
The Nature of Man

By Kenn Ghannon



The Rules

I thought, before we got to the actual reading of this story that we should
set down a couple of ground rules:

1) This story involves frank and explicit descriptions of sex.  If it is
immoral or illegal in your area to read about topics of this nature, please
quit reading here.  If you don't want to read about topics of this nature,
please quit reading here.  (I don't, by the way, agree with the legal
aspects of this.  I believe that the United States, as a society, has gone
too far in putting the onus of maturity on a rather arbitrary physical age.
I've known 13 year olds who were far more mature than some 40 year olds.  Of
course, this may be the exception to the rule, but still.)

2) If you are looking for a story where everyone is always happy all of the
time, please find another story.  If you are looking for a story where
everyone is always sad all of the time, please find another story.  Reality
is somewhere in-between these two extremes and I try to write as near to
reality as an erotic fantasy can get.  Do I succeed?  Only you can tell me.

3) If you are looking for a story that absolutely revolves around sex, sex,
and more sex, please find another story.  I *WON'T* write one of those.
There is sex here, but only as a function of the story.

4) Everything you read hear is fiction.  It never happened, so I am
definitely not writing about YOU.  J

If you've read this far, I hope you enjoy this.



Author's Note: I owe writing this story, and you owe reading this story, to
Frank Downey.  I've often read the stories in the erotic newsgroups -
usually one-handed as most males do - but I've never found one that
particularly satisfied me or made me WANT to read further.  That all changed
after reading Frank's "Naked In School" series.  For the first time, I
actually nearly skipped the sexually detailed writing in order to find out
what happened next.



To put it mildly, I was HOOKED.  I've since read ALL of Frank's stories
including his novel - and I've fallen in love with every one of his
characters.  I know it is impossible, but I hope that Frank never finishes
his novel.because the thought of not being able to read more of Sophia and
Warren's life is a horrible, horrible thought.



However, it was his stories that made me realize that it was possible to
write erotica where romance was more important than sex and story
development more important than anything else.  I will never be able to
bring characters to life as well as he can; I only hope that you might enjoy
my story/stories nearly as much.



--Kenn Ghannon, 06 Jun 2003.



Chapter 1

Eric Wagner stormed out of the house without looking back.  He was so angry,
he could barely breathe.  His body shook with the rage and his skin blazed
hot under his clothing.  He had an irrational need to strike someone,
anyone.  Luckily, no one approached to present him the opportunity.



After a while, his stomping feet slowed to a walk and his breath filled his
lungs normally once again.  As he slowly came out of his anger trance, he
looked around him to get his bearings.  He had only walked about a mile down
the country road.  It seemed much further.



He turned to the right at the next intersection, and then a left at the
following one.  His destination became clearer in his mind as he walked.
There was only one place in the world he felt completely comfortable any
more.  Only one place he knew were he could escape the sights and sounds and
let himself be free.  It was almost with a sigh of relief that he entered
the Maybury Park.



He hesitated as he reached a sign that read "Trail's End".  At his feet, a
large round circle had been stomped into the earth and no grass grew.  Like
some otherworldly nexus, spreading out from this one point spider-webbed a
half-dozen paths which split and fractured somewhere in the grasslands and
forest before him until they covered the entire park.



It wasn't as if the park were huge.  It was perhaps a hundred to a hundred
and fifty acres in all.  It's appeal lie in the fact that, in some of the
more remote sites, you could walk within 5 yards of another person and never
even know they were there.  It was place where one could get lost for a
little while, without having to worry about the needs and demands of another
human being.  It was the only place that Eric felt he was totally and
completely accepted.



He took one of the paths and followed it for a while, every now and then
turning along a splinter path to the right or left.  His aimless movements
belied his thoughts however.  He had a place in mind; a place he imagined
that no one had ever been to (though he knew, in the back of his mind where
all rational thought took place, that someone had more than likely found the
spot before him).  His walk, however, was relaxed.



The sun beat down on him through the trees, but he didn't notice the sweat
partially matting down his ash blonde hair.  His short sleeve shirt clung to
his lithe torso like a glove and his breath grew shorter as he moved along.
He was nearing his spot, now, and his feet moved quicker in anticipation.



He stopped almost suddenly and looked around.  It was irrational, he knew,
but he wanted to make sure that he wasn't followed.  He was going to HIS
spot and he never wanted another soul to find it.



When he was sure that no one was coming on any path near him, he walked into
the tall brush, instinctively trying to avoid the inevitable scratches and
cuts on his exposed legs and arms.  They didn't even register in his mind,
though.  He was nearly there.  He was nearly...home.



After an interminable amount of time, he finally broke through the last of
the underbrush.  He was on a long bank overlooking a rather small lake.  He
had found this place nearly 5 months ago during another excursion when he
was just trying to get lost from the world.  He hadn't expected it, that
first time, and had actually fallen the 5 feet into the water below.  It had
been cold, he remembered absently, but then it would be cold in late March
as the spring thaw hit the mountains.



The spot was idyllic, really.  The nearby forest covered the banks of the
lake with cool shadows.  The water was pure and clean, feeding from several
small creeks which were, in turn, small tributaries of the main lake that
rushed down from the nearby mountains.  There were fish here, if he wanted
to fish and clear water if he wanted to drink.



The best thing about it, though, was that it was empty of any human being.
Here, he could be alone and not worry about anyone or anything.



He walked along the edges of the lake looking for his favorite spot.  It was
set in a small clearing over-looking the lake.  Over the course of the five
months, Eric had lugged certain things out here.  His first had been an old,
dirty steamer trunk that someone had thrown away.  In its better days, it
had been black, but years of mold and misuse had turned it a dingy gray.
However, it was waterproof, as many steamer trunks were, so it promised to
be of some use out at his lake.  The clasps had been broken, probably the
reason it had been thrown out, but he had been able to repair them within a
few weeks after dragging the old, moldy thing from the garbage behind
someone's store in town.    He chuckled to himself remembering the day he
had half-carried half-dragged that monstrous thing out here.  It had taken
him nearly two hours and several days of pain following, but it had been
well worth it.



As he reached the trunk, he brushed the brush and leaves off it that he had
used to camouflage it.  Sure, he believed he was the discoverer of this
lake...but it never hurt to be sure.



He dialed the combination to his old bicycle lock which he had attached
almost as an after thought some months ago, and opened the chest.  It
creaked a little when it opened and he made a mental note to bring some
4-in-1 oil to keep the hinges working properly.  He moved it almost
reverently, carefully setting the top back against a nearby tree.  He looked
eagerly within.  There was an old blanket (that his aunt had been looking
for for a few months now), a fishing reel that was in two pieces (another of
his garbage picking trophies), a few books and comic books.  All of the
little things that make a 14-year old boy's life complete.



He pulled out the blanket and laid it on the ground.  Then he laid on it and
let his mind drift for a while, following the clouds.



Eric's father had been a drunk.  He didn't think that in anger or remorse,
just as a statement of fact like your shoes are black or the sky is blue.
There weren't many days that he could remember when his father hadn't been
under the influence.  As a matter of fact, there were only two ways he
remembered his father, drunk and passed out drunk.



Eric didn't necessarily think of being drunk as a bad thing.  It was just
how things were.  His father drank until all reason left him.  Then, he
tried to beat the reason out of everything around him.  In his drunken
rages, he had hit Eric, his mother, even his little sister Gwen.



Tears clouded Eric's eyes at the memory, but he brushed them away.  He
wouldn't cry any more.  Not now.  Not again.



His father wasn't so bad, though.  His father worked hard to put food on the
table and to give them clothing.  It wasn't his dad's fault that Eric was a
bad kid.  He couldn't help it if he usually couldn't remember Eric's name or
preferred to call him "Worthless" or "Dickhead".  He needed to be better for
his father, needed to not cause so much trouble.  To be quieter.  To show
his father the love and respect that his father deserved.



But now, it was too late.  He could never get the approval he so desperately
required.



He remembered the day.

He was walking home from school, running really, because he wanted to get
home and finish his chores before his father got home.  He wanted to make
sure that everything was just right, so that his father could relax and
wouldn't have any reason to take notice that he existed.  He figured he
could get his chores done and hide in his room, do homework and maybe his
father would forget about him.



His mom and dad had had a horrible argument the night before and he didn't
want to be in the middle of it again.  Eric couldn't understand why his mom
wouldn't just behave, and then she wouldn't get hit so much.  She couldn't
though.  Deep inside, he knew that no one could be good enough to avoid his
dad's punishment.



He had tried to get out of the way that last night, he had tried to run up
the stairs.  He had to go between them to do it but, terrified, he had tried
to squeeze between them quickly to get up the stairs before the fists
started flying again.  He remembered it in slow motion, the massive hand at
his throat.  It had lifted him like a rag doll and tossed him across the
room just as easily.  He remembered the breath being forced from his lungs
as his back hit the wall and he remembered falling...falling...falling forever
down onto the floor.  He heard his father's fist slam into his mother's face
and the explosive crack.  He was sprayed with blood and spit and a tooth
seemed to twirl through the air forever, falling falling, hitting the wall
just above him and bounding down onto him.  His mother, his poor mother had
fallen hard.



He remembered her struggling to her knees, crawling towards the kitchen,
trying desperately to get away.  His father placed a few well-aimed kicks at
her legs and ass, calling her names: "bitch" and "whore" and "fat ass cow".
His mother was crying, her breath coming in painful screeches of air.



"That's it, run away bitch," he remembered his father laughing, his words
slurring almost into ineligibility.



Then, as Eric lay unmoving, trying to gather his strength to get away, he
saw his ten-year-old sister Gwen peek her head from around the kitchen
doorway.  Unfortunately, his father saw her too.



Pain seared through him as he dragged himself up off the floor.  He half
crawled, half stumbled towards his sister, but he was too late.  He heard
the hard smack of his father's hand and the loud bang of her head against
the door way.  "Whatcha lookin' at cunt" his father yelled at his crying,
bleeding sister.  His foot was reared back, ready to kick her.  He saw all
this and somehow launched himself across the room, in between his father and
his sister.



Eric remembered the pain exploding through his back as his father's foot
landed.  He felt himself lifted, lifted slowly off the ground, the world
once again starting to fade to black.  He was crying, sobbing, painfully.
He couldn't remember how he'd done it, but he had managed to grab Gwen as
his father beat at his head and back.  He half dragged her, half pushed her
to the stairs.



"Run, Gwen.  Get out of here," he could remember himself screaming, pain
exploding all around him.  She looked at him for a moment, blood streaming
down her face from a cut somewhere in the yellow-gold tresses of her hair.
Her blue eyes and mouth were wide open, blood flowed in a small rivulet from
the latter and his heart almost broke at the reddish-purple palm print still
showing on her face.  Then, she turned and ran up the stairs, crying.



"Who the fuck you think you are," his father screamed.  He felt himself
being hauled up by the scruff of his neck and felt the pain exploding
through his abdomen from his father's fist against his stomach.  He couldn't
cry any more, because he had no more air to do so.  Once again, he found
himself flying in slow motion.  He watched as the wall grew nearer and
nearer until his face made painful contact, and he could remember the
blackness descending upon him.



So he had to get home, had to get his chores done.  His body was still in so
much pain from yesterday, but he had learned to live with the pain.  He
would do his chores and help Gwen finish hers and they could just huddle in
their room doing homework or reading and pray that their father would just
forget about them.



As he reached the house, he could remember the Fear over-take him.  His dad'
s car was parked on the street.  His dad had got home early today.



He ran to the door, never noticing that the door was open until later.  He
ran in, hoping he could get to Gwen and take her up to his room before his
father found them.



His sister was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living-room
doorway, rocking back and forth.  He went to pick her up, to shush her, tell
her not to say a word...but he never got the chance.  Red.  Everywhere, there
was red.  Spattered across the white walls in an amazing coverlet of
droplets.  Then he looked down, and screamed.



He could never remember what it was he actually saw.  He remembered quite
clearly, however, the policemen taking him and his sister.  He remembered
hearing that his father had come home early and shot his mother several
times with a shotgun.  He remembered hearing that his father had then put a
pistol to his mouth and shot himself dead.  He remembered it, but he couldn'
t fathom it.



He and Gwen had had no other immediate family that they knew about.  They
had never visited any grandparents, had never known of any aunts or uncles.
That was why he was so surprised when several days later an older lady had
showed up at the shelter he had been placed at and introduced him to a man
and woman that claimed to be his aunt and uncle.



He had gone to live with them because he was forced to.  It was that simple.
Gwen didn't, though.  Gwen no longer talked to anyone.  She was there in
body, but her mind had gone somewhere else.  Cata-something or other the
doctor's had said.  She had been put into a hospital near where his aunt and
uncle lived.  He only got to see her once a week, but that didn't bother him
really.  The shell that lived in that hospital wasn't his sister.  He didn't
know where she was, though, and that sometimes made him cry.



Life at his Aunt Jean and Uncle Tom's had been rough right from the start.
Both they and their perfect little daughter Christine who was only a year
older than him constantly tried to control him, tried to make him do things
that he didn't want to do.  They argued and yelled at him...but at least they
didn't hit him.  That was something.  Still, he couldn't take it there.  He
tried hiding in his room, but they wouldn't let him be.  Something that the
shrink had said to them, no doubt.  So he left.  Frequently.  And came here.
He always returned though.  He was afraid that maybe they were just holding
the punches in until the state stopped watching them.



He didn't realize he was shaking, shivering in the heat of the sun.  He
never realized that his skin had gone cold and clammy, and his hands started
trembling as he remembered.  He didn't realize that he was almost blanking
out, almost completely blocking out everything.



He only realized that someone was there when he heard the loud splash.



Startled, he inched towards the edge of the bank and looked out among the
water.  There, a little bit further down the edge of the lake, someone was
swimming.  He watched for a while, but he couldn't tell who it was.  He dug
down deeper into the bank, trying to make himself invisible.  He felt a stab
of jealousy and pain, because someone had found his perfect little hiding
spot.  He watched, hoping they would go away.  Trying to will him or her
with every iota of his being to leave his little hide-away.  Needless to
say, it didn't work.





Shawn loved swimming in the little lake, though she wasn't able to do it
that often.  It wasn't the more well-known swimming hole...that was down one
of the trails about two or three hundred yards.  But it was secluded, and
sheltered and altogether perfect.



She swam lazily, sometimes just floating, others ducking her head under the
water to 'swim with the fishies'.  She was relaxed, perfectly at ease.  She
never even suspected that she was being watched not more than 40 feet away.



Finally, she knew that she had to get back home.  Her mother would be
waiting with supper, and then she was going out with some of her friends
later that evening.  School would be starting next week, which meant she
would be getting her old curfew back.  She wanted to have as much fun as she
could while she still had the chance.  She swam to the edge and stood up,
her hands absently wringing out her curly red hair and pulling the bottoms
of her black, one-piece bathing suit out of the crack of her butt.  She
pulled the towel from the ground and dried herself off, then pulled her
cut-offs back on.  She had to sit on the grass, though, to get her shoes on.





Eric couldn't believe what he was seeing.  She was beautiful, absolutely
beautiful.  From her flowing curly red hair, to the soft curves that wound
down her sides, she was gorgeous.  He was able to get a good look at her
face as she sat to pull on her shoes, and even that was adorable.  Clear,
blue eyes, a button nose and soft, tender lips.  Eric could feel himself
coming aroused.



 It only stood to reason, of course.  This lake was too much like heaven, of
course there would be angels here.



He wanted to talk to her, but knew he couldn't.  She was way out of his
league.  Heck, why would she even bother to give him the time of day when
she could obviously have any male in the world.



He almost felt his heart break when she stood up and left.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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