
POSTER BOYS


FILE II


       Wilma, cute thing, slipped back into the world of lullabies as if it were the most natural ending possible.  
       “Would you like to take a shower with me?” Will asked
       “Yes,” Jens nodded, following the rangy athlete who was getting hard just looking at the willowy boy and imagining being pressed against his wet back and running soapy hands over the slim, smooth body of the now also hard eleven year old. 
       
       They held hands moving down the hall, enjoying the sensuous reality of walking naked and hugely aroused together.  Past the bathroom, and a full cook’s tour, it being, after all, his new home, including the laundry room in the cellar.  This was a comfortable, secluded, and informal place.  Will McFee {and introduced as Nat, sorry] launched his nephew onto the drier and he hiked up on the adjoining washing machine.  “This is my mom’s house,” he said, “I grew up here.  I don’t know if you and Wilma talked about things while you were alone together, but I assume you may have because she loves telling me about her dates with Phil, Brandon, and Zye.”
       
       “We talked quite a bit,” the boy admitted, “and I really liked it, especially about what happened after Aunt Marge left, but I didn’t have much to contribute.”
       “That’ll change as you grow up,” the man assured the boy, “you’re extremely attractive, and have that excellent of quality of taking it hot but not taking it too seriously, so all eyes will be on you, and you might be embarrassed to know how little overstatement there is in that observation, and, though it will vary from time to time, you have to sort of decide if that part of your life is secret and private, or if you’re willing to share details of what may have happened in the past.”
       “I think that way,” the boy responded, “asking questions and listening and answering questions and telling.”
       “Well, it’s kind of a novelty within a novelty,” the young adult noted, “but just be aware some people think it’s creepy, even though everything else is fine with them.  If you want, you could practice by asking me some questions.”
       “Okay,” the boy whispered, and thought a moment.
       “Did something happen with you here in the laundry room?”
       “You’re the right mate for your little cousin, and that’s a fact,” Will smiled.
       “Was it with a man?” the boy whispered, smiling shyly.
       “He was nineteen,” the uncle said, “another branch of the family, the Abbots, from Chesterfield.  I was your age.  I suppose it’s not a total coincidence he has Katharine, his nine year old sister with him, I mean in the sense it gave me the idea of you being the first for Wilma.”
       “I’m glad I asked,” the boy quipped bashfully, his penis probing high between his tender, preteen thighs.  Will reached slowly across with his right hand and fingered the slim, six-inch shaft.  “Wilma must have loved doing this so much,” he whispered as he eased the already panting boy’s foreskin carefully as far as it would go.  “You’re beautiful.  All eyes.”  The boy leaned against his powerful older lover and spread his legs.  
       “Did you get molested, you and Katharine, or was it rape?” he asked.
       “Only at the end, just like you and Wilma,” the man replied, “but it started the same way, too; with getting to know each other, which we did a little anyhow, because of the family connection, and then being sure Katharine was old enough to, you know, understand that there was more to flirting than tickling, giggling, pinching, nipping, caressing, kissing, and the all hands all over treatment than just a game for a rainy afternoon.  Then Raym asked me a lot of questions starting with the one about girlfriends and sleepovers which are easy to get out of if the older male’s voice gives you the creeps.  Katharine thought he was a Neanderthal baboon, but it was easy to tell she loved the fact he was being as careful as he could be and she could trust him like totally.”
       
       “Had anything at all happened with you?” the boy asked.
       “There was algebra and there were the pleasures of the flesh and I guess the fact I have two hundred employees at age twenty-two shows, except for Raym, Katharine and Marge, which path I chose.”
       “It’s nice to know you don’t have to place every dot inside the lines,” Jens said.
       “The challenge of not doing so,” Will said, “sharpens you to other challenges in life.  I know it probably sounds kind of sophomoric, but I feel that unless you are full, you can’t have edges, and how do you define those edges, in business or anywhere else, unless you carefully test them, not for the sake of testing, but to discover.  A few dots outside the lines once in awhile add depth and character to the painting without turning it into an abstract, murky mumbo-jumbo.”
       “Like Kafka,” Jens responded.
       “Bull’s-eye,” Will laughed, thought why on earth anyone would laugh at the likes of Franz Kafka will always be a mystery to this humble practitioner of the literary art.
       
       “Did Katharine want to get pregnant?” was the boy’s next question.  It drew a low whistle from Will.  “What I said about edges,” he replied, “well, you’re the proof.  You’re a totally full human being, and you have enough edges to go after the Gordian knot.”
       “I just kept seeing it in Wilma’s eyes,” Jens said, “something mild will this way come, and if she could pull it off tomorrow we’d be out buying diapers.”
       “Katharine was avid,” the young father recalled, “she’d sashay by us with a doll, asking us to guess where it came from and bemoaning the fact it didn’t have a little brother or sister to play with.  Half of it was just cute, prancing around stuff, but when we got down here I guess the washer and drier, with their domestic implications, sort of booted the silly schoolgirl back upstairs, and her eyes got huge, and she didn’t want to hear any answers including the word No.”
       
       “Sometimes freedom from choice is best,” Jens deadpanned.
       “As long as my daughter is always your first choice, I agree.”
       “That’s what I meant.”
       “That figures.”
       “I guess having so many edges,” the boy mused, “means you either sharpen them on friends, or end up in prison.”
       “Yes,” Will agreed with his young partner, “but some handy advice is to always remember how little difference there is between an altar and a scaffold.”
       “M’mm,” the boy nodded, and they brought the conversation back to eleven years before.
       
       “The machines were new then,” Will explained, “so they were a great attraction to us boys as well as Katharine.  That gave us enough to talk about to let the girl work her tricks.  She left for awhile to scour the house for so much as a dirty sock to run through the machines, and came back empty handed, which was actually my fault, but I didn’t want to appear effeminate, so I didn’t admit to washing anything.  That left one option.  I guess it’s pretty obvious what that was.”
       
       “One we don’t have,” the naked boy replied to his naked uncle.
       “Ah, accepting your own answers, are you?’ his uncle quipped, deliberately confusing the boy because it made him color, and was just what they were talking about, an alternative.
       “So, was it as scary as meeting Wilma on the porch?” the boy said.
       “Katharine has us in fits,” Will affirmed, “and what was really scary was that nobody was home,  We had hours alone together.  If it had been different Raym and I could have taken on the roles of kindly older curmudgeons and fended her off without upsetting her.  But for a whole day?  We looked at each other and sort of shrugged that we knew it would be impossible without saying anything to each other.  That’s when he sort of changed as he asked me the girlfriend stuff.  That meant he agreed with his sister, so he didn’t even have to have a creepy voice to get both Katharine and I totally excited.  She’d brought one of her dolls downstairs with her, and hopped off the drier and put it down for a nap in the corner, then came back, totally victorious.   Her time had come to be a woman, and no infantile zombie, however related or beloved was going to interfere.”
       
       “So much for dirty socks,” Jens noted.
       
       “She was incredible,” his future father-in-law agreed, “it took us half an hour to get the laundry in the washer.  She became Queen of the Suds, supervising all aspects of her domain, making most of them up as she went along.  She pointed out it was her last time on earth to kid around as a virgin, and she wanted to have at least one nice memory of that stage of her life.  Said, wryly, by the way, because she had plenty to be happy about without having anything to do with mature stuff.  On the other hand, she was completely ready.  You know, you had to have been there.”
       
       “…and done that,” Jens said, his uncle laughing at himself for forgetting the boy pretty well knew where he, the uncle, was coming from.
       
       For novelty, the children and their nineteen year old brother and cousin let the washer fill, holding the safety switch as the tank gurgled full of cold water.  Then the nine year old dumped in a small handful of detergent and went in search of that, in her words, which wouldn’t allow the water and soap to go to waste.  In the name of the environment, she domineered over the males, inspecting each garment before she removed it and, should one be obviously spotless, rubbing a pinch of dust gathered from under the old laundry room sink to condemn a garment to her bubble pot.  Careless in her childish enthusiasm, the nine year old managed to soil her own frock, almost imperceptibly, but first.  A teacher at heart and here to teach, she had the boys huddled behind her practice with her catch and zipper before finally giving permission to remove the dress so they could inspect her bra and panties while she in turn inspected them, using her fingers rapidly on even suspect clothing.  Her assumption that outer clothing was always subject to laundering stopped at the underwear of her male companions.  Because of the sensitive and possibly even embarrassing nature of the intimate apparel, she deemed it necessary to be absolutely sure none was removed gratuitously.  Neither boy had ever been touched by a pretty schoolgirl in her silk under things, and her chest bulged tantalizingly high and pert against her training bra, so all the girl had to exercise was a modicum of patience, and, yes, the underpants of both the nineteen year old and their eleven year old cousin were destined for a tumble in the machine.
       
       At this point her spiel and prattle ended.  “Mine first,” she whispered to Raym, moving in front of him so he could fumble with the catch on her bra.  No more games.  She held both Will’s hands as her tall brother bared her chest and dropped the bra into the washer.  Shy, she stood hunched over, but the young adult behind her reached gently under her chin, pulling up, then eased her shoulders back against his heaving chest, as Will stared at what was happening, wondering, budding intellectual that he was, why on earth anyone would want to waste such incredible beauty, much less forbid it.  
       
       Responding to the heavy breathing over her right shoulder, the girl continued raising her hands, openly displaying for her eleven year old cousin by lacing her finger’s behind her brother’s neck and arching her back.  The welcome was as beautiful as she was and Will gently took his cousin, his fingers tracing her chest and then over her distinct emerging mounds and big, hard nipples.  Raym hissed ad the sight, he molested his sister all over her heaving belly and chest, then let his cousin draw him to his sister’s budding tits.  The game was now so over that all three pulled spontaneously apart and shucked their last garments, turning off the washer which would wait mindlessly for a proper load.
       
       Naked, they stood apart, inspecting one another up and down.  Raym was hugely built, thick and circumcised, nearly eight inches from his lower belly, with a sexy curve to his left.  Will was a full two thirds the size of the wholly mature teen, his beautiful six inch shaft looking perfectly suited to the nine year old female. “Hi” they all said nervously, the female trying not to giggle at the old advice about being careful of what you wished for because you might get it.
       
       “Katharine,” the teen whispered, “have any boys touched you yet?”
       “Mr. Hanks, my art teacher, wants to,” the girl whispered.
       “He coaches little league,” Raym said to Will, adding: “You’re lucky sis.”
       “I know,” the girl replied.  “I’m not using you boys or anything, and I’d be here with you if Rob wasn’t an issue, but the truth is I want to be hot and absolutely perfect for him.  Think of the challenge.  Keeping a man nine years until you’re old enough to lead him by the nose, or, well, just lead him through a wedding band.”  Her companions nodded soberly.  Again Rob Hanks wasn’t an issue; they were simply there as family.
       “Whose baby do you want?” Will asked.
       “Fraternal triplets,” the girl giggled, “or we could be realistic and reproduce in sequence.  I just want girls.  I want a hot, wild house with a husband I can depend to be home whenever he can be.”
       “An artist is a great choice,” Raym said, “he can work at home, so, you know, he doesn’t pester the kids too much, and I’ll bring you on at Cyclone Labs as a consultant, so money won’t be an issue.”
       “That seems like a lot,” the girl said, “on top of all the babysitting we’ll need.”
       “Will can help out,” the teen said, and the eleven year nodded immediately.
       
       “Would you let Rob rape your daughters on the rug while you were watching television?” Will asked.
       “If they were cuddling together I wouldn’t ask any questions,” the girl replied thoughtfully, “but he and I feel the same.  An adult with a child is fundamentally nature’s most beautiful creation, give or take a scenic view.  I think I’d want to watch them by candlelight on red silk, not the fluorescent glare of the tube, is if we’d have one in our house, in the first place.”
       “If you have more than two daughters it would be a total waste of money,” young Will observed, adding: “We have candles upstairs.”  He’d never walked naked through his house and enjoyed the experience, especially the stairs.  In addition to a pair of candle holders he retrieved half a window treatment.  It wasn’t red silk, more like purple velvet, but his common sense told him his pretty little cousin with her high, pointed breasts would look good on it, stretched and arched like a Playboy bunny awaiting Daddy Warbucks.  He wondered if Raym had begun touching his naked kid sister, really handling her the way she wanted, getting her ready to be taken and left.  But no, they were still staring up and down at each other as he returned and helped him with the candles and spreading the velvet curtain over the back of a derelict armchair.
       
       “How do you think he’ll pose you?” Raym said after thanking their host, “on your back or on your tummy?”  Queen of Suds yielded to Satyr artists posing nubile model.  Setting her this way or that, standing back to look for a minute or two, then carefully rearranging a slim what leg or elegant arm.  There was not much they could do when it came to adjusting her pretty young breasts, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t try, willingly sharing the task as they huddled, male bodies pressed together over the beautiful schoolgirl.  
       
       “Raym,” the girl whispered at one point, “I’d like to – you know, in the name of art – see what you and Will look like together, if that’s okay with both of you.”  They didn’t even bother to nod.  The nineteen year old moved behind the naked preteen, circled the child’s heaving chest with his strong left arm, then, as the boy spread his legs wide in welcome, found him and began masturbating, standing three or four feet from the velvet-covered chair so his little sister could take in the entire image of a man beginning to molest a boy. 
       “If there’s anything more beautiful than that,” the girl announced, “I sure hope I live to see it.”
       “There are always mirrors,” the panting Will said as he raised his hands in back of him, linking his finger’s behind the powerful athlete’s neck and arching to the wide-eyed girl.  She raised to her knees and reached for her cousin, carefully noting the manner in which a young boy was masturbated.  Raym eased Will forward slightly, guiding her hand for a few strokes, then began molesting the panting, arching eleven year old as the girl pumped his big penis fast and hard.  This went on until the younger boy was half a quaking wreck, then Raym eased him from his female cousin off of the fact they had hours together.  The children guided their older relative into the old armchair and wriggled onto his lap, his penis with it’s intriguing bend jutting high between their tender, sweating bodies.  For a long time they snuggled and cuddled in comfortable silence.
       
       “I’d love it if Rob could paint the two of you being together as males,” Katharine said.  “How can anyone think society shouldn’t have the flexibility to include something so beautiful as a young man teaching a child?”
       “But what if there were billboard on every block for cologne, ‘Billy learns best when I wear “Billy”? Billy being the brand name, you know, just like they used to have thousands of them, billboards, featuring models blowing out delicate puffs of tobacco smoke.  Don’t you think there might be overexposure?”
       “I don’t know,” the nine year old replied, “I mean I wouldn’t want to be watching Arnold and that kid in “The Last Action Hero”, and suddenly they disappear – significant music playing – into a men’s room.”
       “But how about if a whole film was devoted to a man teaching a boy?” Will asked.  “If you knew, ahead of time, what was going to happen, and, you know, the man was an artist like Rob and posed the boy in different light and positions while he got him naked, then, at the end, did with him what Raym just did with me.  I think a scenario like that would carry almost any kind of story whether you tried to make up something funny or just played it straight and leaned on beautiful sets, cast, and photography.”
       “Well,” Raym said, “they crank out three hundred features a year, and when March rolls around they can’t even find anything good, so it’s hard to see how a well-made an unapologetic man/boy film could be worse than what’s out there.”
       “Also,” the girl responded, “there should be a sister or daughter of one of the male leads.  Show those poor kids out there who are all hung up on having been raped, a, that some young girls love it, and, b, that in most cases it’s not as big a deal as banging your thumb with a hammer.  It’s just physical, unless you bring a lot of your own bewilderment to the scene of the crime and let it grow inside you like some kind of baby from hell.”
       “I’ve got an idea,” Will chipped in.
       “What.” sister and brother said in unison.
       “Well, they say you can’t heard cats in Shoah business, but how about if you used baby food?”
       Both digested for a second.  The precocious girl was first with her answer.  “H’mm,” she mused, a little theatrically, “you could serve chopped liver to make dem cats cum.”
       “I know one sensationally lucky art teacher,” Raym responded, giving the kid a squeeze.
       “Imagine her,” Will added, “not even twenty, cute as she is now, with a daughter cute as she is now.”  That was a tableau to keep them happily cuddling for ten minutes, both males remaining the hardest they’d ever been in their lives thanks to the child’s wriggling and whispers of endearment.
       
       “Have you had a frank talk with Rob?” Raym asked, “because there are physical things, you know, with a male that can happen kind of suddenly and unexpectedly.  Has he told you anything about that?  Warned you that it can actually be messy for a schoolgirl to be alone with an adult?”
       “He thought it was best I have that talk with you,” the pixie replied, “because he taught Renee, his little sister, and he says a dad or an older brother are the best, plus he was also frank about saying he only wanted to cum inside me when we become lovers, because nothing else is nearly as good.”
       “I’d substitute ‘nearly’ for ‘quite’,” the teen observed, “but I definitely agree, and I don’t blame him, nothing against a male showering a willing kid, or cumming off in his or her mouth, but being inside, in each others arms, looking into each others eyes, so comfortable it can go on for hours, that’s impossible to beat, though I’ve read a boy my age being with – inside – a boy Will’s age is physically awesome, at least the first few times it happens, or, I guess, allowing for everything I’ve read, it’s awesome after it stops hurting the boy, which might be the first few times.”
       
       “Don’t believe everything you read,” Will suggested, “because maybe they’re wrong about the hurting part.  If it happened very gently and the boys really liked each other, it probably wouldn’t hurt.  I mean why should it.  I don’t like to be gross or anything, but things have occurred in the bathroom that were, well, pretty dramatic, and they didn’t hurt.  They even felt good.  So I think it’s just a matter of being gentle and taking a lot of time.  Maybe half an hour.  And if a boy’s favorite cousin in the whole world and future wife of a hot artist were on the scene, comforting the boy, encouraging him, and masturbating him, well I know about Billy not being a hero, but I still think it would be survivable.”
       
       Katharine looked puzzled.  “If you did that,” she said, “I couldn’t watch Raym cum.”  There was nothing petulant in her voice, rather traces of a disappointment she couldn’t hide.
       “The feelings of it happening inside a boy,” the teen said, “are probably kinda exaggerated in the books I read.  I don’t think Will would giving up too much if I spermed on you, Katharine, rather than up inside him.”
       “I want to watch him against you, too,” the boy added, settling the issue.
       “I want you to share, too,” the girl smiled shyly, “then rape me fully while my chest is still wet so I can feel your bare skin against my nipples.”
       
       Ah, sounds good, but when?  They’d stumbled across a lazy niche and seemed to want to grow it.  “I was thinking up more cologne ads,” Katharine whispered after a long silence.
       The child had done well with the subject, previously, so she received responsive nods.
       
       “All of them would be art photos of you and Will,” the girl began, “but not naked, maybe in jeans and bare chested, you holding him from behind, you know, with your left arm around his boyish chest and your right hand down near his belt, holding a sculpted bottle of the product.  The captions would read:  ‘Why do you think our manly scent is aloe-based.’  ‘Is he old enough?  Ask “Billy”.’  “Until he’s old enough, there’s “Billy”.’  ‘Champagne wishes and “Billy” creams.’  Oh, she seemed to have a dozen of ‘em: ‘Should you tell her about “Billy”.’  ‘If there’s more to your life than “Billy”, purchase price cheerfully refunded.’  ‘”Billy” don’t be a zero.’  ‘”Billy” and the kid.’  ‘Boy or bottle.  Billy”  ‘Try the half-once size of “Billy”.’  ‘If you’re indecisive, be indecisive all the way.  “Billy”.  ‘What’s she got on “Billy”?.’ ‘Warning! The adage: “a little competition never hurt anyone!” does not apply to “Billy”.’
       
       That’s how well-read kids pass their time.  Silly, but it’s part of the bonding process and thoughtful adults overlook much and tolerate more.
       
       “What,” Will mused aloud, “if you wrote it up?  If you took a good, old-fashioned story, say about advertising, and some bold kids who were doing okay and definitely knew what they were talking about, and sent in to “The New Yorker”.  Explicit.  Graphic.  The three of us experimenting naked in the laundry room.  Fantasies about things we would like to happen in the future, again, as graphic as the real thing, what really happens when a boy gets excited and shows his little sister or his little cousin the first sperms she’s ever seen in her whole nine year life?  Do you think they’d have the guts to publish it?  For everyone from the publisher to the press foreman, specifically including every lawyer in the house, to sign off on it, staking their careers and perhaps lives on the interpretation of redeeming social or artistic merit, as against gratuitous sexual exploitation.  Would they all go to prison, maybe twenty or thirty people?  Or would it be a huge gong drowning out the southern revivalist and their militant rehashing of stale superstition and lifeless myth?”
       
       “They published a lot of Thurber,” Will noted, “maybe if you could think of some, you know, humorous side.  Make everybody think it was a joke.  Funny, ha-ha, you know what I mean.”
       If she was cute at all times, she was never more so than when pensive or boyishly thoughtful.  “They wouldn’t want to deal with someone like Thurber again,” the girl said, “he was a peckerhead and they won’t be in the mood for another clown for years.  We better think of something else.”  Her companions nodded, and so simply was New York both dismissed and saved. 
       
       “I’m trying to think,” Katharine said after another restful pause, “if it will be as exciting to cuddle with you later, you know, after it’s happened, because now when I touch you and feel you against my chest I know you’re potent.  Animals.  Almost dangerous   Full of sperm.  That under other circumstances you’d be tearing at each other that your seed might dominate that of your rival.  That I might be a chattel of war, handed between you and shared with others.  That’s what your fullness represents to a scatterbrained romantic like me.  And it makes me wonder about girls who do get really raped.  How much of the trauma is circumstantial.  I mean, that sounds dumb, but think about it.  First, eliminate the winos and drifters, males who smell, are obese, are drunk, or for some reason so unappealing even an orderly would cringe at dealing with them.  That’s probably ten percent of rapists.  Okay, next step.  Change the circumstances.  It doesn’t happen in the back seat of a car or a stairwell for five minutes, but the male takes the girl to a reasonably comfortable environment, then fully assaults her.  But he doesn’t let her go.  He rapes her repeatedly over two days, then lets her go unharmed.  Wouldn’t simply getting used to the same physical acts everyone indulges in frequently in their lives negate the insidious invasion of contemporary psychology with it’s ‘fate worse than death’ attitude?  Wouldn’t getting to know the man as a guy on the bus cancel out his monster vows?  Take another extreme.  In the Victorian era, girls were traumatized to the point of misery and dysfunction by the slightest inappropriate touch; deemed themselves from that moment on as ravished, impure, and unwholesome, not fit for the company of a gentleman.  Alice doesn’t live, anymore.”
       
       For nine, she knew how to hold an audience, and it was not just with her nubile maturing body, perhaps the tiniest bit chubby – more sleek than that – with her almost shockingly mature nipples jutting from her beautifully formed chest.  She had an unquenchable mind and spirit of fire.  She was one unbelievable little girl, and all luck could be measured against knowing her.
       
       She was right.  It was academic, of course, rapes happened as they happened, but nonetheless useful; could guide sensitive therapists to a common-sense ground where they’d be able to separate the circumstances – how about it if it was just a mugging, without sexual overtones – from the psychological aspects which a healthy mind would dismiss without a shrug.  All were well enough aware of the obvious to not include truly violent assaults, psychological or physical, and knew that plenty of fit, adult men were walking around with assault phobias resulting from a frightening experiences.  But the middle ground was so vast.  Where well over half of events occurred.  No excessive violence, just a rough and perhaps painful mating, like a single round of amateur boxing, and it was over.  Yes, disease was an issue, but separate.  Yes, a shrouded figure bursting from your closet would be upsetting, but how was it all that different from the bogey man of childhood?  
       Could you actually teach it in schools?  Resilience.  It’s out there, it may happen to you, be prepared to not let it bother you beyond any normal physical reaction.  Don’t even live your life as a paranoid to avoid it, live freely and just hope the guy doesn’t have a dose of something, which you could easily get from a welcomed lover.  Perspective.  Forest as well as trees.  Reason over emotion as we are human over animal.
       
       Had they actually dozed off for a moment?  There was a mutual start and some giggling.  Katharine was embarrassed, here she’d been daydreaming about her huge male animals hung low with hot seed and she’d wandered off into the labyrinth of cultural mores and institutional attitudes.  That wasn’t much fun.  So what would plan B be?  Her agile mind came up with an answer very quickly.  It came off a thought she was having about how it would be impossible to gild this lily – cuddling in the laps of two mature and highly aroused young males – and gild led to ‘geld’.  That was a momentary stumbling block, and the last thing she wanted, but then science intruded and she realized that she could, at least partially and temporarily, geld both males and lie where she was knowing which male/female option was the most enticing, potency or post-entry; and whether their hot cum was more intellectually exciting in their hard, athletic bodies, or slicked on her budding nipples and  high between her own young legs.  Yes, intellectually, it was a poser, but while there may not be common sense to gravity or air brakes, there can be elsewhere, and in its name complex issues may sometimes be reduced to common expressions like: it’s time to find out.
       
       Power and command.  Picture a flaming tank charging out of control down a steep incline.  A human wall is needed to stop it before it crashes into a schoolyard.  Who could give such an order?  “I think it’s time,” the pixie whispered to her brother.  Time to build the human wall?  Time to get dressed and go upstairs?  Time to feed the dogs.  It mattered utterly not at all, completely irrelevant, and, if not frivolous, still something of a turned around joke.  It could have been time for execution, and it would have mattered to neither Raym or Will.  Whatever it was time for, they were her men.  Command and control.  And she used with such delicacy and grace, a nod here and shy smile of approval there, and the tableau came to life, the girl lying back over the top of the sagging old chair, Raym, legs spread, in full display, at her right flank at the eleven year old stood at his right hip, left arm around the powerful waist, masturbating the nineteen year old with firm, full strokes.
       
       Perching and huddling, they balanced and trussed their naked bodies together and quickly became comfortable, Raym’s left arm cradling his little sister and his right hand fondling the boy who was jerking him off.  The tip of his huge penis was against the nine year old’s slightly chubby belly, both males realizing she’d be able to focus clearly at the distant, something she couldn’t do if Will was massaging her right nipple with the flaring, hot glans of the adult’s fully erect cock.
       
       “’You thought “Billy” would lead elsewhere?’” the girl murmured, eyes wide and trained on Will’s moving right hand.  She was going to be hardball competition if she could do homework at a time like this, even play homework for some advertising fantasy.  And no, she wouldn’t have been thinking up clever copy on the bus.  If it would be good for the average rape victim to get to know her assailant, wouldn’t that mean spending a lot of lot of time with rapists might lead to not only affection but an attachment so close and complete one could actually experience her first complete acts as a female and feel so comfortable she’d be able to let her mind wander, even to the prosaics of making a future living.  Of curse she was helped in her musing by the images of two live models acting out her fantasies virtually in her lap.  They were so conclusive; would bring an ad campaign full circle; hint, tease, and titillate for six months, then “Billy Billy Billy”, perhaps no expensive, clever copy needed.
       
       “I’m going to cum on you darling,” Raym whispered softly, his panting suddenly quieting, his whole body relaxing, Will’s hand rigid at his base as the boy held the adult firmly against his sister’s heaving belly button.  “Billy for president,” she almost murmured out loud as her huge eyes took in the raw data of male and female.  It certainly looked like a process that couldn’t fail, and even, after a half minute of his heavy, white spilling, perhaps one that could be categorized as overkill.  That it went on longer yet, slicking her buddy breasts, and finally ebbing almost a minute after the first hot streams jetted across her bare tummy, left the girl in a state of near shock.  No wonder they didn’t advertise it.  Kids could get hooked.  How could any little girl want anything in life more than a friendly, quiet older brother who’d treat her like a kitten while teaching what every cat knows from birth?  
       
       But it would have to be absolutely forbidden.  That was a major factor.  Parents would have to scare the broadly defined and inclusive living bejesus out of their toddlers, severely punishing the slightest contact, suggestion, or display, sibling to sibling.  Make them actively fear it, dread it,  curse it, and avoid it pathologically.  Avoid this?  Avoid Raym gently positioning Will between her widely spread legs and his gentle rocking of the children in his strong arms as they found each other and married?  Avoid the boy’s smooth, confident rhythm with her, his eyes smiling shyly into hers when he pushed up on his corded arms as well as the incredible heat of his panting, athletic chest against her slick, big-girl nipples?  Avoid the whispers of both males as the boy began to quickly tense?  Avoid the deep pulsing high between her legs that made her want to just mew Thank you in Will’s ear again and again?  Avoid Raym, now more urgent and palpably feral in his masculine need to have his seed dominate that of the panting boy now riding his back as he took her with advancing fire?  Avoid the sudden rush and sweep of her own feelings, belly to knees, as he penetrated her to his hot balls and began plain using her?  Avoid the serene knowledge that it was about to happen, the firestorm that then crashed from the base of her spine at the first sense he was fully having his will with her, and her clawing, shrieking response?  Well, something… at all costs, but ‘avoid’ didn’t make much sense.
       
       
       
       
       In the cell, things were much the same as when Jens had begun his story.  He and Dana interspersed languid moments engaging in tentative homosexual activates with just lying quietly feeling each other’s breathing with the boy losing himself in his friend’s soft and compelling voice as the story of his youthful experiences continued.
       
       Pete and Chet agreed they especially liked the musing of the girl, Katharine, on whether a male was more alluring filled with sperm or after he’d sprayed it onto or inside his lover.  
       
       “With her ads,” Dana said, “it almost sounds like a little predestination at work, us coming together.  Like we’re birds of a feather when it comes to what the poster implied; that there should be substantially more freedom for children to pick reasonably appropriate partners when and as it suits them to do so.”
       “There’s actually more,” Pete said, “along the same line.  In fact, it rekindled Jens’ and my friendship, and was directly responsible for our first homosexual experiences, almost two years ago.”
       “He’s right,” Jens said to both children, “we were both rookies and do to flukes we got teamed up for a months.  Since we were both high in our class at the academy our supervisor let it ride, so we rode.”
       “And there was a poster or an ad?” Chet asked.
       “No,” Pete replied to the naked boy in his lap, “her name was Sarah Bentley.  She was just Katherine’s age, nine years old.”
       
       “M’mm,” both boys hummed, might as one might to the familiar opening sketch of “Law & Order” or any stable and enjoyable entertainment.  Both officer’s must have looked like boys, tweedle-cute and tweedle-cuter; and it was hard to imagine a damsel in their hands remaining long in distress. 
       
       “One Adam-12, see the woman, Bronson, one block west of Vermont.”  Neither could get over the thrill of hearing the famous call sign coming over their very own radio.  Sure, they’d humped it in school, teaming up as they had in high school until their eyes were bleary with flash cards, working out together, but to, six months after going on duty, be assigned the most prestigious call sign in the world, well, it was something to write a book about (though, of course, in more reflective moments they both realized it had “been done”  “But you’re cuter.”  How many young ladies had let that slip when comparing Pete and Jens to their television counterparts.  They’d flush and keep writing, anticipating the feminine index finger that would tap on the phone number on the form and remind both officers that it was to be used at any time for any reason they could possibly think of in their wildest imaginations.  Their wild imaginations included a host of diseases and entanglements so the numbers went onto the computers, untested.
       
       They rolled on the call, making the trip in two minutes.  The lady waved quietly from behind a hedge, putting her finger to her lips to indicate they should approach quietly.  One look at her intelligent face and they forgot their guns and proceeded across the lawn.
       
       “I thought it was a cat,” she whispered, introducing herself as Maxine Sellers.  “She’s pretty okay, I’m a nurse, so that’s probably accurate.  Somebody dumped her.  It’s been warm, no rain, so I think dispensing with emergency personnel might get things off to a better start.  I left one set of prints to check her pulse and temperature, and otherwise touched nothing.  I have been singing lullabies, and she’s tried to speak several times, each a little stronger.”
       
       The officers looked at the bundle in question, a bundle with a slim leg sticking out.  In a moment they’d separated the expensive trench coat from the county print dress the child was wearing.”
       
       The police needed to buy a little time.  Pete grabbed the nurses arm to get her attention.  “What I’d like you to do,” he said softly, “is go and find any neighbors you can, you’ll probably see shades and curtains moving as you look at any given house, so that can be a starting point.  Invite them over.  Tell them we need help with identification as well as witnesses to what’s happened here.  As soon as you’ve done that, say five or six minutes, we’ll suggest they spread the news down the block.”
       
       “You’re devious enough to be highly likeable,” the thirty five year old said, and headed, eyes on a swivel, for the first likely neighbor.  Listening carefully to the girl from the far side of the hedge, they talked quietly to her, telling her she was safe and go back to sleep if she wanted to.  With a hum, the girl apparently did so, in three minutes eight neighbors had materialized, looked from as close as they could get without interfering with the scene, answered a question or two, and were reversed and dispatched.
       
       Jens handed Maxine the keys to One Adam-12.  “Drive it to the gas station on Western, he said, “then walk back and tell your neighbors we’ve taken the kid in for a medical checkup.”
       “Are you planning to stay here?” she asked.  Both officers nodded.  “Then, here,” she said, handing over her house key, “smuggle her inside.”   They made eye contact and she went to the open door of the cruiser.
       
       Pete and Jens unlocked the front door of the house and moved behind the hedge.  The trench coat worked as an impromptu litter and without a nervous glance in any direction, the whisked the stirring child into the strange house.  As they were about to set her on the sofa, the phone rang.  Jens snatched it up, listened for some moments, flushed, then quietly said: “Yes, miss, yes Miss Maxine, I think I understand, but be sure to call again.”  Pete gave him a questioning look.  “You’d better sit down,” was the cryptic response as they turned their attention to the girl on the sofa, sitting at her head and feet, Jens explaining in a soft voice.  “That was Maxine Sellers of our recent acquaintance,” he began, “calling on her cell phone with the following message: she thinks we should take the girl upstairs to her spare bedroom, and both of us should stay there for an indefinite period of time, several hours at least.  She said she’d been raped at the same age by a transient, and the only thing that saved her was her brother getting mad at her withdrawn state and using her physically.  In two days she not only had put the instance behind her, but fallen in love with her handsome older brother, to boot.  She says we are the right age, and the best thing we can do is take her up to the bedroom, cross our fingers she doesn’t have any serious medical problems, and, not to put too fine a point on it, use her until she comes to accept it, hoping we don’t turn her into a predatory minx in the process, but adding if we did, we could probably handle the results.  She said we should talk openly and frankly in front of her, not as if she were some kind of decrepit kitten or moron.”
       
       “Did she say any more?” Pete asked after a short pause.
       “She said she knows some people in town, scary names, and we’re detached from regular duty until such time as…  She said she’s been – seriously – meaning to visit her sister in Tarzana, that the kitchen’s stocked, that there’s a pistol range in the basement, and that we’re to make ourselves at home, meantime, when she calls back in an hour, giving her any identity information on the girl so she can get in touch with the child’s parents and get a medical update, which she bets us two steak dinners, we’ll laugh at by the time she calls.”
       
       They’d dealt, and dealt with stories.  Victims going in rag dolls and coming out alienated monsters.  This made no difference to anybody.  Credentialed experts were called in.  They never failed to make the situation worse, and they billed.  The bills were paid and the cycle repeated itself.  Maxine had suggested in a voice a little scary itself it would not repeat itself with a girl found on her property.  
       
       “She said don’t be bashful,” the recipient of the message said, “just take her upstairs, like her brother did the day he got mad, and pretend she’s a drunken slut at a stag party.”
       “But how do you feel?” Pete asked, “about us being together for that kind of thing.”
       “I know what you mean,” his long-time friend said.  “I guess we were to busy ever to even talk about this kind of stuff.  How do you feel?”
       “Are we talking about the same thing?” Pete whispered, “staying together while we’re with her?”
       “Yes,” the younger officer whispered.
       “Jesus,” Pete whispered, “five years of gym and swimming together, and I don’t even know if you’re circumcised or not.”
       “I happen to know you are,” Jens said, “but that was an accident with a swinging mirror on a locker door.”
       Both sat staring at each other while the girl breathed fitfully between them.  “Have you ever done anything…” they both began simultaneously, and each understood the end of the sentence: “with anybody?”  As Pete shook his head, his partner murmured in the affirmative, adding it might be something they could share later.  For another minute they sat reviewing, seeking confirmation, and giving themselves and their partners ample time to reconsider.  Then Pete lifted the girl onto Jens’ back and they carried her up the stairs and to the guest bedroom of the small house.  They may have changed back-to-back hundreds of times in various locker rooms, but they’d outgrown that.  In a minute their shoes and uniforms were neatly stowed and they faced each other in their boxers.  The girl stirred more deliberately and they slipped out of their shorts and went and lay naked on either side of her, slowly unwrapping her from the trench coat while speaking softly.  She was a ten year old Chinese beauty, delicate as a flower with raven black hair spilling as far as they eye could see.
       
       They handled the coat as little as possible, spreading it on the unused portion of the bed, then stripping the girl to her tiny silk panties, placing her shoes and school uniform in the coat, then carefully placing the bundle at the back of the closet.  The girl’s hands covered her budding nipples as she looked wildly between the two males cradling her between their tall, athletic bodies.  Maxine hadn’t said anything specific to Jens about establishing total defeat, but implied her brother had taken no nonsense from her after the door to her bedroom was locked, and, it being all they had to go on in behalf of the beautiful eighty pound child between them, they began running their hands gently over her belly and chest.
       
       “Were you raped, sweetheart?” Pete asked.
       “It was a nice car,” the girl whispered back.  “They had a note.  It must have been pretend, and the Jaguar.  I don’t think I even thought twice, I was just worried about the accident that was meant to be the reason for the note.”
       “That happens a lot,” Jens said, “but usually without the jazzy wheels.  That’s a twist.”
       “Well it worked on this kid,” the girl said with a frown.
       
       “Sweetheart,” Pete said, “can you tell us your name so we can send word you seem to be okay?”
       “That’s okay,” the girl said, “until seven.  Dad’s on a business trip, and Mom run’s the office until then.  My life is like a totally boring routine of domestic perfection, so she won’t even check until at least then, and if there’s money on the line, it might not be until eight or nine.”
       :”Well girls who ride in Jaguars can’t live on food stamps,” Pete observed.
       “Oh, I know,” the girl sighed, “and I read so I don’t waste much of the time.  Footloose and fancy free, but when Dad’s home Mom’s home when I get in from school, so maybe it’s the best of both worlds, except, that is, if Dad would be with me until Mom got home from the office.  That would be the best.”
       
       “Well,” Pete persisted, “we’d like your name, even if it’s okay to withhold notification.”
       “Sarah Bentley,” the girl responded, giving the officers her address and other data.
       They shook hands, and Pete struggled for words, gaining the admiration of his partner who couldn’t thing of a single thing to say.
       
       “What happened is,” he began, “we thought you might have been really, well, done over.  Not be in good shape to be processed by the system.  An expert suggested we molest and rape you repeatedly for the next few hours because that settles the event in a child’s mind, that it’s something real and natural, not something from a slime pit or devil’s cauldron.”
       “Your expert’s right,” Sarah said, “it happened fast in the back of the car, and it was rough, and it went on until they’d each done it twice, then they made me take drugs and wrapped me in a coat they’d found in the trunk of the car, and then I passed out.  If I hadn’t woken up sort of in heaven, with soft, men’s voices around me, and now two naked beauties in bed with me, I might have tried to hide it away and pitched a fit if anyone bugged me.”
       “Well, you’ve been through a lot Sarah,” Jens said, “so it would be best if Officer Trent and I slipped back into our uniforms.”
       “Have you ever heard a full-blown fit in fluent Cantonese?” the girl asked.
       “No,” they said.
       “You’ll want to keep it that way,” the child assured them.  “I heard Jens summarizing the phone call, Pete,” she said, “and I said to myself, on the other end of that line is the smartest person in the world, and I prayed to Confucius  you’d figure that out and comply with the instructions you received.  I don’t want to remember those creeps for ten minutes more than I have to, and if we spend the night here, they’ll be gone, forever.”
       
       So many dramas had used the phrase: “it’s highly irregular” the young officers didn’t bother.
       
       “Okay,” Pete said, instead, “we’ll take a time out.  Just lie here and talk the way we are.  Then, if you think, on reflection, it’s the best option, we’ll take you gently and carefully.”
       “Without using condoms,” Sarah asked, her beautiful brown eyes showing their first real sign of life and engagement.  “They did.  Both of them.  Both times.  So I still haven’t been with a man yet, in the way it matters most to a romantic kid like me.”
       “Maxine said our experiences with you should be as full as possible,” Jens said, “so it’s okay with us if it happens naturally.”
       “I can see one problem,” the girl noted.
       “What?” the men asked.
       “The two of you,” the slim ten year old replied, “who’s the first with me, the first male to leave me so I could get pregnant if I was a couple of years older.  I’m not vain or anything, but you guys are really close, and you’re males first, men second, and officers and gentlemen, third, at least when you’re in bed with a naked girl.  So I thought of a solution.”
       
       “What?”
       
       “When Maxine was talking to Jens,” the girl explained, “she told him there’s a pistol range in the cellar of this house.  That would probably be dark if the lights were off.  So the idea is we build two beds at either end of the range.  Then we turn out the lights and I spin around and around on my hands and knees in the middle of the floor, until I don’t know which way is which.  I crawl forward until I come to one of the beds.  The male in it takes me in absolute silence, using pillows and towels and even tape over his mouth  to muffle any noise.  You shower  first so I won’t get any hint from aftershave.  You both take me in the conventional missionary position, without foreplay, and pact not to try anything that might identify you.   I then crawl to the next bed, where I’m raped again in the same manner.  After a set interval, maybe forty minutes, the alarm goes off and we turn the lights back on.   I’m in the middle of the floor, I’ve been with you both, and there’s no way for me or either of you to tell which of you made me a woman the most romantic way it can happen.”
       
       Both officers stared down at the golden-skinned sprite lying on her back between them.  She raised her tiny bottom and they stripped her panties off.  But even seeing her completely naked and looking nearly identical to the girl in the famous Vietnam picture didn’t completely stun their official minds and they searched their academy careers looking for the vaguest tendril of training they could relate to their present situation.  To Serve.  It was on every black and white on the force.
       
       They caught a break at the bottom of the stairs finding the cellar was heavily carpeted and insulated.  It might even be fun to let off a few rounds without the cumbersome ear protectors they usually wore on the range.  The room was thirty feet long, that was a plus.  The couldn’t see how it wouldn’t work and so returned with two heaps of bedding with which to construct two nearly identical beds.  This all took ten minutes or so, plus another five to call Maxine back, relaying the information the girl had provided, and finally it was done and the returned to get Sarah.  Each held her by the hand as they took her down two flights of stairs and showed off the arrangement.  Since they were all three naked, it was left merely to douse the lights at the door, which the girl did, casting an appraising glance to the middle of the room before plunging it into pitch darkness.
       
       For a moment or two they could sense the tiny Asian beauty circling in the center of the floor, then all was silent.  Silently, the men applied the strong tape to their mouths, then settled down to wait.  Part of the plan was an open ten minutes at the beginning of the game, Sarah finding a male at the time of her choosing so reviewing the chronology would be useless even to a fevered and agitated mind.  Ten random minutes, twenty focused minutes, and ten more random minutes, all for something they knew was of not the least importance in the first place. Who would be the last to spill in her beautiful body, that would be the prize.
       
       The pixie waited as long as she could, pondering the uselessness of the human.  Hummingbirds migrated flawlessly across the Gulf of Mexico, but humans with a brain thousands of times bigger were disoriented ten seconds after the lights wend out, their sense of passing time as distorted as their internal compasses.  A dog could smell out each male in two seconds flat, and run wagging to its master.  She could smell nothing but clean house.  Most of the animals running around loose could hear the breathing, however muffled, and even reptiles could sense body heat and the thudding beat of a two-pound heart.  A bat had radar, she had her hands and knees.  She began moving forward, totally lost and excited by the fact she really didn’t know.  Would she be able to tell, later, if her grateful parents allowed her to date the two beauties, would one day a move or gesture or sound tell the secret?  That would be way cool.  And how about after the game?  Would they do as it appeared they were planning, take her back upstairs and use her repeatedly, watching each other, perhaps even touching each other?  Was this an incredible day for a ten year old, or what?  And she moved on.
       
       It had to have been ten minutes or more when she found him.  Her fingers thrilled to the touch of a mat on the carpeted floor and she almost hissed with excitement.  The man on the bed was gentle but firm with her.  He lay her on her back, coaxed her legs gently wide apart with his knees, then pressed against her.  The boys in the van had promised her gel – so it won’t hurt – if she used her hands to guide them, and she’d complied.  The first had slowed his efforts, whispering, “sorry baby, I thought a girl as pretty as you would have had her dad inside her,” when he discovered her hymen.  He was raping her, his buddy panting at his shoulder, so with another quick, “sorry,” he’d powered heavily fully inside her, pounding hard and fast as the other male had struggled to pull him free for his turn.  This was so different.  Tender, sensitive, letting her lead with experimental thrusts of her slim thighs until she fully sensed her safety and used her arms and legs to pull the handsome young officer fully to her, his hard, athletic belly flat against her childish tummy.  Quickly he took the familiar rhythm, thrusting quickly, fully, and soundlessly as her romantic head spun with visions of his naked penis swelling inside her.  For five minutes they could have been any happy husband with a cute, young wife, then the male tensed, nuzzled her neck meaningfully, and she went rigid in response.  She’d felt nothing with the trade in the van, with him she felt everything.  His swelling, his rumbling, almost inaudible groan, and then the hot fire of his full release almost impossibly high between her long, golden legs.  A pillow smashed over her face, she’d joined his cum, soundless though her fingers pinched and pulled at his flanks in welcome, hee legs like leather straps, also pulling him to her.  Dazed, she rested briefly, then with an affectionate squeeze of good-bye, she crawled on and twelve minutes later the alarm went off.  Pete flicked his lighter, they found the light switch, then went to examine the panting child lying, legs splayed on her back in the middle of the floor, a heavy pool of semen puddled beneath her thighs. They cleaned up carefully and carried her back up to the comfortable bed where they took turns fucking her for another full hour before assuring themselves she was completely cured of anything that could possibly come back to haunt a bright, pretty fourth grader.
       
       The phone at the desk rang and Jens picked it up.  “Figures,” was all he said before returning the receiver to the cradle.  He returned to his place on the bunk, Dana once again settling in his lap.  “Some reporter who actually knows what he’s doing traced my van.  He owes some of his colleagues, so there will be eight of them, two cameras, one tape, on still.  If we give them access for half an hour, they’ll keep mum for twenty four.”
       
       Each looked at the others.  All nodded and Chet kept nodding.  “This is it,” he said.  “Your turn to make a stand.”
       Dana picked up on his friend’s train of thought, immediately.  “Yes,” he hissed, “it’s perfect.  You come out of the closet, both of you.”
       “It could even be artistic,” the first boy said, “we can be outside the door when they enter the block, you two inside the cells, heads clearly visible over our shoulders, as you hold us in your left arms and jerk us off with your right hands, just like in Jens’ story.  You must have spent a lot of time masturbating each other on Sarah, so you’re experienced in knowing how it feels just before it happens, so you can get the timing right – I don’t think it has to be to the split second exactly – so there’ll be some stills and video to go along with what they’ve got of the poster.  That, with the confusion in the restaurant and everything else means in an hour nobody will have the slightest idea of exactly what happened, hell, they’ll probably even confuse us in two hours, but there will be heaps of innuendo and enough salacious rumors and whispered innuendo to keep the story alive for a long time, with annual reviews, and that’s all we wanted in the first place.  A chance to show we’re healthy young animals, fine young cannibals, even, not something you need to hide at the bottom of the well.”
       
       “So let it be written, so let it be done.”  A phrase we don’t hear often enough in these subliterate days, but it applied at least once.  The press took the rich, heavy bait.  Chet’s hard spray began less than a minute after the first camera was tightly focused, Dana’s beginning as his friend began to ebb and filling out a second minute.  The reporters and photographers looked a little abashed and, with extreme rarity for media personnel, confused.  Nonetheless they filed from the block, shaking their heads in wonder, to file their stories and transmit their video to the breathless masses.
       
       They’d done it.  Now exhausted, the boys high-fived one last time and  led their adult partners into separate cells and locked themselves in, blowing out the candles.  “There’s someone we’d like you to meet tomorrow,” a voice murmured.
       
THE END…

       
       Where have all the essay gone?
       Gone to graveyards every one, (gone to graveyards, every one).
       And for the best reason.  I’ve simply said all I have to say.  It’s all on Nifty.  Credentials and provenance: obesity to socialism to the perfect cup of coffee and the advantages of plastic forks, issues and answers, served up free of gloss and stated without flummery: repeated, reviewed,  published and done.  As a monarch gets to leave everything up to his subjects a writer so empowers his audience.   He need not even bother himself, king or novelist, with the old classic’s most poignant line: “When will they ever learn?”  Even a god can only try, a handy phrase serving double duty in that it answers any questions concerning ego and unresolved by Samantha..
       
xxx
       
       
       
       

