Poster Boys

(Bisexual pedophilia and Heterosexual Incest.)



       Chet Lee and Dana Miller had worked much of the afternoon under a tarp.  They were a nice pair of twelve year olds, tall and slim and of conventional schoolboy appearance.  Students at Best Behavior Middle School passed frequently, and either pleaded or taunted the boys over their secret project.  They’d perhaps giggle a bit to each other, and work diligently on, crafting their masterpiece.
       
       “This is so amazing,” the younger, Dana said to his friend.  “This is the best thing ever.  You were a genius to think of it.  Totally.  And the philosophy behind it.  The game plan.  It’s so tight it squeaks.  It’s so major.  The town will blow like a volcano, with the school preceding the whole place into orbit.  Then the state, then the region, then total, raving, over saturation for nine full days of the wonder, and all without the shot heard ‘round the yard, without hurting a hair on anyone’s chinny-chin-chin.”
       “It would have just been a dumb idea without you,” the older boy said, “and I’ll be sure you get plenty of blame.  You have the receipts for the paint cans, right?”
       “In my wallet,” Dana said.
       “And we said just enough in Mr. Hazletine’s class,” Chet recalled, “to strongly indicate if not actually prove both intention and conspiracy.”
       “Well, we tried,” the other boy agreed with a nod.
       “Don’t you think it’s going to be ultra weird being totally famous tomorrow?” Chet couldn’t help asking his friend for the fourth or fifth time during the past hour.
       “And now about when we start blaming everyone but ourselves,” Dana added, “taking polygraph tests that will prove, even if not in court, that we both want to write fiction when we grow up, but we aren’t being properly taught to do so.  We don’t get a varied list of good books, but just crummy old Salinger and Hemingway ‘till it’s coming out our ears.”
       “We have to have some rights,” Chet nodded, both boys wondering if they’d ever get tired with what was until now a fantasy – if I were king – dialogue, the two of them stalwart heroes taking on a leaden mob of unearthly zombies.  “We’re meant to be the future, and we have to know best about some things, and we have to have some rights, some influence.  They tax our toys and tax our candy, and who represents us?”
       That settled it for a few minutes.  They worked slowly now, as one does when applying finishing touches appraising this and that subtle touch.
       
       “Check and see if the video club is here,” Chet whispered, and his friend ducked his hear around the edge of the blue tarp.  “Yes,” he said, plus at least four more cameras in the hands of other students.
       “And our recorder’s running,” the older boy said.  They looked at each other for a long moment.  “I’m glad we both checked out the night officer at the holding cell,” Dana said.  “Me, too,” Chet agreed, and it was showtime.
       
       Each boy stepped from an opposite end of the covering.  The hundred or so students (they were very popular boys) gathered, hushed.  A nod from the head of the video club assured both impresarios all was in order, and the twelve year olds turned to face each other, took a few seconds to loose the lines of the tarp, then with a bow and a modest flourish, they dropped it at their feet.
       
       There was a long silence as the little wheels on the tape machine spun uselessly, then a noise a crowd had never made before.  A gurgling half laugh, half scream, half amused, half outraged, and all stunned.  Two attractive, intelligent, active, and well-liked boys AND – JUST – LOOK!
       
       
“SEE the colossal sperming of the mighty penises! THRILL to the rhythmic beat of primitive fucking! BE AMAZED at the titanic writhing of sweaty passion!"

       If the copy was lurid, their painstaking graphics was lurid in bedlam.  Half the models were not even teens, no way, the other half, well limits have to be drawn somewhere.
       
       The crowd wailed, the crowd sighed, the crowd moaned, laughed, howled, and returned to sighing for want of energy.  As Chet and Dana moved together to sit under the center of their six foot by four foot work of art, and sat to await their fate, they were pleased to see at least fifty cameras pointed in their direction.  They were about as in as you could get.
       
       Waves of acclimation seemed to sweep the throng, which had grown to five hundred in two minutes.  By acclimation there was no lynching.  Both boys sat quietly on the steps leading up to the wall, a ten foot, by acclimation, gap separating them from the enthralled spectators.  By acclimation, no one left, and by the same mysterious force, a slow rotation was maintained so those in back could spend a few moments in front before yielding to others.  By acclimation, over three hundred cells phones were dialed with the Lee and Miller home and business phones, and those privy to numbers of family friends wasted no time in punching their own buttons.  
       
       “It can’t have been this easy,” Chet said, “think of all the people who design the machine tools that assemble all our stuff, I mean that has to be hard, and they don’t get blue lights coming down the street toward them unless they’re in a traffic accident or something.”
       “It isn’t very fair,” Dana nodded, but they stopped their commiseration short of retraction.  Neither had advanced math talent, neither breathed electrons or ate chemistry, and, for all their technical distance, both bewailed the end of the Industrial and Digital Revolutions and the void their demises left in their future.  Cars hadn’t changed in their lifetimes plus an easy ten years, vacuum cleaners, refrigerators, toasters.  With the monumental exception of personal computers and the Internet, everything had moved about half an inch per decade, and even that was digital displays and solid-state switches, more gimmick than even evolutionary improvement.  So what was a writer to do?  A real writer?  One who clawed truth from fiction and pulled the string on the top at the same time.  “Mad” was a corpse, even with a television offshoot.  The books served up in English lit were stale, sickening garbage, rank with symbolism tagged to lazy, rote, it’s-all-a-game, union class-headers, many with teaching ancestors.  Sure, they’d tried to liven the issue up, perhaps even include a chuckle with their message, but they were two most serious and committed twelve year olds.  They thought they were being gypped by the system, and wanted it changed.  Big enough it was, in their well-read minds, that if you willed the end you’d accept any means.
       
       The judge spoke with Officer Trent over the radio of the sergeant’s squad car.
       
       “CBS isn’t sure of the voice level, Pete, could you give them a short count?”
       The policeman complied.  “That’s fine,” came the response over the speaker.”  There was a pause, then the senior voice resumed.  “Officer Trent, you are to be commended for your sensitive handling of this delicate matter.  I understand from my aids you have Master Chet and Master Dana in the rear seat of your cruiser.”
       “Yes, your honor,” Pete Trent said into the microphone.
       “Are they comfortable.  Can anyone there fetch them a drink of Pepsi or something?”
       “Judge Tremain,” the officer said, “they said they camelled up before revealing their work, so there okay, at least for another hour or two, then…”
       “Yes, yes, of course,” the voice over the police radio laughed, “boys will be boys.”
       “Well, they’re very nice boys,” Pete put in.
       “Well, it’s a pleasure to hear that, yes, indeed,” the older voice allowed.  “Now tell me, are the doors and windows of your car shut?”
       “Yes,” Trent said, “and there’s static from the other radio, so we have a high security factor.”
       
       Again came the agreeable voice of the judge, who actually sounded quite young for all his pontific formality.  He asked another question.  “Pete,” he said, “can you see the, what is it, poster? from where you’re sitting.”
       “Clearly,” the officer said.
       “Well,” the judge responded, “would you take a moment or two to read the written copy very precisely, emphasizing any word or expression that might be, for instance, capitalized?”
       
       “Yes, sir,” Pete replied, and did as asked.
       “Very good,” the older man said, “and just so it is, for now they’re playing games with slipping it out of the pixelized area at the center of the screen, so I was able to read the whole of the message.”
       “What did you think of the art work?” Officer Trent asked, flushing at his familiarity with the distant, senior official.
       “Offhand, that it will stimulate discussion and heighten awareness of our environment,” the official said, “but the same could be said of a china syndrome event, so there remains ahead that which is to be debated, considered, weighed, balanced, and gaveled. “
       “Well spoken, sir,” young Trent enthused spontaneously, again flushing with his familiarity with the august figure.
       “Well, you sound like a likely boy,” the friendly voice came over the speaker, “but, to get back to the subject, I think it would be overdoing things for you to take your young perps to the country jail and subject them to that routine, while, on the other hand, they need to remain in custody because their body parts would collapse e-Bay and the whole fucking Net.  So an option might be if you head out of town mixing with a coterie of squad cars, eventually segregating yourself and then proceeding as you please, where you please, on the stipulation you have the boys back here and in my courtroom by, say, three o’clock Monday afternoon. “
       
       “Understand and Wilco,” the police sergeant said.
       “And hold on just for a second please,” the man on the radio said.  There was a pause and he came back on the air.  “A member – trusted – of my staff, by chance, happens to know an aunt, who’s first name begins with F, of your captive whose last name begins with L.  At some point L can call Aunt F, and we can get down to dickering; meantime, you can call F for a credit card number in case you’re low on cash.”
       “That’s very thoughtful sir,” the young policeman said.
       “I’ll look forward to dealing with you as chief,” came the judge’s parting remark.  “You’ve handled this with imagination and sensitivity.  If you continue, the story will fade while we’re young, and I doubt either of us have the imagination to think up another one.  I’ve got to go.  Good job.”
       “Thanks, and One-Adam-12 is clear of Tac Two.”
       
       Chet and Dana stared at each other, eyes big as saucers.  Pete tuned the FM radio, and quick as that, there they were again.  “If you get that damn Neal Armstrong off television for a few days, you’ll be nominated for something,” Pete observed from the front seat as he chatted with several of his colleagues vis-à-vis complying with the judge’s suggestions for disappearing from the crowd, now filing by the poster in a rank six deep with the man on the radio talking in terms of twenty thousand.  The first hour of Chet and Dana’s exlibris adventure had passed.  Both were positive, though nothing to do with grinning or smug, that no two boys had spent such a Friday afternoon since the dawn of first grade.  They tried not to think of themselves as future sensational writers, but it was difficult.  Finally, a little woozy with the pace and riding in the back seat, they settled silently back in their seat harnesses and let the scenery wash by until they dozed off.  Taking advantage of the lull, Pete Trent found a trusted friend on duty, dropped his car keys at a fire hydrant, and fifteen minutes later had gently moved the sleeping kids to his private vehicle and driven to a shady parking spot where he joined them in the back of the van for a nap.  No one stirred until after seven in the evening.  They looked out so see the everything quiet and normal in the fading twilight.  
       
       “You guys ever eaten in the kitchen of a killer restaurant?” Pete asked the sleepyheads.
       “No,” they both shook their heads, smiling shyly at the nice young man, now dressed in a basketball uniform, his official clothing and equipment neatly folded in a corner of the clean and carpeted interior.
       “Well, that’s something we could do,” the host allowed, “but the best ideas would come from you, because, well, not to put too fine a point on it, no one else thinks like you guys.”
       
       The boys again smiled shyly.  “The restaurant kitchen sounds perfect,”  Chet, usually the nominal leader, said, to his friend’s nod.  
       
       “Well it’s an owe and friend-of-a-friend kind of thing,” Pete explained, “and probably safe enough, seeing as you guys aren’t exactly Manson and Dahmer being spirited away for a conjugal visit.”
       “Dahmer’s dead,” Dana observed.
       “Do you think that would bother Choppin’ Chuck?” Pete responded, making both boys laugh.  He scrambled into the shotgun seat asking back over his shoulder which boy wanted to drive.  There may not be short cuts to winning the sincere affection of today’s youth, but there are short ways.
       
       “Chet’s older,” Dana said, always secretly glad there was something of a pecking order.
       “Thanks,” his friend smiled as he moved forward, proving there is more exciting in life than can be found behind the wheel, even at age twelve.
       
       As they left the public parking lot, Pete again looked over his left shoulder.  “It’s one shot in a hundred,” he said, “but to be on the ultra safe side, why don’t you fetch my Glock out of my uniform and hold it on the two of us, but especially me.  That would set up a sizzling red herring, you know, if we should be apprehended, and by the time I’d cleared things up, there’d be so much confusion you couldn’t be convicted of removing a mattress tag or watering on an off day.”  Both boys nodded happily, and Dana, denied the wheel by dint of birth, made do with the techy semi-automatic (until you pulled the trigger) pistol. 
       
       In ten minutes Pete pointed out the famous restaurant, but let Chet drive another half hour for the fun of it before the trio pulled quietly into the parking lot near the service entrance.  He nodded for Dana to keep the pistol, feeling it only fair because Chet had actually been allowed to operate the van, not just touch it.  In addition, the boy’s appearance – armed and deadly – and his subsequent passing around of the modified pistol, with the obligatory firing of a clip into plastic bucket of water, would give the D.A. and his staff a terminal case of the why-bothers; either that, or a series of nervous breakdowns.  And it went off fine.  Great food, range to plate to table, burnished service, a bottle of wine, then another, a hundred dollar bill left behind by Pete, and they slipped quietly back into the vehicle, Dana now manning the driver’s seat.
       
       “What say you?” Pete wanted to know as they sighed and shared a cigar ‘round and ‘round.
       “I did have kind of an idea,” Dana said, then he beckoned Chet and whispered in his ear.  The boy frowned thoughtfully, then smiled shyly and nodded, moving back in the luxury van.
       “The last place anyone will look,” Dana hinted, but, on close examination, it would have been plain there was more than a boyish game going on in his ultra sharp, if not particularly numeric, mind.
       
       “Juvie,” Chet said, neither boy being into the overly dramatic, unless a vital cause was at stake.
       “Yeah,” Dana added.  “Plus it’s way cool for you.  ‘And what did you do with the young offenders after you’d separated them from the mob, Officer Trent?’  ‘Well, counselor, we had a bite to eat at a private location, then I brought them back to the jail and locked them up.’”
       
       Pete whistled happily.  The plan did have a certain ring to it.
       
       “Jens Fillmore is on night duty,” Chet said, “and, as of this morning, there was no one in stir.”
       “And you know Jens?” the sergeant asked.
       “No,” both boys said, Dana adding: “not to speak to, but we did a little non-scientific sleuthing and decided we both liked him.”
       “And that gave you the idea of pulling this stunt?” Pete asked.
       “I think it was more like lack of a good reason not to,” Chet observed.  “If you’d had a fat sadist running things at juvie, our poster would have been about whale watching.”
       “As if,” Dana laughed, familiarizing himself with the van’s controls, “we want to blow that teacher’s union full of holes and sink it and its Nabakov, Tolkein,  Fitzgerald trash lit, forever.  And that’s not to say that we don’t think Jens Fillmore is way cute, because we do, but…”
       
       He let it slide as obvious and twisted the key.  Might as well just go for it, so Pete pulled out his cell phone, confirmed the juvenile facility happened to be momentarily vacant, and Dana eased them through traffic and into the underground parking lot, apparently too excited to want to take a spin or two around the block for the thrill of it.  They spent several minutes in intense passive recon, determined the coast was clear, and took a one-floor ride in the elevator.  Jens met them at the first secure door, waved to the video camera in its corner, displaying Chet and Dana as well as Pete to the lens, then buzzed them inside the detention facility.
       
       “You guys want to sleep?” he asked the group.  Pete told him of their nap in the shade of the parking lot.  “Cool,” the athletic Nord replied, “I’m finally into this night cycle, so it’s eight in the morning, rather p.m..”
       
       They found a cell, upper and lower bunk on each wall, and, rummaging a few extra pillows, made themselves comfortable, even to the point of dousing the lights and resorting to candles kept for use in a possible black-out.  Fed, rested, nowhere to go, and a potty on the premises.  
       
       “Now it’s about like we pictured it,” Dana mused to his young friend, “just faster.”
       “Well, there is that about the speed of light,” Pete said.
       “One of you left your algebra book by the poster,” Jens updated them, “it just went for thirty eight thousand dollars.”
       “Guess Judge Tremain know whereof he spoke,” Chet whistled.
       “Well you get the prize, Dana,” Jens said, “because hiding where they ain’t is hardly like hiding at all.”
       “It feels like the opposite of hiding,” the boy blushed, “or maybe like we’ve been hiding until now.”
       “Something like that,” Chet agreed.
       “How’s your home life?” Pete asked, none of the sing-song of the professional, credentialed behavioralist in his voice, so the boys answered, Chet speaking for both.
       “Okay enough,” he said.  “This isn’t about that.  This is about the junk we have to read in English class, and will have to read for the next five or six years.  We’re both latchkey kids right out of the mold; okay parents who have to come up with three grand every month for the mortgage.  If we run out of toothpaste, we have to spend and hour and twenty-four minutes in the car to get more, then the same or longer coming back home.  So, we never run out of anything.  We do a shopping extravaganza with a couple of families on the street – this is true for both of us – and live off the top of the cupboard instead of the bottom.  But that keeps everyone home.  Silenceville.  Within half an hours work of either of our houses, there’s only two or three other kids our age, and no meeting place of any kind, park, club, snack bar, church, god-forbid, or playground.  We’ve had three salesmen commit suicide in Sundance subdivision in the last year.  They get lost because kids turn the signs, the map is too confusing, even if you have it, no one can give you directions because it would take half an hour, everything looks the same, and you circle on all the cute little alleys, byways, and cul-de-sacs until you just plain lose your mind.  In all three cases, the salesmen found a long straight stretch, gunned up to full speed, and crashed into a house they felt was empty.  Each had a note in his pocket alluding to how he hoped they’d at least find his body.  No pizza delivery, no paramedics, no taxis, no friends dropping by with a handful of pictures or bottle of wine.  And that’s where we live.  Every day.  Both of us.  An institutional grade school an hour away and shopping in factory structures, even further off, and staying home, where you know no matter how long you watch nobody will pass by.”
       “And we’re lucky,” Dana added, “our parents read to us and lock the television so there’s no point in even bringing a nerd over.  So we read.  That’s how we became friends last year in school, Louis L’Amour.  But he wasn’t critically acclaimed, so they substituted Gertrude Stein.  That’s when we stopped listening and started talking.”  Here he nodded to Chet.
       “Then came Nifty,” the older boy continued, “and we said a great big HEY WAIT A MINUTE.  Here was what we were missing.  Here were kids our age, writing killer conk-you-out stories, of, classically a boring summer outing with the ‘rents, then, okay it could have been a bear attack, a flash flood, a fire, any big deal and they might be able to write three pages about it, but on Nifty, it’s different.”
       “They start out on a boring trip,” Dana supplied, “then they pull into a certain campground or visit certain cousins, like Rusty and Audrey in the movie, and you know what happens?  Right away? A three page story becomes a thirty page story.  Kids writing long, engaging stories – because they suddenly have something to write about.”
       “Yeah, it’s called a life.  And that’s all we wanted,” Chet assured both the officers on the opposite cot, “something to write about.”
       
       Jens and Pete looked at each other.  Their eyes tried to show intelligence and comradeship, but it was useless.  They sighed and looked back at the children whose knees almost touched their own.
       “Well, you’ve gone and gotten the whole world scribbling away,” Jens said to no one in particular.  “You’ve got five major networks daring each other to show the most of your poster, and then MTV using it under the guise of art while The Discovery Channel’s interpreting in as cultural science, and C-SPAN wanting to be the first to show it in close-up for thirty seconds in the name of literary freedom.”
       
       The twelve year olds caught each other’s eyes and high-fived.  Not a hair on a chinny-chin-chin, and look at them.  For more than a moment, each knew how it felt to be Bill Gates.
       
       No one was sleepy, no one was hungry, no one had to use the toilet.  Chet cleared his throat and broke the silence that was becoming a little nervous.
       
       “On the Web site,” he said, “in some of the stories guys that kind of want to hang out together start by asking each other questions, and that sort of goes on to quizzing and getting pretty specific and I guess you’d even say graphic.  I mean not graphic like on a monitor, but in the sense of verbal voyeurism with explicit details, so that might be a place to start.”
       
       “For example,” Dana added, “you could start by telling us if you know each other.”
       “We do,” Pete said.  “Things happen pretty fast when you two are around, so I didn’t get a chance but yes, Jens and I went to high school together.  We’ve been I guess you’d say off and on best friends, because of jobs and responsibilities and the like, since ninth grade.  Jens needs to earn some credit hours in day classes, so he does night duty here, plus the fact that he gets on well with bad kids, and, by the time he’s into his second joint with one, well, the judicial system has a better chance with an open mind.”
       
       The boys actually said: “Oh, my!”  Probably hadn’t been used by a kid in fifty years
       “Four is a great number,” Jens allowed as he produced a fat and finely rolled marijuana cigarette, “because it’s three against one for a dissenter, not someone’s word against someone else’s.”
       “What he’s saying, Pete emphasized, “is that yes, we’d like to hang out with you in the sense of the stories you’ve read on the Net.  We’ve read some, too.  At the same time, there are three vacant cells, and the fact that the door to the outside isn’t open is merely a circumstantial technicality.”
       
       “If it wasn’t locked, we’d open it and stay here,” Dana said.
       “Right,” Chet added: “we wouldn’t care if we got ‘caught’.  If everyone tells.  We’ve read more than the whole  Best Behavior student body, combined.  If they say a word, we’ll knock them flat as idiotic, illiterate, ignorant pumpkins.  We were pretty good writers before we even dreamed up Operation Fucking Fiasco, you know, to off lit departments and cuckamunga librarians, and certainly, not to brag, better writers than our union class-bosses.  We may look like a couple of piss-ant wise guys, but anyone who looks in our direction without an obvious and sincere smile better be ready to take one in his or her wheelhouse.”
       “I’d guess two,” Pete observed, for, after all, two boys were sitting on the bunk, equally dangerous looking when their eyes hardened.  Slowly they re-took each other’s measure and the longer they did so, the more they relaxed.
       
       “What kind of words do you use when you’re alone together?” Dana asked the twenty-two year old officers.
       “The polite ones,” Pete answered.  “How ‘bout you guys?”
       “Well,” Chet blushed, “we’ve been so busy, you know, with the grand scheme of things we’ve never talked about it in a personal sense, much less tried anything out together.”
       “Or with others,” Dana added.
       “Handled well, that could add considerable tension to a semi-fictive account of your lives,” Jens observed.
       “Virgins at the hands of the police,” Pete nodded.  
       “That’s pretty close,” Chet nodded, “but how about the police at the hands of virgins?”
       “Not exactly ‘Days of our Lives’, Jens said, “but I don’t see any way in the world that can be taken as a negative.”
       
       “Can we use polite words with you?” Dana asked after a few moments silence.  He specifically addressed Dana, the slightly younger of the officers, but included Pete.
       “Yes,” Jens whispered.  The air in the cell tensed in a heartbeat and even the glowing candles seemed to take on a sudden romantic miasma.  
       
       “Go ahead and ask us some polite questions,” Pete encouraged, specifically addressing the brown haired, brown-eyed older schoolboy whose knees now touched his own.
       “The first time something really happened, was it with each other?” Dana started off.
       
       “Sort of,” Pete replied.  “My first time was with Jens, but his was with his uncle and his little girl cousin, Sally Albright.”
       “But Pete started that,” Dana interrupted, “so if my first time wasn’t physically with him, he was still there a hundred percent.”
       Chet entered the conversation.  “In the Web stories,” he said, “a lot of times when someone tells a story, everyone gets, you know, as comfortable as possible together, first.”
       
       Police at the hands of virgins.  What a tale we weave, just by reversing what we take as normal.
       
       The men stripped naked, the boys, Net veterans that they were, shucked down to their plain, white cotton underpants, then sat in the laps of their favored, if by an inch, partner, Dana facing Jens and Chet facing Pete.  The young men toyed with their heaving schoolboy chests, molested them openly for ten minutes, then gently reversed their ninety pound bodies and urged the children back against their chests until their huge, seven-inch, circumcised erections jutted up from between slim legs and under flat, white bellies.  Each boy began fondling his young adult, experimenting with the things they’d read of as they schemed their devious scheme.
       
       “Were you shocked by what happened?” Dana asked his adult partner.
       “I had a bit of an idea,” the older male replied, “because Uncle Nat said he and Wilma got along specially well and when they were home, alone, they didn’t obey too many rules, and that while I visited, I didn’t have to obey any other than those related to fire and firearms.”
       “That leaves a lot,” Chet observed.
       “Peter and I were eleven that summer,” Jens continued, “but he couldn’t visit because of being sick, and Wilma was six.”
       The prison hadn’t tumbled to the ground in protest, so they said it in unison, again: “Oh, my!”  Shirley Temple would have been proud.
       
       “She was a twin of the girl who opens the door for Big Bird on the ads,” Jens went on, “really cute, really quiet and friendly, and really, really in love with her handsome dad.”
       “That’s the coolest place you can start,” Dana said, his schoolmate ranching to his left to high-five him.”
       “I visited for two weeks,” Jens went on, “arriving at about ten on a Saturday morning.  
       
       
       “Dad had to work ‘till noon, that happens sometime,” the pretty child said as she welcomed her tall, athletic cousin in from the porch.  She led him into the living room and suggested he sit and relax while she brought lemonade and cookies.  Jens readily agreed and stowed his backpack behind the sofa where no one would trip over it.  In a couple of minutes Wilma returned, but not with a snack.  In fact, with nothing.  Not a stitch on.  “I’ve made up my mind about something,” she said, sitting on her cousin’s knees and facing him, “and I know it’s kind of sudden, but when I feel something like all through my bones, like I do with Daddy, I know I can trust it, and I feel it from you, just the way you smiled at me, and so I decided to forget the lemonade and cookies for awhile.”
       
       He’d never been drier of mouth nor more riven by pathetic thirst than he was at this cloudburst of a moment, but he smiled shyly at the naked little beauty in his lap and let her lead the parade.
       
       
       “Daddy will be very happy,” the girl went on as if talking about work in the garden.  “And I can tell you why, if you want, but I’m not meant to be loquacious unless you want me to.  I can just give you an outline, if you want.”
       “If we’ve got a couple of hours,” the boy responded, “I guess that would be enough for more than just a sketch.”
       “Good,” the girl smiled.  “Because Daddy and I love to talk, not all the time, sometimes it’s just something physical, but once in awhile he tells me stories, and, I don’t know, it just seems to make it kind of extra, though, of course, like anything else, especially the guy on the moon, it could get tiresome after awhile.  I mean, there has to be more to it than whispering to each other, and that’s what I felt there would be, with you.  That you’d like a little, but not want to make it a habit.  Somehow, I can just tell.” 
       “At this point I’m glad to learn anything about myself,” young Jens said, “you know, as affirmation I’m alive and not dreaming, stuff like that.”
       “Don’t worry,” the prenymph cooed softly, “Daddy says we share altered states, and we do, but there’s nothing mystical or supernatural about it, it’s been going on for years.”
       “I guess that’s a fact,” the guest allowed.
       “It would impossible to invent anything,” was her next observation, “and why would anyone bother when the basic things that happen are more than you could make up from fairy ink with a fairy pen on fairy paper.”
       
       “Why indeed?” he managed to pant, the beauty in his lap an electric charge.
       “Is your mouth dry?” the little girl asked solicitously.
       “Yes,” the boy nodded.
       “Okay,” the girl said, with her patent nice-little-kid smile, “there’s a super and absolutely naughty way we can cure that, not that it’s a disease or anything more than a temporary, but if you’re going to participate in the conversation over the next couple of hours, it would be good if you asked me lots of personal questions, and if you’re going to do that, you shouldn’t have a dry mouth.  The trick is to get the saliva flowing, and, guess what, saliva reacts, assuming no condition of underlying dehydration, strongly in response to salinity; saltiness.  Not a mouthful of salt or anything gross like that, but just a taste on your tongue and lips.  That’s enough.  It won’t make it so you have to spit or do anything rude, just so you’re comfortable.”
       
       In eleven years, Jens had never met anyone who seemed to know what he was talking about quite like this tiny pixie in his lap.  “Okay,” he mumbled, having confidence in her ability to pick up the conversational ball, however awkwardly it was dropped.
       “Did I say it was a wicked thing?” the girl said, observing the tolerance in her handsome cousin’s eyes, “well, I hope I did.  So wicked, we both have to be completely naked up in my bedroom.”
       “And there’s not time for a glass of water?” the boy croaked.
       “No need,” the girl replied, “it’s happened with Daddy every time I come back from a date with one of his athletic friends – no pots for tots – and start answering his questions.  His mouth gets so dry that he can’t talk, then he gets naked, then I lie on my back on my bed and he kisses me the way a man sometimes kisses a woman, and his mouth gets, you know, what I said, a little salty and that wakes up the saliva glands, just like when you get a gulp of salt water when you’re swimming in the ocean, and then we can kiss the regular way and even talk.”
       
       “But why, you know,” the boy stammered as his hostess led him, backpack forgotten, up the carpeted stair of the comfortable house, “are you, you know, that way now?”
       “Because of what happened between Daddy and me a half an hour before you got here and just before he had to go in and settle something at his office.”
       “I see,” the boy murmured, so lost in a fantasy world of tiny, eager, naked females he wondered at his very survival.  Her voice changed the instant they crossed the threshold’ become quiet and shy.  “It happens a lot in here,” she whispered to Jens, holding him gently against a post of her bed as her fingers opened his shirt, buckle, snap, and zipper.  She helped him get naked, then stood close so his big, almost adult penis jutted firmly against her firm, flat tummy.  “Sometimes three or four times in one evening,” she whispered, “and all the way, or at least kind of, too.  We never use a condom, I mean, but ‘kind of’ means Daddy or Phil or Brandon or Zye have never been up inside me.  They hold themselves against me while I lie on my back, and I know what to do to make it happen, and all the sperms spill between my legs, only it’s more like pumping, but that’s where it ends, except for the times they cum all over my face and chest.  So Daddy thought when you visited, being eleven, maybe something more could happen if I liked you.  He didn’t say anything about falling in love with you in about twenty seconds, but he didn’t say anything against it, either, so I guess it’s okay.”
       
       “I hope so,” the young guest responded dryly.  The girl gently pulled her beautiful young buck onto the white, cotton spread, moving forward and guiding the boy along until her head was propped up by a pillow and Jens was lying face-down on his elbows, his handsome face totally close to her childish thighs.  She pulled her knees forward and whispered encouragement.  The boy began kissing both legs, then moved between them, experimenting until the six year old was wriggling almost methodically beneath his lapping and darting tongue, letting out purposeful little grunts and mews as the boy discovered the harder taste of a previous stag mixed with her own juvenile excitement.  He’d had sodium pentothal at the dentist once, the little routine of trying to count backward from five, and remembered making it almost to two.  This was faster.  Before he could have sounded out “four” his tongue was bathing in a sweet, saline world of strange delicacy and mystic sensation.  Her little hands were cradling his face, her slim legs wrapped firmly around his upper back.  She let him lounge and experiment for several minutes, then, with a subtle movement of arms and legs, drew him along her panting body until his lips could meet hers.  For long moments they stared into each other’s eyes, then she pulled his head tenderly to her, his lips to hers, and for Jens all became lost as she shared the lingering presence of her dad’s incest with her new lover.
       
       The kissing was delicious and lasted for long minutes.  “Has anything happened with you, yet?” she asked after catching her breath.
       “No,” the boy said, “but there’s a boy I met at the library.  We’ll be at Best Behavior together next year, and I think we’re interested in more than books.”
       “Have you imagined things with him?” she quizzed.
       “Kinda, sometimes,” Jens replied, unable to keep from flushing in spite of fact he was now lying on top of the naked child, her arms wrapped as firmly as her slim legs around him.
       “What’s his name?” she asked.
       “Pete,” he said, “Peter Trent.”
       “He’s lucky,” Wilma observed, gray eyes staring up hugely.
       “Well, it’s all in my mind, maybe his, at this point,” the boy said.
       “That’s where Daddy and I started,” the six year old said, “thinking about it, being alone together a lot of the time.  We’re pretty tuned in on things in general, so after awhile it became pretty hard to avoid.  Mom was off researching a book, and was upfront about not being domestically or maternally inclined, which fit in rather conveniently.  She even gave me a lecture, before she left, saying that being alone with Daddy might open up new areas in my life, and they were fine, and reasonably natural, as long as we were holding hands, Daddy and I, on the trip.  It was more vague and urbane than that, she writes for “The New Yorker”, but I got the message.”
       
       “How long did it take after she left?” Jens asked.
       “She was still in sight,” the girl answered.  “We watched her cross into the terminal from the second story of the parking garage – she’s not much into good-byes – and I asked Daddy what she’d meant and he said that I was growing up and very mature for my age, and that we could talk about it if I wanted to, but he didn’t want to make me uncomfortable.  Well, I assured him he couldn’t do that with a chain saw if we were both trapped inside a refrigerator, so we kind of settled back in our seats and had a long talk.  He told me his three friends had special relationships with very young girls, Phil Adams and Brandon Michaels with their daughters, Nancy and Karen,  and Zye Usher with his little god-daughter, Zoe, and they had sort of a way-better-than-average (my adjectives) club for girls that really loved their dads, and that we’d been invited to join, and then he told me who the other girls in my grade were, and I liked all of them, and that made it even cooler to be in the club, though if Daddy had wanted to have our own private club on a remote Caribbean island, that would have been fine, too..”
       
       “Your dad is pretty cute,” the boy said.
       “Do you think you’d like it if he touched you while you were alone together?” the girl asked.
       “You mean like take a shower together?” Jens said.
       “Yea,” said the girl, “or if he had you overnight in a motel.”
       “I’d like it,” the boy said.  “He must be pretty awesome when he’s ready for you.”
       “All tiger,” the girl agreed.  “That’s the sort of practical reason I’m glad you’re here.  I want him to be a tiger up inside me instead of just cumming off all over my chest.  I mean I love that and love watching him spray, but I’m a girl, and, however intellectually polyglot we’re meant to run around being, all ‘ist’ and equal, well, I still want to be a real member of the L.S.A., live-sperm-always chapter of DAD-T.  That’s the name of the club, Don’t Ask Don’t – Tell.  And L.S.A. girls mate, get ‘freshened’ as the livestock breeders say, every three days, because that’s how long the sperm lives after the male ejaculates.  Some older girls have been L.S.A. all through high school, and Ellen Jenkins, she’s over twenty now and sort of an advisor, she’s been that way for fifteen years, since she was a year younger than I am.  Of course, technically, I have live sperm in me since an hour after Mom left, but it only counts, you know, there have to be standards and definitions, if the male cums while he’s all the way up between the girl’s legs.  Anything else is P.L.S.A. which is Provisional, and, in case you think this has anything to do with idle chatter, I might point out that Nancy, Karen and Zoe are, well, to try to be funny about it, not that this is the best time and place, well, the four of us are four peas looking for a bod.  In other words your visit has been highly anticipated and perhaps even a little giggled over.”
       
       Nothing to do with a kid like this other than kiss the hell out of her, so the children went back to their happy, naked making out for another ten minutes, until Wilma gently eased him away and began whispering.  “Another thing that’s ever happened with us” she said, “is kissing our males like you kissed me at first, do you know what I mean?”
       “I’ve heard stuff about it, I guess,” Jens allowed.
       “Using our moths and tongues instead of our hands, or have our mate up inside us,” she elaborated.  “Daddy says what splashes out of an adult is too strong for a child, but that a young boy, you know, just mature enough, is the right partner to experiment with the first few times.  This is also meant to have the advantage of making what happens in the end last longer.  I guess that’s pretty clinical, but all four of us agree it should be pretty clinical at this stage of our lives; just something that’s sort of day-dreamy and nice, but not the yin of life force, nor, for that matter a yang that can be broadcast at noon.  For example,” she went on, “I’ve never seen an uncircumcised penis, so I want to conduct an examination without a lot of metaphysical thoughts about, yes, someday I could get a baby from you, but just to see what it looks like and how you react when I experiment, then what it feels like to have your boy sperm spurting in my mouth, if I can make that happen.”
       “I think I’m old enough,” Jens whispered, “I got my pajamas wet last week, you know, in the middle of the night; what happens to boys sometimes.”
       “How many days ago, exactly?” the girl wanted to know.
       Jens paused thinking for a moment.  “Seven or eight,” he guessed.
       “Dad and the others are amazing after three days,” Wilma said, “and Brandon’s been with a boy your age, and he says Jimmy has more sperms than he does, so if that’s true, and you haven’t ejaculated for a week, then I’m going to be a very lucky six year old.”
       “Well, if you aren’t, I’m lucky enough for both of us.”
       “Can you feel it inside you?” she panted, “is it like hot and straining?”
       “Yes,” the boy replied, “especially the hot part.”
       “Will you be able to tell me when it’s going to happen, you know, while I’m experimenting with my hands – so I can get the sperms on my tongue?”
       “I wouldn’t count on that,” Jens whispered, “but I’ll try to say something or squeeze your shoulder or something.”
       
       “Actually,” the girl said pensively, “you could let it be a surprise.  I love watching it happen with Daddy and my other adult’s, but I’ll bet it’s even more beautiful from a boy your age, and it sounds like it might happen long enough that I could watch for a little while, then suck you.”
       “I’ve never seen it happen before,” the boy responded, “so if you want to do it that way, we could watch together, maybe.”
       “Cool,” the girl murmured, “and then I could kiss you after it’s over, and instead of my dad… well, you can figure that part out.”
       The eleven year old rose on his arms, gazing down at the delicious cutie pie with her first grade face, cloud of soft, light brown hair, and big childish eyes.  “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?” he whispered with a shy smile on his intelligent, handsome face.
       “Well,” she replied, “Daddy did kind of teach me at the airport…”
       “No,” he said, “not that part, the physical part, more the spiritual part; the moral part, you might call it, the part that can’t be seen or touched and in lots of people isn’t even there, the mysterious part.  What I’m going to do to you, in those respects.”
       “I don’t know,” the gazing beauty whispered, “just listening to you dazzles me to that soul thing you mentioned.  You’re so beautiful; I’d love you madly if you were a tape recording.  Your language is so, so beautiful; so sensitive, so full, so wandering off to magic land, then kinda giggling or smiling and coming back to nestle with me, in my heart, oh Jens, so much in my heart.”
       “More’s the pity then,” the infinitely proud and arrogant young stallion responded, “because of  your fairy dream castle and romantic gulag for princes and simpering tea parties I’m going to make a total ruin.”
       “Oh, you wouldn’t, you couldn’t,” the girl smiled.
       “I won’t be able not to,” Jens replied, deadpan, his angel looking up curiously into his own little boy eyes. “When it happens, all bets are off.  In an instant you are going to be transformed.”
       
       “Into what?”
       “From a dazzling ingénue and goddess of a dream and love child, to a fine young cannibal.”
       “Cute,” the kid giggled, “just remember that for out daughter, and remember the common sense which goes with it.”
       “What’s that?” he asked.
       “Just common sense,” she repeated, “when it comes to raising cannibals, the younger you start, the finer the monster.”
       
       They couldn’t fall any more in love, so just gazed happily into each other’s eyes.
       
       At the same time, they were young, fit, healthy, and supremely alert. What could such children build on their foundation of adoration?  Something.  They were entirely too alive to be resting on a ledge so early into the climb.  Her wriggling forty pound body helped wake both from their reverie, the very ledge symbolically emoting, move on.  And with a tender kiss, they began moving, began their first inch of a thousand miles, if not moving on, moving over, rolling so the little girl came to rest on her knees between the long, slim legs of her maturing cousin.  Jens lay back, head on a pillow, hands behind his neck, staring at the apparition of soft, brown hair and slim bare chest reaching for him with hands to small to pick flowers.  “It’s so amazing you’re this way, so perfect,” she whispered, experimenting with the thumb and index finger of her right hand with his bulging foreskin, “it’s like being a virgin; almost as first-time as what happened on my chest in the back seat of the car.”
       
       Jens smiled shyly into her huge eyes.  Words for the moment were not just unnecessary, they were unspeakable.  (And how many would agree Wilma and Jens were unspeakable?  There’s a sanity test to occupy an entire generation.)  
       
       The girl moved back slightly so she could focus her eyes on her hand and the solid six inch shaft she was toying with and Jen’s face at almost the same time.  (It wasn’t a game of tennis, after all.)  He was so cute, staring at both of them, hands behind his head, his face intense but expressionless, and if she even pulled him down half an inch his eyes went all fiery, his legs splayed, and his hips thrust to her in welcome.
       
       “Are you ready?” she asked, “because I know what to do after I get you naked on top; then you’ll be like Daddy, Phil, Brandon, and Zye.”
       The boy smiled shyly and nodded.  “I think so, but this is my first time for anything, and I felt ready about twenty seconds after I walked in your front door, so I don’t know, but it feels really hot, sort of like it can’t get any hotter, and like something might happen really, really fast.”
       “It happened really fast with Daddy, too,” the girl said, “it was a good thing we had a really mature talk and I was ready or I’d have thought it was all 911.”
       “That’s what it feels like it’ll be with me,” the boy gasped in response, “if, you know…”
       
       “I know, it’s kinda weird how opposite it is, isn’t it?” Wilma said, “something that has to leave the male, so it’s like dropping a heavy burden, but it’s something added to a girl that can last her whole life, so more thought and patience to into.  I suppose it’s natural, but things could probably have been designed to better compliment each other “
       “Maybe it has to do with permanence,” the boy panted, “you know, your making me fall in love with you forever.  Being totally involved in every tiny move you make and breath you take, and having it go on and on, well, what better start could there be?”
       “M’mm,” the girl hummed in acknowledgement, her eyes flashing with mischief as she gave him a firm squeeze, then deliberately exposed his flaring, purple, glans, gasping at his display, then cupping him with her left hand as she began masturbating him fully, wetting her right palm on his flowing seminal fluid with every third or fourth stroke and slicking him with his own intense excitement.  She lowered her pretty face so she could train eyes on his face and his jutting penis at a single glance, correspondingly, allowing him the ethereal vision of her first-grade face with it’s cloud of little-girl hair in the same field as her hand on him.
       
       The experience was so shocking for both nothing happened for some long minutes.  The boy actually softened a little in the girl’s pumping hand, simply out of disbelief.  Wilma became almost detached and clinical; mechanical.  For long moments they could have gotten up to answer the phone without much more than a shrug.  Each small mind had to churn through a morass of who they were, what was happening, how it fit in, where it would lead, who would be involved, how often it would happen, and for how long.  It was almost as if they had something to do while they figured it all out, a chore like crimping pies, and kept at it by rote.  But in such cases breeding will tell.  They were well-read, fabulously for their ages, and possessed agile and diligent minds, to boot, so the morass was focused, indexed, and channeled off.  The mists cleared.  “Can I call you ‘sis’?” the suddenly lolling boy rasped.
       
       “Oh, yes, Jens, oh yes,” the delighted child hissed, “oh, yes.”
       “Oh, sis, oh.. sis, sis, sis, sis…..”
       
       He tried to relax and was astonished to find he already was so.  Calm as a cucumber.  Fulfilled.  It was happening, perfectly, and his sagged to the pillow as he watched his sister stare transfixed at three jets of semen flying three feet almost straight up to cum down splashing both of their hot young bodies, then a flash of fire in her tender eyes as the six year old bent over him, taking him firmly in her tiny mouth as she held him low and hard with her hand.  She began humming wildly at his first lash over her wriggling tongue, her head bobbing so her hair flew.  She dashed her left hand across her forehead, exposing her beautiful face and huge eyes to her brother as he began releasing himself calmly and fully, spilling as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  Hell, she was a fine young cannibal; she deserved it.  And then that part – the calm one – was over, because the shock in Wilma’s eyes didn’t fade.  From lassitude the boy was galvanized to such a passion as has never been known (or at least told).  He realized in an instant what he was actually doing to her. really being total with her, and how avidly she loved it.  It might not be a big deal for him to lie on his pack and spill his hot young seed, nice as it certainly would have felt even if he’d been alone, but this, this was more times more than could be calculated; her shocked eyes, her almost desperate humming, her laser-ing tongue, the heavy drool of white cum-off she – he was sure deliberately - let drool from the corner of her mouth with no other motive than enraging him and rendering him a psychotic cannibal.  Oh, god, if that’s what she wanted.  Every jolt now seared him and bounced him hard off his pillow.  His arms whipped from behind his head to help her with her hair.  Her still astonished face was a foot from his own.  “Oh, sis,” he whispered, and kept cumming. in his mind until she was snuggled warmly against his panting, chest, her eyes still bright with excitement as her girlishly drooling lips approached, making him cum again.
       
       “Now it’s okay to get some water,” Wilma whispered half an hour later.  “It’s kind of a, well, one shot cure.”
       It was an idea and still naked they held hands as they made their way to the kitchen, choosing apple juice over water.  They reviewed their first time not with words but magnetically, unable to touch each other less than the maximum consistent with domestic activities.
       
       “How do you feel about Daddy coming,” Wilma asked as the rinsed their glasses.  “Do you want to be dressed and stuff like that.”
       “It would probably be more exciting to be embarrassed,” the boy replied, “especially since you’re not too keen on wiping what happened at first off your chest.”
       “Daddy loves seeing me this way,” Wilma explained, “and I don’t think having you stand beside me, naked, would hurt one little bit.”
       “Do you think he’ll ever really rape you once you’ve started going all the way together?” 
       “I have a rape costume in by closet,” the girl said.  “When I want no frills, I wear them; a fishnet dance-hall getup with a garter, like Jonbenet for her beauty pageants.  That’s my signal I want to be thrown on the floor and used like a white girl in a wild aboriginal village.”
       “How big a village?” Jens asked, kinda checking how much in love they were.
       “Maybe half an hour,” was the best she could gauge it, so that’s what she said with her pretty, shy smile.
       “Have you practiced that way?” Jens asked.
       “Twice,” the girl said, “but just using my hand faster and harder than I did in the back seat of the Bimmer.”
       “Did you get wetter that way?” Jens whispered to the girl now in his lap and gently fondling his slim, six inch boner thrusting high between her almost chubby legs.
       “Nothing has ever been like the first time,” she said, “that was like being with one they totally forgot to geld, at least until this afternoon,” she blushed, “but yes, more than normal.  With Phil, Brandon and Zye, too.  It’s, well, stimulating certainly isn’t the right word, but there’s more seed when I wear my leggings and garter.  I like them to ejaculate on my thigh while I’m sitting up so I can see everything perfectly, especially how they – and Daddy the most – swell up just before the splashing starts.”
       
       “Would they fit me?” Jens asked.
       “Oh, Jens,” the girl hissed, “that’s so way, way perfect!  God, would you ever look beautiful, and if you ever want to do anything with a mature male, since you can’t take him inside you the way a female can, that’s the best thing because it’s sort of clinical and intimate at the same time.”
       
       On that happy note Wilma’s dad entered.  The children slipped politely from the kitchen stool, stood for inspection as the rangy athlete slipped out of his jacket, and stashed his keys.  His smile electrified the eleven year old and he flew into his uncle’s arms, Wilma leaping on his back and immediately tolerating no deviance – unless he needed the bathroom – from the path to her bedroom.  She romped over her powerful dad’s shoulder, licking as much of his mouth as she could reach.  Jens joined in and apple juice or no apple juice, their hot secret was out.  “Oh, babes,” Will gasped at the saline trace, and rushed to pitch them on the bed, stripping while they lay still and staring.  At twenty-three he looked nineteen, slight acne scaring giving him a tighter and more meaningful visage than would be considered perfect.  Wow, like they cared.  He jutted a quarter again Jens’ size, as the girl had said, circumcised, and twice as thick as the male child.  They jostled gently on the bed, the adult fully molesting both children, and Wilma and Jens doubling his evil ways in retribution.  Again and again they both deliberately licked the young man’s tongue, giving him a sense of the crime they’d committed as brother and sister, along with a subtle message concerning the passion they’d shared in the process.  Wilma whispered privately to her handsome, boyish father.  He immediately gripped Jens shoulder, found his eyes, and said, “Would you, just once?  Brandon bought one which is too big for her, I think it’s in a light green, perhaps not as lovely as her pink, but it should be once, only, because we’re in favor of advising about kinks, not establishing them in impressionable minds.”  Wilma not only nodded along but reached to her cousin and led him to her closet, then pointed him to the bathroom, the implication being he was meant to costume himself in private then make an entrance.
       
       Once again all were on such overload, to use a rather thin psychological term, and what should have been hot and passionate became almost mechanical routine.  In two minutes, Jens entered Wilma’s bedroom, arms hanging at his side, his handsome face masked in neutrality, and walked up to the naked adult.  They adjusted themselves on Wilma’s bed so Will was braced on a bedpost while the six year old stood at his right hip masturbating him against the upper left thigh of the boy who was straddling the bedpost with his long legs, his head and shoulders propped with pillows so he was sitting comfortably.  
       
       “Do you want to try?” the girl whispered, nodding down at her father’s huge penis, “because when Daddy and I are in here alone together, I can make it happen sitting where you are.”
       
       “Yes,” Jens said, and matching the girl, took over her as she hugged her powerful dad and kissed up and down his heaving right flank, eyes never leaving the glaring spectacle of his swollen, adult glans pulsing against the tender exposed loin of the boy dressed as a girl.
       The young hostess responded to the boy’s excitement over his first homosexual activity by letting him jerk her dad off until she sensed a deep tensioning in the powerful body in her arms and against her bare chest.  “You can do more with him in the shower sometime,” she whispered, “and you’ll be able to concentrate more on what’s happening if I help him ejaculate.”  Gently their hands exchanged and the young adult tensed the more at the female’s soft but deliberate touch.  Jens, both hands free, was able to thrust himself against him, helping her to keep it perfect.  He pictured the girl in his place, her father and handsome friends teaching her graphically and fully, leaving no confusion to bedevil idle hours.
       
       “He has to tell me, I never can guess,” Wilma whispered, “and sometimes he can’t, especially if Zye touching him, so kinda be ready.”
       “I couldn’t tell either,” Jens panted in agreement, “I thought it was getting over with before anything really started happening.”
       “I don’t understand everything about being a boy,” the girl panted in response, “plus, I love surprises, even though I know how to spoil them.”
       “How can you do that?” the boy croaked, thinking it would be heady just talking to Wilma and her little friends over a pretend tea party.
       “Are you ready to see?” she asked in return, to the shaken boy’s nod.
       “Okay,” she hissed, then looked up at her straining father, his legs now spread inches wider and his hips meeting her hand powerfully.  “Daddy,” she whispered so Jens could hear, “after you’ve held me against by beautiful brother, cradled us in your arms, this is going to be happening up inside me.”
       
       Some eavesdropping at the door might have heard the slap and hiss of hot semen as it boiled against Jen’s left thigh.  It only stopped when the eleven year old bowed his head, the girl met his need, and he began taking the heavy pulse of the young adult over his lips and tongue as Wilma held the stallion firmly as his base and yipped excitedly in his ear, almost rudely rushing to kiss her brother as soon as her experienced right hand detected the man’s ebbing.  The children went wild with each other, apparently perfectly acclimated to the heaviness of the young man’s seed.  Will staggered for a moment or two, but in scarcely more had his child in his left arm as he coaxed the boy between her widely spread legs.  He guided the eleven year old, then trusted the animal to take his daughter as he would.  Jens mounted with a methodical flurry of gentle, probing strokes, carefully monitoring the eyes of his quick-witted little beloved as he began really finding her.  Will whispered encouragement, holding the little girl while he let his right hand ride softly on Jen’s bottom, sensing what every father should sense at what might turn out to be a momentous day for his daughter.  The boy’s buttocks contracted gently, but the man could sense the power in his juvenile body.  He thought of the hot semen pooled high between the youth’s legs, how his own was pooling moment by moment, how the preteen would feel releasing it into the enchanted little girl, and how he would in an hour or two.  A girl could have any kind of breast in the word, pert inverted teacup or lush, firm melon, but nothing in the world could equal the feeling in Will’s right hand of the bottom and the tremble of muscles beneath the delicately mounded surface.  What was being done with his daughter, every sensuous ripple of curiosity, experimentation, passion, and feral urgency was to be plainly felt, or, more tantalizingly, not felt, held in reserve for what was going to come when he’d completed his gentle mounting of the tiny, mewing virgin. 
       
       Wilma’s right arm was stretched around her dad’s neck and the fingers of her left hand toyed with the tiny nipples of the straining male, now deep within her.  Her hips began responding and her dad helped her with thrusting encouragement.  Then it slipped clinical bonds and became the mating of animals, the boy crying out and plunging, the man’s hands helping ram him forward as he shoved the tiny female against him, Wilma raking both males every way she could with her tiny fingers, he little heels beating against her buck’s slim, corded legs.  Nor did it stop.  It just got wilder.  They were young, extremely fit, and, from the clinical it merged with the athletic, almost as if the three were boxing.  The sweat profusely, they hissed and even spit into each other’s moths; the man’s hand went deep between the cheeks of the boy’s melon-like bottom, allowing a new savagery from the gasping boy.  Five minutes.  Six.  Then a fast rise for all of them, outright shrieks from Wilma, and a melodramatic ending with the males both cumming hard and fast, Will all over his little girl’s heaving chest, and then a slow collapse into a sweating heap half covering the slack-faced, glazed-eye girl as she tried to figure out if she’d survived her first true orgasm.
       
       Will’s mounting did occur an hour later, gentle, purring, hands all over each others faces.  Jens excused himself, apple juice playing a silly role in restoring perspective, and so was not there when, after fifteen minutes, Wilma cooed and hummed softly into her father’s neck as for the second time he became rigid in her arms.
       
[Poster copy contributed by reader Mystery Mark.]

POSTER BOYS – END FILE – I

xxx
       
       

