
BEYOND BREWSTER – BOOK IV

THE Horatio Alger Story 

(Conclusion)

T.C. EMERSON


BOOK IV


	Where were we?  How many were still awake after the long night’s drive?  Had anything exciting happened during Nancy Fox’s dissertation on Brewster, Massachusetts, and its environs?  Would we like to hear the end of the Alger story?  How his pistols again came into play?  How he placed one in front each of the judges, whereupon, forsooth, they quaked and did so tremble and disassemble as to be unable to carry out the obvious sentence on themselves?  Brought up to Christian stricture, He helped those unable to help themselves and, beseeching the forgiveness of the char, blew neat, if perhaps excessively large, holes in each of the corpulent breasts.  As a final gift to his former flock, he discharged the fourth .44 caliber weapon into the smoke-laden air over the alter, and the hole in the roof remains to the present day, placed there, not merely to help vent the smoke, but in order that a ray of true light might illuminate a small part of the sacred house, assuming, of course, the sun was erect.

       As to practical details, Nancy, Gerald, Neil, Billie-Joe, Meg, Ned, Sonja, Vince, Chip, Rob, and Madden were all naked in the soft-light interior of the luxurious Bedouin tent, their excitement at each other’s presence undiminished in spite of the two hours it had taken Nancy to read through her alternative folio.  The salacious and lingering musk of sex hung thick in the air and more than one delicate thigh and tender belly was slick with the seminal fluid known, alternatively, as pre-cum.
       
       Nor was Nancy in any way one to dominate the floor, or, had it been the church ten miles south, the ethereal spotlight.  Far from it.  “Does anyone else have a story?” she asked, happening to glance at Vince Bristol, eldest brother of Billie-Jo’s friend and classmate, Sonja.
       The boy blushed, in context, exciting the others considerably, and said: “Well, if you really want me to.”  Duh’uh.  Billie-Jo had been well taken in hand by Nancy’s thirteen year old brother, the handsome and athletic Gerald, and both moved to the lap of Billie-Jo McAlester’s father, Neil.  Sonja joined her brother on the center silk-clad pillow, the seventeen-year-old male lying back, spread eagle, as his naked eleven year old sister straddled his muscular right thigh and masturbated him as all huddled close and watched intently, sniffing as if suddenly beset with colds.  The temperature was seventy five degrees, the ventilation good, and an air of patience and tolerance permeated the small gathering.  All glowed warmly, an interior radiance fueled by the knowledge of what was coming off.
       
       “I was sick of his word-play,” Vince began, “so I wrote what might be deemed a pithy dissection of one of his lectures, and handed it in in lieu of a book report.”
       
       “H’mm, promising,” the assemblage murmured mostly to themselves.
       
       “He called me down to his office after class, and we talked,” the teen went on in explanation.  “He explained he wanted to be a writer = fiction – and it took so much practice, writers were always ‘on’.
       “Seemed a little lame to me at the time, but I didn’t know the half of it.
       “’Also,’ he went on, ‘to write well takes an almost preposterous level of self-confidence.”
       
       
       “What do you mean?” the seventeen year old asked his English instructor (the boy had eased though school so effortlessly he was, at sixteen, a sophomore at Boston University). 
       “It’s on the mature side, if I can indulge in a little understatement,” the teacher  replied, “and you may have other interests.”
       “My interest,” Vince responded, “is in not being on the receiving end of a splitting headache after twenty minutes in your class, vis-à-vis trying to figure out what you are talking about.”
       “Oh, that,” the handsome professor laughed, “well, how would you go about separating the numb from the quick?  I mean this is a university, the students don’t exactly drool on their desks.”
       “Which is why I didn’t apply to Harvard,” Vince rejoined, “but assuming I am among the quick, in your opinion, what does that have to do with your becoming some kind of maven of the lithographed word?”
       “Can’t you guess?” the instructor asked.  
       “Vagueness in understanding what has passed,” the prodigy said, “and can hardly bode well for guessing what’s next.”
       
       “Well,” the adult said, “it goes, our potential friendship, to the issue of self-confidence to the degree required of the virtuoso.  Not self-confidence, per se, but, rather, absolute confidence; all the confidence in the world; all the confidence Bill Gates must feel as a provider for his family, or Tiger must feel when his father-in-law suggests a round of golf.  More apropos, think of the confidence Haley Mathers must have in her father when she’s ready to become a big girl.  Think of the confidence of a medical resident choosing endocrinology, or, again, more on target, the confidence of the Olsen twins feel in having the prettiest breasts in the world.”
       
       “But not, I assume,” the student observed, “the confidence I have that this conversation is actually going somewhere.”
       “And as an alternative,” the professor, not so much older than his student, said, “you’d be where and hanging out with who or whom, I rarely get them straight?”
       “Cotton Mather, since you brought up the name,” the teen replied, hardly needing to add: “Touche.”
       “If you wish to learn how not to write,” the elder male suggested, “I’d suggest stories by boy-band aficionados in the alternative literary archives.”
       “With your examples of how not to lecture,” Vince said, “that might indeed fill me out, fiction-wise.”
       “It might or might not,” his teacher allowed, “but it returns us to the subject at hand.  Self-confidence.  Knowing, as a writer, you may not know it all, I mean does anyone really know how many grains of sand there are between Bourne and P’town? but that you know acey-duecy more than anyone else.”
       “Inexorably leading us to something you don’t know.”
       
       “Lord, child,” the man replied, “do you thing you’re here gratuitously?  Frivolously?  On some kind of whim or notion?  Your paper, an arch and droll reminder of mine-own earlier years, was obviously composed by a sighted person, and I know, as a fact, you have floor-to ceiling mirrors in your dormitory rooms, said mirrors which you must have noted from time to time.  
       “Let’s try it from the mathematical standpoint: the number two represents your reflection in any such mirror, and a second equal digit equals the sole remaining gap in my development as a master of English fiction.”
       “Sounds like a case of Addison’s Disease,” quotth the youth.”
       “If I was the type to beat around the bush,” the youthful professor explained, “I’d hardly come right out and say it could add-some to your grade this semester.”
       
       “And,” the boy responded, “if I weren’t a student who deserved an A on the news of my mirror, I’d be loathe to express my opinion, which is that you have little interest in beating – around – the bush.”
       The teacher sighed, perhaps a trifle dramatically.  “Back to math, are we?” he said, “but why not?  Identify x, as in: a single x in the hand is worth two x’s in the bush.”
       
       
       I’ve resisted a reader game, or quiz, if you will, perhaps too long.  Perfect time for one, especially you beginning writers.  How does the current theme play out?  Don’t cheat and look ahead, but try to come up with the next line or two on your own.  It’s fun, though not particularly easy, and no one will ever know if you won or lost, no grade will be issued.   Reread, take a break.  My patent recipe for coffee is to mix two and a half heaping teaspoons (maybe a little more) of sugar with a like amount of house brand non-dairy creamer (it’s just as good as Carnation at a fraction of the price, to stick with our mathematical theme), and then add about one-third teaspoon of instant coffee. Mix in a mug, starting with a paste, and heat (microwave) to all-but-boiling.  More a coffee “shake” than cup of joe.  Yum-yum.  (Great confidence builder, you know, making a perfect cup of the old eye opener.)   Okay, pencils down, please.
       
       Of course it wouldn’t be fair, to those who’ve tried, to splash the answer in plain sight, so we’ll kind of bury it here, without tell-tale quotation marks, by giving the line, and I guess this is pretty obvious, to young Vince.  I get it, he said, three: triple x.
       
       “Excessive,” responded the teacher, “extreme, even, but exact enough, for all of that.”
       
       The two sat for some moments, the boy on the leather sofa, the man at his half-cluttered mahogany desk.  At their intellectual levels, much could be said in moments, so neither felt an immediate need to continue the conversation, being plenty smart enough to enjoy an interval of silence.  In the teacher’s case, the fact the boy didn’t vacate, to paraphrase Eminem, “penis and all,” was intensely exciting.  The boy, more youthful in his outlook, in his turn found intense eroticism in his young teacher’s failure to look meaningfully at the door, or tap abstractedly  on his desk.  So they sat, aware of a filter of distant sounds indicating the last of the staff were leaving for the day.  It wasn’t Harvard, they didn’t drool, but that’s not saying much (unless you paid god-knows-how-much only to see your papa doc University skewered and flensed by a high-school grad).
       
       The elder male eventually broke the silence.  Nodding at the door, he reminded Vince it was not locked.  The boy flushed slightly, but didn’t move.  “Has anything happened with you?” he asked.
       “A few things probably passed me by in my pursuit of tenure at a younger age than you achieved it,” the sixteen year old admitted.
       “But you’ve read about it?” the man asked, “you’re not puzzled by what I’m getting at or confused about how you feel?”
       “I guess those are thing I’d feel if you weren’t getting at something,” the boy allowed.
       “So?” the teacher said, repeating the central question.
       
       “Something happened when I was fishing, once,” the boy on the sofa said.  “When I’d just turned twelve.”
       “Repeatedly?” the man asked, “or just ships not quite passing in the night.”
       “I went back a few times,” Vince acknowledged, “then finals came up and he moved away.  Mobile America.  Rolling stones, easy on the moss.”
       “I’m sorry.”
       “Just lucky to have had it at all.  How about you?”
       “All I ever caught were some flounder.”
       “And a PhD at twenty-one.”
       “I was insecure,” the professor noted, “since something that seemed essential had been left out, like the salt out of boiled pasta.  I had to make up for it any way I could.”
       “And we’re all alive because you didn’t turn your talents to tainting reservoirs?”
       “The Pepto-Bismol and Imodium people made offers,” the host admitted, “but they were ones I could refuse.”
       “Well, your math certainly isn’t up to Uni-Bomber standards,” the student concurred.  
       “Nor my luck at fishing,” the adult added, wryly.
       
       By this time the two males had synchronized in harmonious accord.  “It’s pretty-much kid’s stuff to be slowly stripped by a panting older male,” Vince said.  He stood, shrugged off his sport jacket, and stripped down to his briefs, placing his shoes neatly under the sofa and folding his clothes over one arm.  His young teacher followed un-suit, then stepped from behind his desk, coming up close behind the youthful, almost preteen looking boy.  “Did he start by touching you here?” he asked, fingering the neck of the already panting youth.
       “Yes,” Vince said, “but we talked a lot, first, so I kind of knew what was going to happen.”
       “Was it graphic?” the man wanted to know, “or did he just kind of allude to things.”
       “At first,” Vince said, “to be sure I wouldn’t freak out, but then when I said I wanted to hear more, he told me everything.  How he loosened one of the spark plug leads on the outboard so his uncle would huddle over him as they tried to figure out what was wrong, and what that led to.”
       “I take it not a record catch,” the elder observed.
       “I believe seven inches was mentioned,” the boy responded.
       “If you want to write,” the teacher advised, “stay away from numbers.  Nothing wrong with them, but you just don’t have the time.  It’s an all-out, no-holds-barred effort; reading, living, not studying math.”
       “What if his uncle had been nine inches?” the boy wanted to know, since they were on the subject.
       “I see your point,” the class leader intoned, “because if a young boy tempted an adult so well endowed, there’d surely be more to the story than integers denoting length and girth.”
       “You’ve got that right,” Vince agreed, “it was more along the lines of the second coming and the flood.”
       
       I don’t think characters have to be exactly this made-for-each-other to warrant inclusion in a non-adversarial (I leave that to the wonderful people amongst us) New Novel, but when you’ve written seven, and published six, you’ve earned the right to sketch a utopian romance, even if it amounts to a fish story.
       
       By now the tall, athletic teacher had begun tracing the delicate child’s slim shoulders.  He kept up his gentle play until Vince’s hands covered his own, moving them to his belly.  “I did this for him,” the boy whispered, reaching up behind the older male’s neck and lacing his fingers are he arched in welcome to the adult’s gentle touch.
         “Did he have you naked?” the man whispered back.
       “He was unbuttoning my shirt,” Vince replied.  “I’d invited him to stay and go swimming; we were at an isolated river bank, he was canoeing downstream and asked if I had any fish he could buy.  I didn’t but I said if he stayed, maybe that would change my luck, so he beached his boat and we talked.  He asked how old I was and I told him fifteen.  He was surprised and said he thought I was ten or eleven, not his fault, I was more mascot than man.  When he knew I was at least a little mature he asked if I had a girlfriend.  I replied that I thought Mavis Beacon was the only female worth knowing, because she taught me to type.  He said I was one up on him.  Then I got my first trout, so that interrupted the conversation.  When he was in the creel, he quizzed me a little more.  It made my knees shake a little, you know, when he asked if I’d been to summer camp or if I liked going on sleepovers to other boys’ houses.  By this time he was standing behind me giving me some tips on working the line.  He asked if I minded if he stayed, and I said I didn’t.  We got two more big fish, bang, bang, so I used that as an excuse to invite him, not that it was my part of the river or anything.  Then he started caressing my neck, and that was, well, at least technically, nothing to do with casting.  A lure without a string.  He told me something had happened between him and his uncle when he was thirteen, and asked if I’d like to hear about it.  I nodded and he told me about tampering with the outboard motor.  It was nearly noon, by that time, and I asked him if he wanted to go swimming with me.  Jack replied his suit was packed away in his duffle bag, but he could get to it in a couple of minutes.  I said we could skinny-dip if he wanted.  He quizzed me more; asked if I’d ever showered or swum alone with an adult before.  I told him No.  He said if anything happened that made me feel uncomfortable, I should tell him.  We waded ashore, leaned the rod against a tree, and he stood behind me again, this time no pretending about fishing.  He whispered about how his uncle had touched him inside his coveralls as they were tinkering with the Johnson, how he’d moved against him to let him know it was okay, and then, as he opened my shirt, how he’d suddenly fixed the machine, and they’d motored to a small island on the lake, then gone in from the beach to find a spot to picnic, or so they said.  By this time his finger’s were working on my belt so we moved behind some brush in case anyone else happened by.  As soon as we were secluded, he stripped out of his shirt, and really came back to me using both hands and kissing my neck.  He asked me if I wanted to know what his uncle had done with him on the little island, and I nodded as he pulled my belt open and lowered the zipper on my shorts.  Then he wanted to know if I knew about sperm, other than what’s in the bio books, and I said No.  It turned out his uncle had taught him all about it while they were lying on the grass, next to each other.  I said that there was a sleeping bag in my backpack, and we could lie on that.  He said he wanted to take me quickly, where we were, and, after that, if I wanted him to stay he’d pitch his tent and get out his own sleeping bag.  I said that was okay as long as he didn’t get out his swimsuit.  I guess by kidding I somehow let him know I wasn’t kidding, and he became pretty urgent for what we both wanted.  He got me naked except for a gold chain I was wearing, and started doing what you’re doing, only without my underpants to get in the way.  He said I might feel a little crummy for a few minutes when it was over, and he’d take a little hike to see if I wanted him to come back.  By this time, he was really taking me.  I had my legs up on the bank, like they are on the sofa, so I could really spread my legs and let him know I liked being raped by him.  That lasted about five minutes, because his uncle had molested him many times and he knew how to make it last without making it last too long. ‘Try to tell me when you cum off,’ he whispered, saying it was important to try to do it in case I was ever with a little boy or girl who might freak out at all the sperm suddenly spraying all over them.  I tried, but it was my first time, and he’d wet his hand with some lotion in his pack, so I couldn’t make any words come out.  He whispered that he’d sometimes fantasized about molesting a little boy who was, you know, built like a man except for the hair, and then took me hard and fast, panting in my ear.  His left arm was around my bare chest, his right hand on me, and he kept doing it a little faster and harder until he felt me shaking all over.  ‘If you want me to stay on with you,’ he whispered, ‘I’d like to cum on your face the first time like Uncle Ray did with me, would that be okay?’  I wasn’t sure, but if it would make him feel like he was making me feel, I was pretty sure I wanted whatever he did, so I nodded.  Then he told me to pretend I was cumming on McCauley Culkin’s face, like Michael Jackson had when they were dating, and his little pink tongue was eagerly licking my sperm from his lips.  That made it start.  I don’t know what made it stop, but certainly Jack Melrose didn’t, he kept hissing and encouraging me, his wet hand now fisting me tightly at the base of my boner, and it kept happening again and again until it was all over the bush in front of my hips.  He eased me to the ground so I could rest, stripped, and swam out in the river while I recovered.  In a few minutes I joined him, and we split eight nice trout for dinner.”
       
       “Glad of the extra protein,” the teacher said, Vince now growing tense in his arms as he splayed his long, coltish legs on the leather couch and bucked his hips hard and fast to his mentor’s stroking hand.  “I’m cumming,” the sixteen year old student said, obviously pleased with his new-found competence at conversational English.
       
       For any but a nascent writer, Vince’s hard, pulsing spray might have ended it, at least for the moment, but in the teacher’s literary mind only half the “void” had been filled by successfully molesting a willing boy.  The older male stripped quickly out of his briefs, getting the still panting youth naked, also.  The young man positioned himself on his back, knees in hands, legs spread, and wet himself with some of Vince’s sperm, which seemed to be almost everywhere.  The boy knelt on the carpeting of the office, and, hunched over between his professor’s boyish, athletic legs, found him and slowly entered.  Moving firmly to his hilt, he paused a long moment as the older male acclimated himself to the slim six-inch erection now deep inside him.  The man nodded and the boy began moving against him.  It was ten minutes before he tensed once again, and the hard throb of his hot penis earned him extra credit, which he needed like The King of Pop needs a girlfriend, and status with the once and future writer as contributing colleague.
       
       Naked children and young adults huddled around the now seventeen year old as he lay spread-eagle, arched over the giant central pillow, pinning his arms and legs firmly to the tent floor.  The allowed the young stallion to strain mightily against the now almost whipping hand of his pretty kid sister without throwing her off his thigh.  The boy gasped, mewed, and panted like a hot engine.  His nostrils flared, his muscle and sinew bulged, and his beautiful young athlete’s body glistened with sweat.  “Oh, sis, oh god, don’t stop,” were his last distinguishable words, then his eyes glazed, his features slackened, and he lapsed into half a seizure.  Since they were experimenting, little Sonja held her handsome brother’s huge, circumcised erection in the vertical position as she suddenly shot her hand to his very base and gripped his penis until her knuckles went dead white.  For long moments the tableau remained frozen, all eyes trained avidly on Vince.  His first heavy, hot, white cum rocketed nearly three feet, so straight up that much of his flying semen slicked Sonja’s hand as gravity brought it splatting heavily from whence it came.  It was sex as, yes, high art; the most beautiful single sight any present had ever witnessed or even imagined.  And it went on for well over half a minute, the only difference being the shocked Sonja holding her ejaculating brother against her bare chest, taking one heavy spurt after another over her swollen, acorn-size nipples.  The wanton passion of their coupling incited all present, and in less time than it takes to tell, Neil and other manhandled Vince on top of his sister, guided him between her long, slim legs, and to where she yielded with a hot scream of welcome to his hard thrusting.  
       
       There are huddled masses here and huddled masses there, but not far beyond Brewster the phrase was succinctly redefined in the long minutes Vince bucked – gently – against his preteen sister.  All fondled, touched, kissed, and licked them, all wet their hands with the heavy slickness between the two straining young bodies, and all hissed encouragement as they sensed his renewing tension   Then Billie-Jo’s pretty voice dominated.  Quietly she spoke: “Vince,” she said, “think of that first shower with her after you know she’s pregnant.”  The now mature teen tensed in a final rictus.  Sonja hissed: “Oh, yes, baby, oh yes, yes, yes.”  Again, it was over half a minute before his athletic young body had fully responded to the tight, wet heat of the immature female and he slowly collapsed into her wild arms as she lay beneath him, lost totally in a head-lolling, glazed-eye world entirely her young stallion brother’s.  
       
       Again, Billie-Jo’s voice: “Daddy,” she whispered so all could hear, “masturbate Gerald so he cums off on my face.”  So saying, she replaced the exhausted Vince on the red-silk pillow, eager young bodies pinning her arms as hands, young and mature, male and female, many still wet with the teenager’s seed, molested and fondled her.  Gerald positioned himself on his knees, looking over his shoulder to welcome his future father in lay.  Neil moved close to the boy, taking his slim bare chest in his powerful left arm, and finding his hard, circumcised six inch man’s penis with his right.  The girl’s eyes glowed up at the boy’s, his returning the fire.  “On my lips, as much as you can,” she suggested, then let nature take its course.
       
       In minutes, the well developed thirteen year old began his loss of control.  “Daddy,” Billie-Jo whispered, “be the first one to kiss me when it’s over.”  “Over?” the young father mused to himself, fisting the boy in his arms hard against the base of his hard steel erection while he held his almost girl-pretty pink glans against his panting daughter’s right cheek, “what could possibly be ‘over’ if a man kissed his pretty daughter for the first time when her lips were bubbling the fresh, hot sperm of a cute young teen?’  Nor was he just engaging in idle speculation.  The child’s semen was thin and watery, but richly streaked with white sperm than almost radiated.  Gerald spent fully and freely on the pretty schoolgirl’s face, Neil carefully guiding him, in spite of his sweating lunges, so that, yes, her lips disappeared under his hot adolescent torrent of total release.   Again, the youth’s climax lasted nearly a minute, at least eight full spurts jetting from the pink delicacy of his innocent appearing young glans, followed by a lesser pulsing stream than lasted longer than the initial surge of hot, fast pulses.
       
       Then came the sight that focused them all, as if they needed; made indelible exactly what it was – the beauty of – what they were all about.  Gerald’s sister eased her quaking, panting brother from Neil’s arms, cradling him against her pert, swollen breasts, and Neil rolled between his daughter’s widely spread legs.  He looked down at her for a long minute from the push-up position,  then it happened.  The tip of the child’s pink tongue poked up through the heavy slick of Gerald’s sperm.  Slowly her father lowered to her pretty face, extending his own tongue by just half an inch.  In all the world, there had never been such a first kiss and everyone knew it.  Sigh.  Was it the sea breeze taking hold?  
       
       There was more, of course, and it was two hours and more – mid afternoon – by the time the horror of Taunton finally stunned the last open eyes (Billie-Jo’s, still glowing from repeated raping by her father) into heavenly sleep, but this story concludes in a tent, making it especially easy to draw the curtain.
       
       Yes, I have lots of stories on Nifty, and I’d tell you more but for the fact that half the fun will be finding them.  Do check out “Cowboy Blues.”  If you’re meaningfully, rather than wishfully connected up, fear not if you’re a Cohen or Epstein, I’m still friends with Malcolm, and, if once in awhile a bit crude, the farthest thing you ever saw from a peasant.  Don’t you be one.  Next is “Poet of Phu Bai,” so this has been your walk in the park before a day in the crags.  Anyone supplying information on Horatio Alger will be noted in a future story.  Guess that’s about it.  Beyond Brewster is P’town, so maybe the world’s not quite as, well, - - - - - up as it sometimes appears.
       
Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx
       
       

