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Creative Camp -- 24 (The Penisitos)
(M/b, M/f)
by
Feather Touch
Chapt. 24.
"Aren't things meant to be weightless in space?" Chris Bennington asked. He was eleven, liked mysteries, and he could not figure something out.
"You're meant to be playing. Riffs. Remember them?"
"Yeah" Chris whined, "but this is important. I can't ask anybody about it."
Cliff sighed. Audition some kids they suddenly took you for an angel. One the other hand, little Chris had auditioned with one hand, hadn't touched the frets, just sort of picked, strummed and drummed the Fender; toyed with it. Even over the little practice speaker the sound had struck home. A lack of laziness. Tight. Crisp almost to the percussive. If he'd had talent, he would have been strumming with his right hand and sliding his left, to show how much he had. Since he lacked this magic ingredient, he'd worked out with the metronome ungodly hours, and at ungodly hours, until he could set a stuttered but driving rhythm, each beat timed to perhaps a hundredth of a second. On so rigid a foundation, most anything could be built, so he was in, musically. One third of the battle. Yes, the kids had to be able to play, lots could play; the other demands of rehearsing, recording, and especially, touring, were another matter. Almost anyone could do this, but that was like saying most any kid could pick cotton. The question was, how would one hold up to the extended enduro that was the reality of life in a boy band, when boy bands were a dime a dozen.. This took discipline, drive and endurance, yet, of and by itself, these amounted to little that would grab popular attention outside a provincial neighborhood. To succeed, to sell and tour and have the T-shirts sell, that took extra. That took appeal. Appeal for a boy band, music aside, was not based on the zeens publishing articles on how neat a boy kept his room, nor on how much he loved his mom's cooking or his sister's cat.
Sensation was footed in personality. Even looks were relatively unimportant. Winsomeness was the thing. Charm. A subtle grace, a liveliness, a wonder and curiosity were what attracted fans and kept them. A bright smile, tinged with warmth. After a hundred night on stage, in a row. This would turn any lightweight into a performing husk and the kids would get bored faster than they'd learn how to spell Menudo. Rockin' by Baby was his newest group, needing just what was standing in the studio. A spindly boy boy, who could just stand there and set a baseline with his guitar. Not frolic, prance, jump and shout. Dress him in a white tunic and some pressed go-to-meetin' trousers. He'd do. More than.
That brought up personality as a home front issue. Glib and frothy in front of a camera was one thing; a gentle, fun-loving subdued friendliness; nonchalance, that was something entirely else and of irreducible import at the journeyman level when you were out there concert in, concert out, month in, month out and so on. So, anyway, what was this thing about gravity?
"I guess there micro gravity if something's in orbit," he responded to Chris's question. "Why?"
"Well," the boy responded, glad they were talking about something besides music, "this new space thing, it has a mechanical arm that cost a billion dollars. Of course, it doesn't work, but even if it did, why? In almost zero gravity, couldn't they position the new pods with little rocket motors and lanyards?"
"I don't know," Cliff answered. On consideration, it was a good question so he gave it a few moments thought, then brightened. "When Baby makes us famous, maybe you can ask someone at NASA. We'll be playing the state almost half the time we're touring." One of her songs is `Ballot Rocks and Bongos.' In Broward land the sun doth shine; in Broward land the palms are fine. In Broward land, they give a sigh, over each and every butterfly.' That's the chorus."
"Can I ask another question?" Chris asked.
"Sure," Cliff said.
"Like IBM has this ad, and a guy has to order more Turbo Ninjas for Store 47? You know?"
"Sure. They're at the opera. Him and his boss."
"That's the point," the boy said, "I mean doesn't it suck making phone calls in a theater?"
Cliff gave it a few moments thought. "I think," he responded, "that the scene the boss is imagining in the toy store is tied in with the finale of the opera. Therefore, it might be okay to make a call as the curtain comes down."
Chris gave this some consideration and nodded his head. "Any more," Cliff asked.
"Yes," Chris answered. "Why would anyone buy a Viper. It's cylinders fire in pairs. Five beats per measure. Surely it can't be cool to do zero to sixty in a tractor, even if it's three seconds, flat."
"Well, Chris," the young impresario replied, "you've got me there. The thing looks so self-adoring I can't imagine getting close enough to hear one "
The boy laughed politely. Damn, he had a forever smile. "Any more?"
"Well, duh'uh," the boy responded with alacrity, "you said `we.' What does that mean?"
"Don't get big-eyed on me," Cliff retorted. "You know how good you are. You've earned it."
"Yeah," Chris replied, "but it's still exciting. I mean you read Horatio Alger, and you get all big headed about diligence, but somewhere you figure it's fake. Pay your dues and you get to stand in line with the people who have paid their dues. Big deal."
"Well," the twenty-two year old Cliff responded after a moment, "personality counts, too. Not every twelve year old goes around questioning the wisdom of NASA"
"Yeah," Chris replied, "I read a lot. That gets most kids really bored. That's why I asked you those things."
"Fair enough," Cliff said. "Now I've got to ask you some questions, so why don't we go to my office. I'm going to give you a $25,000 signing bonus; you'll have to pay taxes on it, but it's a gift from me, not part of your contract, which is for $80,000 a year plus half a point of receipts, then we can chill out for a few hours and get to know each other, if that's okay with you."
"Sure," the boy said. "I can call the home and tell Sister Maria. She'll let me stay out `till eight if there's a special reason." He was trying to be way cool. He was hardly twelve, and suddenly dead center in a vast life. He wasn't going to just meet Baby, The Jewel of Ten, the media was now calling her, but stand behind her on stage and take Ritchie's place while the former rhythm guitar worked out a three picture deal. One year, at least. That was what dream worlds were made of. Just being close...
The office was atypical biz. Slightly crude plaster on lathwork. Salvaged furniture. "The balance in your trust fund," Cliff explained, "will bring you more joy when your twenty-five than memories of opulence in the front office."
"It looks fine to me," the boy said. Indeed, in its understated way the office did seem to say Stay Awhile. Cliff settled into an easy chair, and simultaneously patted an arm and nodded to a nearby chair, obviously offering a choice. He then went to neutral, leaving Chris standing to make up his mind.
"Have you ready any books on abnormal psychology?" This time it was Cliff asking the question.
"Some," said the boy. It wasn't his fault where the book had opened when he'd placed it on its spine and let it reveal its secret. He'd read for hours, and except for whips and weird stuff with bodily fluids, it hadn't seemed all that abnormal. Men wanted to fool around with boys, the tome had announced. To him, at the time, it had seemed a bit strange that a man wouldn't want to do stuff with a boy, if they liked each other. It certainly would be interesting for the boy. Heck, he wouldn't even have to call it stuff, anymore. Anyway, in the present circumstance, it seemed to Chris, Cliff wouldn't have brought it up if they were meeting to discuss withholding schedules or European distribution rights. He chose the arm of the easy chair.
"What parts did you read," Cliff asked.
"Well," the boy responded, thoughtfully, "it seemed that while a lot of the people the authors talked about were consenting, they were not all adults."
Cliff rang himself a mental bull's-eye. And the kid could play. He made a mental note to double the money. He'd tell the child later. Undoubtedly the boy had read Wodehouse, and if he knew he were going to be carrying fifty thousand in cash home in his backpack he might think the whole afternoon was an absurdity, or start crying. Sometimes a little white lie of omission could postpone histrionics. Besides, there were more important issues at hand.
"So," the young producer queried, "how did it make you feel? Reading about kids that get involved in mature activities?"
"I don't know what I felt," the boy said, "but whatever it was, it was all over."
"But it didn't make you uptight..."
"No," Chris interrupted. "I mean tense, but, you know, not in a negative way. I guess what it did was make me want to learn more. I mean, it's not all the girl next door, is it?"
"Well," Cliff said, "there's a lot of that, and it's here to stay, but there are other things, and in the music business; in show business, there's probably almost as much other stuff happening as in most churches. It's kind of important, because a bad experience can knock a kid out of the saddle. Harden him or her up, literally, overnight. Cherry kiddo, one night, sullen punk the next morning, though it certainly doesn't take overnight to get messed up."
"I can believe that," Chris commented.
"Good," Cliff said. "Because we've got to talk about it.
"The short version is that we're a Free Spirit company. It's for our own safety. Groupies are great, but they're also hazardous to you health. Incessant boinking did not make Elvis a happy camper, nor David Cassidy, nor much of anyone, when you get right down to it. Not that they were wrong, mind you, what happens in a happy bedroom is the world's best exercise, amongst other things, but a bicycle chain of partners is not likely to have any end at all, much less a happy one."
"A stacked deck, eh?" the boy asked, his eyes impossibly big and round. Cute bugger, there was no doubt about that. And not cute in the temporal sense. In fact, almost not cute, physically, but mentally cute. Quick. Curious. Funny. Even fucking literate. Knew Bicycle was a brand of playing card, for example. What if he doubled the money again? What a huge pleasure that would be.
"Besides reading, how is your deck stacked?" the young man asked the boy.
"Well," the boy responded, almost instantly, "there are no naughts in cards. I guess that about says it all."
"Do you feel you're old enough to play," Cliff asked, his voice dropping to a soft whisper. Chris was thrilled. Something was going to happen. And maybe with him. He looked like he'd just dressed after winning some massive swimming championship. Hidden muscles, but lots of them. And, what, six four? Just like big and just like powerful, and the long legs looked like a boy's, with just the lightest down gracing the calves. He own legs stuck out of his cargo shorts like lank white poles, all knees and feet like a goose or a chicken. Or so he thought.
"I hope you're talking about wild, not jokers," the boy whispered back, perhaps stretching just a trifle to seem cool.
"Not jokers, and not queens," Cliff said. "By that, I mean to catamite stuff; do you know what that is?"
"No," Chris answered.
"Some boys aren't old enough when something exciting happens to them," the producer explained, "they become cloying, practically jump in strangers' laps, almost hump their boyfriends of the moment, in public. As Seinfeld overdoes it with his teeth thing going on, they overdo with their little wagging butts. Sad thing is, they make lousy lovers; jittery and impatient.
"Goal one, is for you not to join their ranks. It probably would be better to get aids."
"Goal one for me," Chris said, "is to get anything. I mean with someone I like, so it would last. I know stuff to do, like hitch, if I just wanted It."
"Don't knock hitching," said Cliff. "It's totally exciting at your age. Two percent common sense will get you some wicked thrills."
"No kidding?" said the boy. He was going to add something about how that's not what they said at the home, but ended up canceling the thought as too obvious to speak out loud.
"A lot of time you get picked up by older teens, they like to drive just for the sake of driving. They'll be scared shitless, but hardly spermless. The better you get, the more exciting it gets, as long as you don't become a catamite and get all rushy. If you do, you'll just end up with a ride."
"And if I'm patient?" the boy whispered.
"Speaking academically," Cliff replied, "because with "Rockin' By Baby" you'll be too well known to gallivant a lot of the time, what they're likely to do is take you to a mall or other big parking lot, then do furtive and secretive stuff with you in the front seat, while you look around to be sure no one catches you. Other boys or men will have vans; more interesting, but more dangerous. Sometimes, they'll invite you home. That's the best, but it's pretty scary for a seventeen year old to invite a kid to his house. Now, with computers, it's easier; always a convenient excuse for males of disparate age to hang out together."
"If a boy's really scared, I mean the driver, how can I get him to do something?" Chris asked.
"Well," the young man replied, "first, wear a cut off T. I know it probably doesn't make much sense to you, but men and older boys like to see the tummies of boys your age.
"You may even have the feeling, too, at twelve. You know, a cute nine year old in a bathing suit. Have you ever seen anything like that you thought was exciting?"
"I guess so," the boy replied, trying to remember a scene as described which he had not found at least interesting,, except for fat kids and those with personality flaws.
"Okay,' Cliff confirmed, "that's how men feel about boys your age, like you might feel toward a cute friendly nine or ten year old. Like you'd be happy to take a shower together where no one could see or hear you."
"I think I understand," Chris whispered.
"Well, it's both complicated and simple as pie," Cliff said. "I mean, the whole physical thing is a few minutes of experimenting; the other stuff, well, that's what all the fuss is about. Love and all it's creeping cousins."
"Are you in love with anybody?" Chris asked his new boss.
"That's something I'd hoped to ease into, slowly," Cliff responded after a few moments. "The answer, thought, is yes."
"I didn't mean to pry," Chris said.
"Are you kidding?" Cliff retorted, "I'm quizzing you up one side and down the other. It's just when I say we run a Free Spirit group, so we can focus, rest, and stay safe, it means more than that we just fool around together on account of hormones and stuff. With me, it's a totally special relationship. In love doesn't begin to describe it. In everything would be more like it, but even that's a bit weak."
"How long? " the child asked.
"A little over two years," Cliff said.
"Are you going to get married?"
"Why don't we put that on the B list of secrets, at least for the moment," Cliff replied, kindly.
"Okay," Chris replied, matching Cliff's whisper. "But you've got to tell me something. I mean like if I went to a parking lot with a man, what would he want to do to me?"
"Touch you. The same things you'd like to do to a cute nine year old. Rub his fingers over your chest and tummy. Get you bare chested, if there was enough privacy, so he could look at you. If you let him, he would want to touch you inside you underpants. Fondle you until you got a boner, then rub it up and down with his fingers, making the skin slide so you'd feel good. If you were in a safe place, he would take your shoes and socks off, unzip you, and pull your shorts down so he could see you in your underpants. Then, if you got excited and had a boner, he'd pull them down so you were naked, and if you like what he was doing to you, you'd spread your legs to show him you wanted him to touch you, then he'd masturbate you. That means he'd stroke you penis in a deliberate way. If you wanted him to, he'd put his lips and tongue all over your penis; kiss it and lick it, and take it in his mouth, but usually that comes later. Most men and older boys want to watch a young boy have an orgasm."
"How come?" the boy whispered, innocent of double entendre.
"To see how developed he is. How much sperm he has. What it's like. Some boys have thin, watery semen that sprays all over the place, and older boys have a thicker, whiter ejaculate."
"How much is there?" the boy whispered.
"It depends how mature the male is, how long it's been, and how excited he is. Sometimes its two or three small spurts, like a spoonful or so. That's kind of normal. But there can be a lot more, and, of course, after you've been with your partner several times, there can be a lot less, not that it means anything."
"Is that what they call going with the flow?" the boy asked, his eyes sparkling in a way bound to keep him off Santa's list for hours. This caused Cliff to re-evaluate his statement on love. He was in love, head over heels. What was this? Two heads, two heels? Had he been separated from a psychic twin at birth? Said sibling summoned by a few witty comments from a boy? Well, the kid was getting more drop-dead, practically by the second; he could have looked like Pugsley, and it wouldn't have mattered. But it was nice that he didn't. Think of something. Tell a story. Not that one. Cliff needed to hold on somehow. Soon enough it would be over, and he didn't ever want it to be over. But it had to begin, to be over.
"In ruder circles, they might call it blowing for the flow," he punned.
"Glad I don't know people like that," the boy responded.
"Some guys like it. Crude. Rude. Whatever you want to call it. But not kids with smiles like yours. Plus there's other stuff. It was probably in you book on abnormal psychology. Including rape, which means having someone jam you up the butt or in the mouth, probably both with the hiney coming before the fronty, if you get my drift.
"That's the main reason we're having this chat. Being on the road isn't like going to school every day. We're not big-time enough to have security all the time, so it's relatively easy for fans, and others, to get close, especially when we're offstage. It's not dangerous, but you're cute stuff, Chris, and the better to be slightly on guard. One of those ounce-of-prevention deals like they teach you by way of homily, only in this case it's more like preventing the once - from the wrong person ending up in the wrong place."
It was a bit lame, but the boy giggled a little, anyway, half figuring out what it was all about and wishing, in his boyish way, to become knowledgeable because, as they also said, fore-warned is fore-armed. Come to think of it, a little knowledge was a dangerous thing, while ignorance was bliss. There were dozens of them, adages in heaps and lists. A salient bromide flashed through the twelve year old's mind. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Finally, something that made sense. Chris took the step and settled not on the arm of the old easy chair, but right on the lap of the athletic young man. Action, after all, spoke louder than words.
From Cliff's viewpoint, words were an imperative. If he didn't talk with the child, he was just going to plain old have him, slam, bam, thank you, ma'am. Thank god the kid had a mind. They were getting increasingly rare with each passing month. The country was becoming a mawk pit, as in mawkish. Jews sniffed every asshole, published every fart, pandered to grief with neither mercy nor let up, the ultimate cheap, easy, high profit sell, using a media they simply owned, outright. The deterioration was so rapid, that was what was frightening. More cheesy emotion with every shooting, crash, flood and famine, until the place stank and reeked with the effluent of thousands of hooked noses and big, soft, urban bellies. Sometimes it seemed six million of the population, searching for a single soul. Since it was obviously not kept in the US, mightn't they do better looking elsewhere?
God he was a common looking beauty. He was wondering if the utter zenith in sub-human, vastly sub, sub-human foulness embodied in and exemplified by Sheck, Shapiro, Kunstler and Dershowitz would be enough to distract his attention to Chris for more than a few moments. He had never butt-fucked, but he wanted to, right now. What would that boyish body feel like, on its knees, hands stretched for balance on a chair, as he mounted, his hands eager at the soft flanks as he took his master's position, then the same hands over the slim anterior torso, petting, fondling, stroking and molesting as he mounted the youth and entered him for a long, hard fuck? Or had him on his back, looking into that handsome face and those gorgeous big eyes as he thrust rapidly to a rock hard cum?
Chris, for his part, just liked looking up. Way up, and into the eyes of the young producer. If this was sex, it was absolutely great. Certainly better than all the crudities that seemed part and parcel of the subject. Maybe that's why all the jittery language. It was so actually awesome it would be the end of the day if everyone went around babbling on about how great even the very first part was.
Both the young males were, by now, fighting hard for both time and control. As youth will, they wanted everything at once. To stare, to touch, to be naked, and more than anything on fifty Earths, to cum. As luck would have it, sitting face to face, fourteen inches apart, there was a convenient place to start.
"Would you freak if I wanted to kiss you?" Cliff asked.
"More like die, if you didn't," the boy answered.
"Have you done it before?" the producer quizzed.
"No," the boy said.
"Well, as you alluded, it only hurts when you stop."
The leaned to each other, spontaneously, and began nibbling and licking. Yes, the lips were included, though at times it would have seemed to a voyeur that they were more everywhereing than kissing. No ear was exempt, no eye. They didn't taste of each other's snot, but even that was a close thing. Their hands helped in the exploration, each finger becoming an agent against warm, soft skin and urgently interesting shapes. There were rubbery textures, and boney embellishments high on the cheeks. Caterpillars nested in the eyes. These all took time to absorb, and while they were delicious and tantalizing, what they were most was a starting place. "What if he touches me like this with my shirt off?" That was as far as Chris could take the thought, because anything further went beyond comprehension, except, What would he feel like?
Cliff had covered only half a subject awhile back. He'd tried to describe how a young child felt to a man. What would a young man feel like to the child? It seemed like a hell of a good time to find out.
"Oh, babe," the young man sighed as several twelve-year-old fingers tied in a race to the top button of his shirt.
"Get mine off, too," the child whispered.
Cliff's fingers trailed from the beautiful long neck to the exquisite cleft at the base of the throat and lingered over their last few inches to the fiendish restraint. It was dealt with, and the next. And so the boy, also, taking his way from his master, followed unto his master, and lo, the deed was done. The males parted for a moment to pull their garments free and drop them on the arms of the chair. "Don't use your shirt to wipe up the sperm," Cliff whispered, then, after spending several moments looking at each others' bare chest, they came tentatively together to experiment more with kissing.
While thus engaged, Cliff's molesting hands wandered all over the child in his lap. Chris arched instantly to his every touch, bending his body so his lover's fingers would play on his boy skin stretched a little over the lean muscles underneath. The caressing was exciting in such a way as to make his whole body feel as if it were being somehow milked toward either catastrophe or delirium. Both?
Then the strong hands were gently on his boyish waist, bringing him forward. Forward. Lighting him all over (again) on fire. Between his long, young legs. Right between them. Was there any other place in the entire universe? Chris had a huge boner, himself, but what he felt against his balls was three times better. It couldn't be any harder, but it was four times bigger. How big could something be? How big could he be. He was swollen beyond belief, then his bare chest came fully against Cliff and he was taught what kissing was all about.
This couldn't last. One or the other surely must die. This was no Timmy the Tool Boy catamite. His kisses wee friendly-like, when they were not urgent, it seemed, more urgent to give than demand. So the wandered through their introduction, passionately for a few moments, then nuzzling each other both in review, thanks for the memories, as well as in glowing anticipation.
"Who do you love, baby?" the child whispered after a particularly ardent duel of hot tongues.
"Baby," Cliff answered.
"Oh, baby," the boy sighed in response.
"No, Baby," the elder responded. It took Chris a minute to get the punctuation right. No, baby, well, that's how he would have addressed her, if she were present. But she wasn't. So it had to mean...
"Baby?"
For a few moments jealousy surged through him. He loved Baby. Cliff was too old for her. She was only ten. What was this all about.
"She's my sister," the producer explained. "We've lived together since I was seventeen and she was seven. When she turned eight, things changed. We stopped being regular brother and kid sister. We became lovers. That's my secret. The band's secret. It's how we started, in the first place. That's what allows us the focus that gets us ahead, musically, to this very day. We don't have to moon over partners left behind, or winnow the groupies on tour. It's all pat. Not especially organized, but not random, either. Brothers and sisters. Two of the girls sleep with their dad's.
"In fact," Cliff continued, "you will be the first outsider ever admitted the group. Not too put too fine a point on it, the first fresh sperm. That's how good your guitar is, just to review how you made it here, in the first place. Wouldn't want you to think it was just the fact you're cute, which you are, very especially bare chested. You got here through, what, twenty or thirty thousand hours of practice?
"And the bonus is, you don't have to stay. I can make a phone call and have you a gig any time you want, commission free."
"I want to stay," Chris whispered.
"I would say I'm sorry about my sister," Cliff said, "but I'm not. She's about as untwisted as a girl can get. You'll find out, she'll eat you alive. You're so perfect for her it squeaks. Play that guitar, and she'll dance any way you want, and, in that she's mine to give away, you've got her."
"Practice takes perfect," the boy said, giggling slightly at the gross inanity of the feeble pun.
"And gets to keep her, unless I'm sadly mistaken," Cliff whispered.
Damn, that was good news. The best he'd ever heard in his whole conscious existence. He blushed at the contrast with his last totally exciting moment; the sisters had chipped in and presented him with a $200 guitar. Life was something else. All you had to do was practice, which was a little like saying all you had to do was climb to reach the top of a Himalayan peak.
For long moments they sat, twined tog [one millionth character0 ether in the chair, Chris pushing his bare chest to the solid young adult, the young man pulling the sweet soft boy breast to him, while exploring his shoulder blades.
"How did you start doing things with your sister?" Chris whispered.
"It was spring. She'd grown a lot during the winter. The first time we went to the pool, I was sitting in a deck chair when I saw this boy, about fourteen, start staring, then all his buddies. Christ, she was only eight, but when she came out of the cabana half the guys in the place stopped in their tracks. I was about the last one to look, because I happened to be facing away, and I turned, and there she was, freckles, pony tail, pale as a ghost and the better for it. She came down and plopped herself on my knees, as if she were five. I was totally sure I'd died and gone to heaven; that I'd earned it for having such a lovely young female for a sister, in the first place, and taking such good care of her, in the second place.
"A couple of guys whistled. That changed everything.. By-bye kid sis, hello, mistress."
Joined as they were, nude form the waist up and from the waist up against each other, the thoughts of the two males could hardly help wavering and dissolving back to a club pool and a warm and muggy afternoon.
"What do you think?" the leggy child asked as she perched on her brother's knees. The eighteen year old athlete tried to keep his eyes on hers; normally, that was a most pleasing place for them. Now, they were misbehaving. Wandering. Of their own accord, and in defiance of all the rules stacked on all the shelves. Where had all this come from? Had she been hiding out, deliberately? Like a surprise party? Who knew. She was here, now, and half smoking. He could see it in her eyes and realized it would be just as obvious in his. So obvious, he categorized her question as rhetorical, not that he could have answered if she'd been a nurse and he'd been allergic to penicillin and she was asking him if he was allergic to any drugs. The only fragmented bit of coherence that passed through his brain for several minutes was the thought, no for her ears, that a pussy had got his tongue.
"Let's go for a walk. I want to talk to you," she said, her voice low and serious.
She was not dressed for conversation, swimming, yes, diving, yes, making men and boys pant, definitely, catching a tan, yes, but going off, alone together, into the woods around the club; was she dressed for that? As for talking, what was that all about? He didn't have enough moisture above his shoulders to wet a stamp; not even the tip of his index finger, so he could turn a page.
Baby retrieved their towels from a nearby chair and handed one to her eighteen year old brother. He knew why and knew she knew why, but there was no coyness in her pretty eyes. He took the beach size towel, and held it nonchalantly, like hell, at his waist with his left hand as the young female latched on to his big right teen paw and pulled him to his feet. He was meant to walk? Riddle: How could a kid sis turn a track star into a hobbling cripple? Not lap dance. If she'd done that, he'd have been paralyzed, forever. He wondered if the family medical policy would cover total disability due to -- what? Incest?
Even the though of the word made him practically grunt out loud in public. Half-a-dozen whispers registered in his hazy brain at the same time. Rumors. Gossip. Envy. Well, the latter would be a dead-cert, as the Brits said, jus walking across the verge of the pool and out across a grass that wasn't half as green as all the boys and all the girls who watched the timely departure.
Cliff had run hundreds of times with his sister, now he could hardly walk. She led him on, picking the route up through the trails that lead to the remote head of the valley. He followed like a robot, watching her raven pony tail dust her pale shoulders. He didn't need its sway to totally mesmerize him, but it helped. Whatever the girl was after, privacy as obviously high on the list. The kept the pace for almost half an hour before she hooked off on a pathway and they came to rest on a boulder twined in the roots of an eighty foot tree. It formed a natural seat, and the girl pivoted her big brother with a gentle touch and settled him into the shady nook, landing back on his knees before he had a chance to catch his breath.
"We're going to mate," she announced.
He'd known there was a reason behind the thong bikini, two of which would have fit in a teacup, just known it.
"In honor of?" Cliff replied, dry mouth and stunned by her lithe beauty, still, over half an hour since she'd emerged from the cabana. She wasn't the pouty, languid type, not Baby. "Playchild" magazine would never feature her in a spread, too many freckles, too athletic, and devoid of the slinky languidness of the standard-issue doll. The fact of the matter was, she'd be more suitable to a Ralph Nader re-write titled "Unsafe at Any Age." And damn it all, she could have been three years old and still roasted him to the max in that bathing suit, which made Jonbenet Ramsey look like Jane of the first-grade chronicles, in comparison.. He was cooked, alright. Fried, sautéed and hashed brown. Boiled, stewed and gravied. He sizzled internally and indeed felt like he was being microwaved on the spot. He was hot already and so he removed the towel which he'd kept unobtrusively bundled at his waist during the short hike into the woods.
At the sight of the huge bulge in his bathing suit, Baby gave off with her act. Her eyes fixed on him, as a man, and her fake willfulness melted as she cuddled gently to him, whispering very softly, "Oh, babe." The shock of her all but naked chest against his own finished Cliff. He arms went around her and somehow she knew to stretch her arms high over her head so he could have her against him the way he wanted her, and he wanted her against him. She wriggled and he sat up straight and pulled, gently.
"Oh, god," she sighed as she felt for the first time a big, hard male against her, "I was going to be all flip and sassy and adventurous. We're brother and sister. Sissy said we should play together; the way she does with Mal. We role played what I'm meant to do to you, and how I'm meant to do it. She used the handle of her hair brush as her pretend boy thing so we could practice together in the shower. You're meant to stand, when you're ready, and I'm meant to stand at your right side with my left arm around you so I can do what you want to you with my right hand. That's as far as brother and sister are meant to go. You know, practice for when we're older in case we ever date a boy we really like. It's not meant to go too far, and we're not meant to fall in love.
"Thank goodness," Cliff finally managed to whisper. He fondled her lite body with both hands, loving the hot look in her pretty girl eyes as his fingers explored her neck, her shoulders, her chest and her belly.
"Even if we break the rules," she gasped, "we're meant to wait until I'm ten before you do anything inside me, except with your tongue and fingers."
"What are the penalties?" Cliff managed to whisper, how, he did not know.
"Guilt," the girl answered softly, "the knowledge that we are at odds with club doctrine and its articles of policy.
"On second thought," the female child continued, her arms still stretched high so her brother could do his will with her, "you literally don't fit, in the first place. You're huge. The club is called The Penisitos. It's meant to be, you know, younger, smaller brothers. Experimenting. Kids' stuff. You know, like Arky and Polly Trenton.. Annie and Butchy Jensen. I mean, Sissy said the handle on her brush was about right. You're twice that big. You're a man. I mean, you're eighteen, and Geo, Sissy's brother is fourteen, so I knew there'd be a difference. But you're a man. You'd put sperm right into my womb, and I'm not even meant to have your seed in my vagina, just on my chest. In my mouth, if I want to, when I'm nine. Like I could wait another six weeks.
"Anyhow," the pretty kid sis with the black pony tail, the freckles, the big blue eyes offsetting the gamin pixie face went on, "if we cheat, we have to pay by doing something extra special for the Penisitos. Meg Katzenberg cheated with her dad, more than once, so he takes the kids to The High Riser, that's a resort run by the Plunkett group. Dibby Usher cheated with her uncle, Ariel, and he had to buy a motor home for club trips. There's only been one girl who cheated with her big brother. He had to chaperone five pajama parties in a row.
"So, adorable, beloved, massive brother, what are you going to do to compensate for taking me back to the club full of hot young adult sperm?"
There was a question that needed an answer. He didn't know how he could ever talk. The thought of just stripping off her bra dried him like a hippy tomato. Speech? He was lucky to be breathing, and felt the reflexive efforts of his pulmonary system were solely in furtherance of keeping his fingers warm with life so he could fondle the young female all over for a long time. As to his heart, it had stopped beating about ten seconds after the boys whistled.
His roaming fingers found the fasteners on Baby's bikini top. He toyed with them, momentarily, looking into her eyes for permission. Talk about a formality. He unhooked the wisp and slowly peeled the child's chest bare as the day she was born. He touched her. The sensation of being molested --there- doubled the girl, and her hair was lank with sweat as she settled to his shoulder.
"That's where you're meant to cum on me," she whispered, intimately, moving her groin against his huge boner in a way that said, with no further words needed, she wasn't in the mood for a bit of half-way loving.
Her nipples were so pretty, he didn't even need to see them, so he was glad to have the girl tight against him, her head on his right shoulder, her arms around him with her fingers tracing from his ears down over his powerful shoulders and back. Her breasts did not exist, she wasn't even nine, but her nipples felt like plump grapes, fabulous to touch, especially when each lingering stroke and gentle squeeze of his fingers made her hum and moan in a carnal way. She was by now sweating feely, as he was. The walk, the muggy summer day, and what they were doing to each other, to say nothing of their being newly and madly in love, all contributed to a wetness where they were close to joining.
"We're meant to be messabating each other," Baby whispered. "That's the word they use for special massages dads and big brothers do with their little daughters and kid sisters." She nibbled under his ear, licking hotly between pecks. "This is another thing we're not meant to do," she said after a few moments, lifting her pretty athlete-girl face and touching his lips with hers, never slowing in her nibbling and licking. Cliff's mouth opened in absolute shock at this sudden hot, wet display of lewdness by the little girl, and her tongue found his in an instant.
It was minutes before any more speeches. Even a squirrel on a branch squatted in still silence at the sight of the slim, athletic female in the arms of the powerful male. The way his hands wandered all over her young body, the way her fingers toyed with his face as they mated by kissing and kissing. Not much of a tail on that one, the animal might have though, and, indeed, Baby's usually pert pony was looking as lank as an eel's tail as it swayed across her wet back.
Then a real mating took place, and almost in an instant. Baby pulled her brother down in front. His huge penis jutted high against his belly. The girl broke her kiss for a moment and pushed away, in order to look at him. She put her right hand on the heavy foreskin, and pulled is slowly down. "Oh, babe, you are so beautiful," she whispered as she shinned the powerful torso, then lowered her young female body on to his huge erection. At the last moment she shifted the slight fabric of her bikini panties and guided him. When he was just starting there she said, "I love you," and lowered herself back into his lap, her eyes wide with the shock of him.
Her wet, slick absolute tightness, her wet slick body against him, her hot we lips everywhere they could reach, her hot tongue, wettest of all, and all over everywhere, were so stunning she froze him like ice. He locked her in his arms like a statue as she wriggled, surged and panted wantonly, biting him in a raging instinct for his hot maleness to spend itself again and again in her womb. "Not that it could possibly do so anywhere else," she almost giggled to herself, feeling his big powerful male bulbous tip far past her cervix. She wouldn't even have to have an orgasm to entreat his semen deep into like she would have to if she were a woman. But she had one anyway, and lay slack-jawed against him, not even kissing, as her body was wracked like a horseshoe under a smithy's hammer. Her stallion. Just the though made it happen again, even harder. Not possible. But it was, because she thought of Mary, and climaxed until she howled.
The thrashing and frantic gyrations of the female child in his lap kept Cliff from ejaculating into her. Oddly, her motion kept him from cumming. He knew he would have, more than once, and not touching by any touch, if he'd been standing by the big tree and watching the way a young girl could fuck a mature boy. He would have been all over the trunk, hands at his side, no partner needed.
Still, he wanted to ejaculate. To fill her beautiful young athlete's body with every drop of himself he had in the world, ever had had, or ever would have.
Cliff got his wish, after a short whispered conversation with his little sister.
Coming slightly out of her triple stupor she lay her wet face again on his wet shoulder. Her vagina was calm, now, on him, all over him, but still so magically soft and tight it seemed to be sucking hungrily even as she slumped wetly against his panting power.
"There's a club secret," she finally whispered to the gallant stag whose penis throbbed huge and hot endlessly deep inside her.
All Cliff could trust himself to speak was a hoarsely whispered, "What?"
"I understand it now," the little girl whispered back, "it's Mary Cory. She broke all the rules and got pregnant, when she was eleven, from her dad. They spent a summer in Europe, the whole family, and when they returned in September, low and behold, an adopted little girl, Patricia, a week old and with Mary's button nose and dimples.
"So much for secrets, I guess."
"Did the expel her?" Cliff asked, exited by the thought of a baby and trying to hold on for dear life."
"Silly," the girl whispered back, "she's president for the next three years. Probably until she's a grandmother, seeing as she runs things very well, don't you think."
That totally did it for Cliff and he started cumming inside Baby. She felt a shock of transition inside her; the hot log buried to the hilt and reaching deep into her womb suddenly began seizing and convulsing. His male gush throbbed hotly to her time and time again. "Oh, sis," he whispered repeatedly as he was a man to her. His fingers went softly to her swollen nipples and he fondled her. Gently she held his hands to her bare chest as she eased away to look down. The fronts of both their swimsuits were soaked. She almost wondered, Does he have to be such a man about it? It was so white. There was so much. I could fish in that pond if I had a hook, she thought for a moment, luxuriating at the return of consciousness at the end of the dream, with Cliff's sperm still sizzling deep into her. By this time, she was a hundred percent on Mary's side. But what could they do for the club, to compensate for the sin she held passionately in her heart even though it would be a few years before her young body could ripen with what her brother did to her.
. . .
During his story, Cliff had stripped Chris naked. The younger boy lay back on the polished pine floor, his legs spread wide and his fingers laced at the nap of his neck. Cliff knelt between his knees, masturbating the twelve year old's big boy penis with steady strokes in a slow rhythm. "When we recovered, and cleaned up as best we could," the young producer concluded his story, "I suddenly had an idea. It went like this, `Doe, a deer, a female deer, rae, a drop of golden sun; me a name I call myself, fa, a long, long way to run.' She got it immediately. Music. That's what we, she and I, could do to compensate the club for our guilt. Rockin' by Baby played to its first audience of over a thousand six months later. Now all I have to do is find a boyfriend for my kid sister; preferably, one who knows her past and is tolerant of her lifestyle. Our lifestyle. And can accept the fact that her first child may be mine if she sticks to her guns, which, at age ten, she is not bound to do if, say, a handsome young guitarist, with a very big, very hot penis comes along and wants to do this inside her.
Cliff had been stroking himself with his left hand while he masturbated Chris with his right. He started cumming on the boy's naked belly by way of demonstrating what he was sure Baby would want to happen inside her. He didn't spray all over the spread eagle boy, but rather pooled his sperm on the child's belly, making a deliciously thick and syrupy donut around Chris's navel. The boy watched what was happening to him in awe. He'd never in a thousand years be jealous of Baby with this male, and was furiously glad to be able to share in a way what she shared with him. More sperm. And now his. Cliff had wet his palm, spoiling the pretty white donut, but wetting his palm with the oddly sticky and slimy semen, then using the wet right hand with a deliberate manner on his swollen boner so than after a ride of a minute on a ripping rocket his own young watery sperm was flinging itself far and wide and getting all over everything, and especially all over the bare chest of the tall athlete who was masturbating him.
It was utterly perfect, a full minute, perhaps even a few seconds more, before his abandon behavior ran it course and the jets he'd sent flying diminished to a milky flow and finally to drops milked tenderly from him as his last. As his hormones came slowly back on the radar, the boy almost grinned at a thought. It was obvious from the glow in Cliff's eyes he'd done perfectly, and he'd never practiced. Not even once.
...
A further discussion between the characters would delineate Rockin' by Baby as a boy band, with Baby as a guest soloist. This would be a sneaky way to try to get David to post the story under the fabulously popular Gay Boy Bands heading.
Readers of "The Penisitos" will be wondering what I'm doing here. Readers of "Creative Camp," of which this is Chapter 24, will know all too well. Both groups will see these pages are almost at and end, realize there is no more sex, and find themselves free to click elsewhere. For those who was to read on I would just like to point out a funny from this morning's television. It has to do with corporate America and the English language, and, I guess, says whatever you want it to say.
The company is Boeing. They're just announcing a service for in-flight communications called "Connexion." Connexion is a not terribly old word meaning, guess what?
That's cool, that'll do it. These have been two mostly fun chapters to write, especially because I do not feel compelled to review and edit pornographic content. Saves endless time over the political and cultural material, which remains imperfect after exhaustive proofing.
My other works are "Jimmy and Frogger," on ASSTR, and "The Flyyy," "Ropeyarn," and "Dennis the...," as well as "Creative Camp," which this story is taken from. These should all be on Nifty, all posted in the last few months, usually filed under sf-fantasy, either gay or bi. If you have any trouble finding anything, drop me a line. Reader mail is a total trip, and I'm not too full of myself, yet, to answer and send along a manuscript or two.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx