his seat on Ingrid’s bed, Tilda in his lap.  The girls gathered around and were almost immediately glad they had done so.  Opening to a certain page, the nineteen year old emulated his sisters by covering his drawing with his hand, then slowly drawing it down.  As children will, they made a game of it, huddled around so all could see, girls moving and inch, boy moving an inch, lower, tension mounting palpably, and lower.
     
     “Tell us,” Tilda whispered, all nodding immediately.
     “He had to push me to get me started,” the brother said, “about half a gram.  I was curious and wanted to see some of his portfolio.  He said he had a conventional one he used to get commissions, and another private one that was more himself as the artist, but that he’d not usually show to clients.  I guess that was about half a gram, because that’s the one I wanted to see.”
     
     The amateur sketches of the visiting artist (not the first they’d ever tried)  were excellent and the children were content revealing them slowly to each other.  By this time in Max’s story, the solar plexus on both works were exposed, leaving a lot to the imagination.  (All were equally thrilled; the boy new to the girl’s picture, the girls to his.)
     
     “Confucius says a gate is nothing but the mind,” the youngest chirped, knowing the ancient said nothing of the sort,  resuming discussion of what had become a bit of a fad topic.  But did she have a point, however accidental?  Were the, for the moment, gates of the lowering paper and lowering hand, barriers to what lay beneath, just of the imagination?  Why were they gated, so to speak, in the first place?  How was that better than if they’d all showed up for the painting sessions, thought nothing of dropping their shifts and linen, and been upfront and outward starting from hour one of day one?  Yet here they were acting the same way with their mature brother as they had at first with their twenty-five year old guest; nervous, shy, seeming to lack self-esteem and a positive outlook on things.
     
     Max had six years on Ingrid and his amateur work showed it, solidly placed, confident without being bold.  It became the favorite, and (this can’t be good news to feminists)  would have been even had the girls never seen each other’s work before.
     Quantity or quality, either way you measured it, these girls shared an Alpine avalanche of sensitive, private information, and the thought that their handsome and well-loved brother did too, left them temporarily speechless as each mulled over taboo, sin, deviance, and the abnormal as best they could conceive it.  Surely they’d find reference points, but let’s not take chances, let’s help.  Draft horses.  There was a sin that made sense.  Live at a Haufbro?  All would agree, allowing that maybe a little artwork, after hours, might not reverse the spin of the planet.  There were so many more.  Inappropriate places, inappropriate situations and inappropriate partners.  But were they brave young German girls, or not?  Had ever they been taught by parent, kin, or friend they were forbidden from adding a mythical chapter to the history of their country, just because they were females?  What if Thor had been a girl and sane?  Questions like that distracted but did not deter and with a nod from Ingrid all seven stood shucked themselves naked and stood in a semi-circle in front of their brother off of doing the best the could to encourage and coax the best possible story from him.  Tilda managed his belt and buttons, and the other girls brought the thirteen year old Ingrid to their front as she was the only one of them with ripening breasts, high and pert on her heaving chest, pink nipples jutting high