Ego can have its tedious side. I decided to go into commercial novel mode on these last two chapters, not to worry, the sex is still there, but it took more time to write them. My apologies to those waiting to find out what Brad has up his sleeve, plus numerous answers to questions concerning life as we know it. Reading will be tedious, too. So is baseball, most of the time.
The reader is responsible for the contents of the title page.
Creative Camp 26 -- 27 (Conclusion.) (Ped., inc., m/m, m/f, rom., no scat, s/m, spank, etc.) by Feather Touch
Chapt. 26
Hark! What a lovely sulk. Almost two days. Gratifying, too. I mean I certainly feature myself as the greatest artist ever to walk the earth, yet am generally as free of temperament as a well trained clerk in a well managed shop. Verification of artistic stature by means of the old fashioned pout. I mean look at the Impressionists. Some wild and crazy guys, throwing themselves in rives, cutting off ears, driving everyone around them nuts, and going off on obsessive compulsive side trips. Anyhow, it was fun to get temperamental and huffy. Of course, I have every reason: there should be some flexibility in how stories are listed and filed, but then, to be realistic, what category could serve as pigeon hole for the million horsepower engine? No editor or publisher in any medium would know what to do with me. America is not exactly set up for princes and such; wannabees are meant to be singers and actors. Writers? Well, I already is one of them, leaving kahunaism as solomente mi sueno and being jefe grande for my only fantasy. Anyway, it makes my work hard to categorize, especially as, like a feminist bookstore, Nifty has no humor section. I must admit to being a little piqued at not finding my grandness on the prolific authors' list, but perhaps my tendency to celebrate myself can be construed as abrogating any second-party imperative to lend ten fingers. There are several lessons here for other writers. First, we live in a democracy where you will remain equal whatever your talent or however hard you work. Second, you will earn no encouragement and not even an occasional friendly word, but heaven help you if you leave off a subject line. Third, you can't eat ego, so be sure you have things nailed down, fiduciaryly speaking, before you uncork the bottle, and you might even consider uncorking a rum bottle at the same time, because the genie is likely not likely to live up to expectations. Mine was born of history and nurtured with tons of books and magazines and yet has matured as a useless thing, not returning a dime on my investment. Of course, I blame it all on the Jews. In my mind, if it wasn't for them, I'd have been published, paid, stroked and petted for the last twenty years. Inevitably, this would have stunted the growth of a literary colossus, so don't you-all go around sayin' no Jew never done you no favors like all the years of Eddie Haskell, Gabe Kaplan and the charming mother/daughter duo on "Little House." I believe one hundred percent in absolutely nothing paranormal or extra sensory, past, present or future, but I do think there's a chance the chief Nazis might start laughing so hard and creating such a ruckus with their delighted screams of We Told You So that they might be ejected from heaven for unseemly behavior. Serves them right, they were a brutal and bumptious lot, but it's heaven nonetheless for their absolute heroism in standing against a culture that boasts a warehouse in East Berlin containing 76,000 mailbags stuffed with dossiers on the neighborhood volk. Laughable, isn't it, the brains of this culture are now clogging out beautiful new Net structure with bogus and hysterically purveyed privacy and security issues as fast as they can be taped and disseminated.
There's Buzz Aldrin [not in spell-checker] proving age brings no trace of wisdom. He's still pitching space travel. Guess you can't teach an old dog any tricks at all. He's even into survival of the species in off-planet habitats. Personally, I think our end is so near, and will happen so fast, we won't have much time to weep over the incalculable waste of NASA, but I could be wrong.
I just had a great idea. A television remote built into the handle of a fan. About the size of a ping-pong paddle, but with a side mounted handle. I have a hand fan, my Arthur D. Little Enterprises brochure. Perfect size and weight. A hand fan can greatly increase your comfort in warmish conditions, save on a/c. The salvation of a nation in a device as old as China. Ergonomically shaped, light flexible blade mounted so its about a 45-degree angle to the handle. If the fan-blade part could be removed it could be replaced if necessary, and, also, reversed for left-handed users. The only downer I can come up with on this, is that by giving the remote control a second use, people might tend to carry it off. On the other hand, it would be much bigger than the current units. Devices should be sold in pairs, one with the simple remote, and one with a plain handle. . I can't come up with a name for the remote-o-fan ("Fan-cy Flicker?") at the moment, besides, I have a feeling you're here to have your temp raised, not talk about industrial design as applied to innovative appliances.
Another concept is an amusement park ride called "Nothin' but Speed." For older riders, saner riders. You know the kind. Enormously high, enormously fast, but in a straight line, probably with the track running through structure (maybe the framework of a conventional twisting coaster) to intensify the speed factor. Hill at each end. Flat run should be half a mile or more. Passengers can either return backwards, or the seats can be flipped on a short stop, or a turntable could be used. Construction should be wood. Simple, safe, cheap, and with speeds over 120 mph, not unexciting. Alternate name might be "Screaming Mimi." Effective marketing hook would be to have two trains starting at the same moment. At non-peak times, the riders of the winning train could have their fare refunded. Even possible to run three or more abreast, due to utterly simple layout.
. . .
"We believe," Kit repeated, "that in the era of clap and claptrap there is enough danger and distortion, and I think we beat the glad-handing preacher with his robust interest in the Sunday scholars. I guess you could say the family that lays together stays together, especially if a little new blood comes along once in awhile. Plus, you're cute."
"You're cute, too," the twenty-five-year-old biker replied. "In fact," his voice dropped slightly, "I was wondering if you wanted anything to happen, you know, between us when we're with the child.?"
"With or without," Kit whispered back.
"That's how I feel, too," his new friend whispered back.
They affirmed that they really, really liked each other. It was obvious, but both felt good saying it out loud. Kit went on with the his story of Sammy-Song.
"Daddy," the slightly husky eight year old finally, said. She'd been pensive and it was now Thursday, with just Friday to go before the big day, or big night as it would be amongst responsible farmers. "Since you went camping to get engaged to mom, can we do something else?"
"Jewels and the Riviera, or Africa and mongese?" her father whispered, nuzzling the pretty child, his hands on her husky chest with thumbs just below her nipples.
"Don't be silly," the girl whispered back. "I'm your daughter, not a floozy or a bimbo. I don't want diamonds or snake eating rodents, well, no more than any kid would, I just want to do something different than camping.."
"How about a cruise, like your little friend?" Kit asked his daughter.
"Not with the markets down," Samantha said. "We can invest that kind of money and it'll be worth twenty grand by the time I can drive. Then I'll know my daddy loves me."
Kit did not have to interrupt his narrative to speak out loud of his clever heir, his eyes spoke for him.
"What then?" Kit had asked.
"Naturism," she said in answer. "Sara Jensen searched Plunkett Worldwide's resource center and lo and behold, there's a licensed facility not an hour from here. Hiking and canoes, canoes, canoes. At a third the price of a food boat. It's called Candy Cane Farm; eight hundred acres that cross a major hiking trail. It gets no stars, but, as they say in the business, location is everything. And it's located just where daddies take their little blossoms and pumpkins, also their little boys who can go to a separate side than their dads to be naturalistic. And a lot of brothers and sisters, too. Just not too many women except for emotionally developed cuties like mom."
The girl sighed at the conclusion of her little speech. Her dad's hands felt delicious on her, and she was very glad some of their future events could be in front of her mom. Friday night to go, and her pajama top would be off. He'd be touching her naked chest the way he was touching her now, only a little higher so he could play with her pretty little girlish nipples, which throbbed and tingled at the thought. She could feel his bone-hard penis like a log against her bottom. She wondered how many little girls loved the feeling as much as she did, but had to be all afraid of it. And how about not ever knowing? Just being a kid until you were eighteen? Taking your dad just as a dad, no secret stuff? She'd had eight years of that, and it had been great. Her mom had been raped repeatedly, if gently, by her grandfather, and as soon as she'd understood, it had been a whole new world in her life that continued to what uncle Adam was going to be doing to her while she was away at camp with her dad. She was so horny for him her mind's only focus was to give him a daughter of their own, as soon as possible.
At the camp, Samantha's carefully chosen questions boiled down to How much can I learn at once? She was neither pedantic nor mathematical on the subject, but did want to have her ducks in a row. Methodical, or not, as time went on, she certainly was one to start at the beginning. She spotted Armando, a tall, rangy Mexican with craggy Indio features, ahead of them in the check in line. "Second duck," she whispered to her dad, who was pleased to be first in whatever pecking order the little camp director ordered up to suit her imagination. The second duck was with an older male, who hugged him and split off to the northern pool area while the handsome boy took the south entrance and spotted Samantha and her cute young father the instant that his curiosity led him to cast a glance over his shoulder to check out the new arrivals. As a father/daughter couple, Kit and Samantha could choose either entrance, and both thought it convenient they didn't have to dither. Armando waited for them just inside the south park gate and they came together in the manner of magnets, with very few words.
The pool, itself, was suit-optional, and most of the guests wore trunks and bikinis. About a hundred people present, they figured. It was no convention of the narcissistic, nor a coven of sleazeballs and lecherous libertines. Ages ranged down from youngish fifties to a couple of tadpoles who were six, and a few seven-year-old minnows. The nudists were, for the most part, a large group of young servicemen, as well as a boy they had with them who looked about twelve. Samantha was happy to see that males outnumbered females by about ten to one. For her money the Plunkett organization could keep it's Candy Cane, and call the farm the Happy Hunting Ground. For a moment she was almost chagrinned at meeting Armando at the get-go. It would have been more intriguing to at least have something of a look, but she was far from complaining, and the less so when the strapping sixteen year old emerged from his cabana in a standard pair of swimming trunks.
"Oh, Daddy, isn't he beautiful," the girl sighed as she saw him walk toward their table. In a second she added, "Can I stand up, or would that be bimboesque?"
"They have a national brand of white bread in Mexico," her dad replied, "named Bimbo. My guess is, he'll feel right at home." She giggled cheerily and stood as the tall teenager approached. They shook hands shyly and sat again to eat and chat. It was hard to concentrate because people would meet, then play together in the pool, then disappear in pairs and small groups through the gate at the far end, sometimes shucking their suits as they passed into the second pool area and forest beyond. They held their cool, all new to the scene, until the dozen young soldiers walked off with their naked boy. It was lucky a large group happened to return at the same time, or the place would have had a lesser look. It was so exciting, just watching, conversation almost broke down entirely as Kit, Armando and the young female watched the rhythms of the happy and friendly crowd.
Samantha and Armando shared a passion for horses, and Kit was glad to see they found something to say to each other. The boy's English was good with a light and pleasant accent rather than the cloying and deliberately annoying Hispanic sing-song that had removed Santa Fe from his vacation list some years earlier. Too bad, because it was the only place on earth one could wear turquoise.
Samantha was charmed to be able to try out some of her home-school Spanish, and for moments at a time they could have been any threesome sitting around any pool, anywhere. At other moments, when a particularly attractive or interesting couple wandered toward the exit gate, their attention wandered from the topic at hand. The biggest thrill was learning Armando was going to be there for two full weeks, just as they were. That took the hots off the situation and allowed the eight-year-old girl to contemplate her ducks with an unhurried grace. Both her males had been obviously huge inside their trunks from her first look, and still were. It was electrifying just to sit back in her dad's lap and play footsies with Armando's strong, tan legs. He had big feet and slightly knobby knees. She coordinated these with the size of his penis, oh, he tried to hide it in a pleasingly modest way, but indexed to the knees and hoofs, "it" was never far from her mind.
Kit kept a light touch on the reins. Hell, let her fall in love. She was already rattling to twenty-five and back with perfect diction. He hadn't been able to teach her that, simply because his pronunciation wasn't nearly native. Young brains learned fast. Young hormones learned instantly, and worked even faster, so Kit held the reins, the bit gently planted, for almost an hour. The population of the pool area had balanced out and there were awesome distractions, a six-four Icelandic lad with a seven-year-old minnow, gender, female, for example. Watching them cavort in a non showy and increasingly secretive way was to watch a lifetime of affection yield to its ultimate expression, which would add many years of intense happiness and satisfaction to both lives, and perhaps to tolerant lives around them, say, at Candy Cane Farm.
In the pool area there was no open display; games typical to most such arenas which often mellowed out to huddling pairs that soon vacated to the nude pool and trails beyond. The Icelandic couple displayed for less than half an hour, and all were amazed they were able to last that long. That was almost enough to trigger Kit's nod that would take them to the gate, and, indeed, he'd just made up his mind he couldn't stand looking at Armando in his bathing suit for another full second when it happened.
She walked in.
Kit saw her first in his daughter's eyes, which actually left Armando's handsome face for several full seconds.
"She's here," the girls whispered, almost choking with excitement.
And she was, indeed. Naturally, taller and leggier than at the time she'd made the commercial, but easily recognizable at fifty feet. Escorted by a tall red-headed boy, Armando's age, obviously her brother. Speaking of Armando, the same magnet worked again, just as it had with Sammy-Song. Kit was beginning to wonder about the handsome Mexican, was he a rookie Babe Ruth in the Don Juan league? Certainly not in the temperament department. Armando couldn't have been nicer. He stood politely as the little star, who he'd seen many times on cable, but of whom he did not happen to have a custom made loop video running to five minutes, approached, eyes glowing and under the protective wing of big brother, who was half on fire, himself..
It was thus that the trip to the gate, known lewdly by the fresher kids, very, very few of them allowed on the premise, as the pearly-jam gates, was postponed for another pleasant half hour of conversation. Susan and Billy Ketchum were the names of the newcomers, and Susan graciously circled the pool shaking hands and signing a few autographs. It was indicative of the quality of Plunkett management that every male and female at the pool understood the little redhead and her brother had decided on keeping company with the threesome they'd chosen, and that was, happily for all, that.
Susan joined Sammy-Song in questioning Armando about his father's Arabian collection, and Kit and Billy found they both liked tractor pulls, and diesels, in general. Kit hooked the boy by telling him about an aircraft diesel he'd seen at the Smithsonian. The placard said it had been perfected in the early Fifties, but never produced because turbines came in at the same time. Both males agreed it was a technology that should be reinvestigated, because if aviation wasn't augmented by heavy reliance on the secondary tier, hubs were going to become permanent madhouses and eventually destroy the entire system. Diesel engines, with their extreme economy, should be able to fill a vast short-hop market for both passengers and second-priority freight. It was also entirely possible modern technology could come up with effective vibration dampers and sound-canceling chambers that would make the engines more suitable for commercial use.
If America didn't lighten up on its urban areas the place was going to congeal and collapse of and under congestion, alone. Their discussion quickly incorporated Broadband data distribution focused on selected outlying areas, highly subsidized until some degree of rationality had been restored to population balances. They agreed there was no other solution to locked-up urban environments in which drivel was downloaded over fiber optic cable while any real future amounted to an immobile feast of busy signals, red lights and full parking lots.
All anyone who lives in any city ever talks about is the restaurants, both agreed, adding, to each other, for they'd instantly become all that close, that there was every chance of having good restaurants in the country, where all the food came from. Even at the respective ages of twenty and sixteen, Kit and Billy agreed that the theater and all other forms of culture had been so watered-down in recent years there was nothing to see worth the time and effort to see it. Mathew Broderick yelling his head off for two hours? Cats? And you'd cross the street for them? Well, maybe if you were from Peoria and had to tell the girls something about your expensive trip like the pathetic bag of American woman telling her friend about being pampered in the salon of her brand-name cruise ship. It sometimes appears that for all the brilliant inventions and concepts on these pages, the real money maker will be a disposable plastic pillow case, like Saran wrap, to protect the feathers from the tears tomorrows thirty and forty-somethings are going to weep for all the money they wasted on nothing to the trivial power, and financed over the decades.
None of Kit's new friends rock climbed, none of them bungee jumped, none of them wanted to bid three thousand dollars for Madonna tickets on eBay. They all read and rode horses. How cool was that?
Samantha chewed her lip for a few seconds, then poked Susan. She pulled her telephone from her beach bag and turned it on. "Would you say hi to my mom," she asked. "She's home with her twin brother, Adam, while dad and I are here with Armando."
Susan graciously chatted with Sandi and laughed and pinched her new friend when she heard about the endless hula tape. "She sounds nice," the girl said after handing back the telephone. Samantha made sure it was off and slipped it back into her bag.
It was now about one p.m. They'd sloshed through what alcohol the management had served and were feeling a special glow of bonhomie. Hail fellows, well met, and it was hard to imagine being better met than having once watched one's new acquaintance, as an adoring fan. After awhile, the conversation wound its way down. They were all pleasantly surprised they'd had so much to say to each other, and were secretly excited by having managed to chat pleasantly away under a veritable big-top of high-wire distractions. While the trio's thoughts were with the blond-headed twelve year old who'd gone off with the Marines, the new duo had arrived just in time to see the last minutes of the tall, boyish blond father and his minnow daughter make their exit, both of them naked as they'd walked hand in hand to the hidden pool and forest paths, beyond.
Kit, still the eldest and in passive command, finally nodded his head. By accord, they skipped the pool and headed for the exit gate. Twenty feet before the portal there was a bench with a sign that read `Newcomers.' They'd seen other couples and small groups occupy it for a few minutes before leaving the public pool area, and did the same. Once seated, it became pretty obvious what they were there to talk about. A map was painted on the backrest and it indicated split paths just before the private pool, not Feng Shui, but one for those who wished to keep their suits on, and the other, for nude (but never nude, only) hiking. Thus the list of things to talk about at a certain time and in a certain place was insinuated skillfully by Plunkett management.
The lushly illustrated map stimulated a whispered discussion of what they knew, what they thought they knew, what they thought, what they would think, if they could think, and so on, degenerating until they sat half panting with excitement and anticipation, exactly as the Plunkett associates intended. Kit, as the twenty-year-old father, guided the discussion, and, like a prince fearing a palace revolt, I fear a reader revolt, and so will not plod through story after story of Armando, Susan and her brother. Suffice it to say, all but Kit were technical virgins. Well read, occasionally voyeuristic, but only Billy had seen a mature male orgasm. Armando, it turned out, had not even seen his own.
Susan's agent had sent her client to the camp because the hostelry had a nearly perfect record of preserving the smiles and good natures of child actors set loose to make a living under predatory realities, partly the legacy of Swifty Lazar. That the little actress had a mountain-size crush on her friendly big bro had inspired the appearance of the young couple at the secret sanctuary. Indeed, the studio system occasionally showed glimmers of working, because that killer smile wasn't going anywhere. The brother and sister were practically inside each other already, practically gobbling each other up these many months from the holidays. Armando was a potent combination of aphrodisiac and catalyst, at once beautifully boy and very young man. Aside from the rockin' smoothies, Mexico turned out some awesomely sexy young men.
"I wonder what this place is like on Father's Day," Kit mused, glad to be a father, every day. He'd kept his girl active and within five pounds of slim. Very comforting pounds in the present era. She was athletic more than graceful and flowing, yet a million miles from anything resembling a fire plug. Her chest was beautiful under her bikini top and even Susan was staring repeatedly as they discussed whether or not they should start out on the modest path, or go by the mature pool, where things might be happening. Kit sensed a preference for the former, in Armando, and could understand a foreigner being bit overwhelmed at the gaudy poltroonery of the American masses, in general, to say nothing of the variant agenda of a small segment of the intelligentsia. Of course, Mexico had lots of the same activities, special ranches for special friendships, and steam baths, galore, but Camp Candy Cane was como gringo to the max with its lazzaies fair recreational model and preponderance of white skins. Kit could understand why he might want to keep his suit, and with a nod they passed through the pearly gates and wound their way into the deep forest, each, sure in his or her mind that he or she was the world's happiest camper.
The pair of eight-year-old females squired Armando. Kit held hands with Billy as they walked behind their respective daughter and sister, being careful not to stop when the little girls did. The carelessness of the group, in general, caused several minor collisions and they were glad to come to a side trail with a cool looking marble bench. Off one end, improbably, was a well-shined brass hat stand festooned with dry and damp bathing suits. These were fun for the young of the tribe to try on and there was much speculation as to ages and physiques of the owners. Kit found it exciting when Susan talked her brother into wearing a female's suit. The boy postured, then obeyed, and emerged in a few minutes, finally shirtless and wearing bra and panties, his penis huge, the shaft obviously bent to his right. He looked awesome to his four companions and they huddled to him, Kit messaging the teen just below his belly button while the girls ran their fingers over his inner thighs and Armando slipped behind his fellow teen and surged gently against him as he ran is fingers under the boy's bra. Kit saw the eager look in Susan's eyes as she stared at what Armando was doing to her brother and immediately understood the girl's longing. He boosted the child so her pretty face was nose to nose with her athletic brother. She nodded and Billy's hands came slowly up from his hips to her soft female flanks, then wandered across her belly and chest, finally coming to rest where Armando's fingers were on him, under the bra.
"This is called feeling up," he whispered as Kit shinned the girl close so she could hear her brother.
"It feels nice," the girl replied, looking into the eyes of her young stablemate stallion.
"You're so beautiful," the brother whispered.
"You are, too," the sister replied.
Having demonstrated their firm grasp of the obvious in a verbal manner, albeit whispered, the new lovers ventured in a more physical direction.
Susan leaned close to her brother's ear and whispered so softly everyone had to strain to hear. "Do you want to be the first one naked?" she asked.
"If you want me to," Billy whispered back. The child looked around for approval and caught Sammy-Song's eyes which immediately went to her dad's. Armando whispered to Billy, then released him so he could boost the girl to her father. Kit's fingers left Billy's belly, where they'd advanced very close to the boy's bikini line, and went to his daughter's chest. In, under her wisp of a top. Armando took charge of the tableau and gently maneuvered his players so the two young girls were on their knees, stretched to the marble bench, while their males were mounted doggie style, the better to molest their little girls. Armando knelt between the couples, his arms steadying the powerful males as they removed the bras and continued fondling the young females, while the tall Mexican boy removed Billy's top and eased it from between the two young bodies. Susan gave Armando's hand a squeeze of thanks and then squeezed again. This could have only one meaning..
Armando's hands went to Billy's waist. The sixteen year old responded instantly to his touch, rising his hips off his little sister's bottom. The lanky Indio couldn't refrain from fondling his age-mate inside the little bikini for some moments, but soon enough he had the boy skinned naked.
The shock of her brother naked between her legs, and pushed hard against her pretty-girl belly fired a rocket inside Susan. She squatted against him as he rose and thrust against her. She grunted from the effect of her orgasm, at its hot suddenness.
Armando ran interference and gently separated the twining couples. One orgasm was enough at this point, so early on the trail. There were bound to be other side paths and benches. The panting couples took independent positions leaning against the bench, and in a minute or two their panting had ceased and they were giving the interloper grateful looks. It was impossible to believe the kaleidoscope of passion tumbling over lust might be repeated, at the same time, absolutely impossible to believe it would not.
Billy was naked now, his suit and the borrowed girl's suit adorning the brass rack along with the bikini tops of the two young girls. Susan needed guidance along the trail, so Armando held her right arm like a cameraman's assistant, allowing the cutie to stare at her brother as he walked along with his beautiful circumcised penis jutting high from his waist. Without her guide she would have tripped on everything, but with a little help from her friend she made her way along, safely, half sideways due to the influence of secular rapture. The thought that Billy could be in her, and was full of sperm, to boot, simply made the eight-year-old's head swim, and Armando had his hands full of sleek girl child as he steered the almost naked nymph along the path leading ever deeper into the heavy forest.
Kit had boosted his daughter to his shoulders and the impromptu guide and group safety officer was relieved that there were no low branches overhanging this section of the trail, because the girl's attention was diverted and in her distracted and irresponsible state she'd have come a cropper on the first widow maker she and her tall dad came to. Armando was assisted in his efforts by the fact the pathway was graciously wide and smoothly graded. Truth to tell, the girl was in little danger, even riding so high on her dad, and, though he was more than nice enough to work in Santa's toy shop, it was possible Armando was acting, for the moment, a trifle officiously, merely as an excuse to touch both Kit and his naked princess.
Billy, sensationally speaking, was excited walking along holding his cute kid sis's hand while she stared at the biggest erection the teen had ever achieved in his life. Armando was also obviously swollen, and this youth couldn't help wondered when some busy little-girl fingers would explore and strip him naked so he could feel like Billy as he walked along, maybe showing off just a little bit. Even with his suit still on, Kit appeared to be the biggest of them all, but that was to be expected. He was a twenty-year-old man. Was he ever, thought little Samantha, as entranced by the huge bulge tenting her dad's suit, almost to the degree she was mesmerized by Billy's stark and carnal nakedness.
So they walked for about half a mile into the forest, Billy holding his sister's left hand in his right, as Armando looked ahead once in awhile and guided them. Samantha was bent double on her dad's shoulders, alternately whispering to him and looking down at the boys walking close at their side.
"I think we can go either way..."
The voice was startlingly close, maybe a hundred feet in front. Clear, young male. For an instant, Billy's companions circled him in an attempt at modesty, then they remembered where they were and eased back to their walking stations. Other voices surrounded that of the distant boy, and, although Kit's group couldn't hear everything that was said, the gist of the discussion seemed to be getting the boy back to the pool, before he dried. While this was not the mystery of the ages, which, by the way, is why one writer should get all the talent, it was puzzling for the few seconds it took for the approaching parties to close the gap between them.
It was the boy and the Marines. Wet? Wet wasn't half the story. Outnumbered a dozen to one, the child had apparently surrendered to the overpowering masculinity of his company. Completely and unconditionally, judging by the slick condition of his chest and thighs. His smile was further indication that lewd and indiscrete activities had occurred, very recently.
The group of five and group of thirteen came to a stop mere feet from each other. Samantha and Susan gazed at the boy is special awe. His friends had been very generous with him, especially on his naked chest and belly. What these mature soldiers had done to the slim, blond, pre-teen cutie was, in the frisky mind of the highly intelligent Samantha, a whore crime.
From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli. The few, the proud, the Marines, and friend. Kit noted wryly that the kid could be folded into a duffle bag and wondered what his future might hold, since it was apparently to include a dozen tall, handsome, and dedicated bodyguards.
"Is it all sperm?" Susan wondered aloud, approaching the boy shyly and making furrows in the semen thickly covering his belly.
"They all wanted to," the child whispered in answer.
"How did they do it?" Samantha asked. She'd huddled in beside her young female friend. The curiosity of two bright minds focused itself into four pretty eyes against the boy's two eyes. Outnumbered once again, little Francis capitulated.
"Do you want to see?" he whispered back.
It seemed impossible, but the eyes brightened further as the pretty eight year olds nodded in sync.
"We do it like dancing," Francis explained. In truth, in was more like gymnastics, what with no music. The boy's companions took positions around the child, some cradling him comfortably, others fondling him from the back, and most forming a lateral file to present themselves for the boy's strong and eager hands. As on court, gridiron, or diamond, teamwork paid off. Wetting his right palm with the copious sperm slicked flagrantly over his torso, Francis began masturbating a young lieutenant, beckoning Samantha with his eyes to come and help him doing what he doing to the athletic young soldier standing between his young, pale legs. Of course, the girl didn't know the strapping Marine was an officer, which was sad, because she was a savvy creature and would have been impressed. She just put her left arm around the waist of the young man, easing it between another powerful male who had mounted from the rear, then reached around to let her right hand be taken by Francis so he could guide her and teach her.
"Do you like it?" Francis whispered to the girl.
"It's hot and hard. "
"Extra," the boy explained. "The lieutenant was saving so he could show off when we get back to the pool, you know, live up the code of an officer who will do anything he asks of his subordinates. It should be very special, like the big burst that comes at the climax of fireworks."
"Can I touch yours," Sammy-Song whispered to Frances.
" Get some more sperm off me," the boy instructed. The girl palmed him until she was dripping and the young Marine holding Francis positioned the boy for the girl. Her hand went to the child's impressive five inch penis, and she did the same thing to the boy that he was doing to the young man, copying his strokes and rhythms as closely as she could, and improvising when necessary.
Susan instinctively moved in to help her darling friend stroke the athletic soldier, and the tableau was quickly adjusted to accommodate her. The new arrangement, though entirely satisfactory to all concerned, did not last long. With a grunt suitable to taking a hit, it was over for the young lieutenant. The two little girls were transfixed with what was happening, apparently all over everything and for sure all over them and little Francis. It was an exciting way to be introduced to the bees, and the little girls knew it was going to be an even greater thrill to be introduced to the birds. Wet, not as much as little Francis, but way not dry, the quintet separated from the squadron, with an invitation extended and accepted to bivouac in the immediate future. The camp within a camp, something the author is an expert on, was not bent on hostilities, or even training for hostilities, but, rather, planned a series of night emissions that had nothing to do with electronics. Well dated up for the evening, by everyone's standards, Kit's group headed deeper into the cool and exciting forest.
The next two benches the group came to were occupied. Responding to welcoming looks, they joined, as spectators, a father and his eleven-year-old-girl and, awhile later, a scout leader with his favorite cub scout. It turned out the little girl had been extensively molested by her piano teacher, and she received her handsome young father in the missionary position with a wild, yelping abandon. The little scout was nervous about what his leader was doing to him and took comfort in the girls his own age covered with what a man had done to them. He let his leader pull his underpants down and returned the favor, settling into his lover's lap and soon making himself slick and wet just like Susan and Samantha. In something over half an hour the little group of explorers had left behind a happy daughter and a happy cup scout. How far could you take the Song of Solomon without exceeding its implicit wisdom? To the extent the Marines were pretty obviously taking young Francis back at the hidden pool? Who knew? but, there was more than fun, theology and science to inspire experimenting with the vastly exciting possibilities.
Too exciting for Armando. They hadn't proceeded a hundred yards beyond the scene of the scoutmaster and his tenderfoot when the tall Mexican stopped in his tracks in the middle of the trail. Billy, being almost exactly in the same condition as his new friend, realized instantly what was happening. He squeezed his sister's hand as a signal and the little girl let him go to help his friend. Billy responded by dropping to his knees and pulling Armando's suit to his ankles. The lithe Indian had just time to step free of his shorts and spread his legs wide as Kit grabbed him around his chest from the rear. Then he was doing what the lieutenant and the scout leader had done. Spraying long, thick spurts of white sperm all over everybody. As they gathered in close to watch he kept grunting and panting and sweating and cumming. Since he was Sammy-Song's particular catch, she took most of him on her bare chest and belly and used her hands the way she had on the young Marine, which redoubled the forcefulness of her boyfriend's hot sharing with her in his exciting new way. It was hard to believe he would soon being doing that inside her, after her dad had done it. She could see the glow in Susan's eyes and realized her little friend was probably having identical thoughts about her beautiful older brother. It had been fun with the young officer, with Armando, it was more than. It was intimate and sensual rather than being dramatic and novel, and, since Samantha loved Armando, it ended with the tip of the shaking boy's big penis in her mouth as she let the boy cum on the tip of her tongue as well as all over her lips and pretty teeth. Kit was thrilled to see his little girl bring the tall dark stranger totally alive, all over again, in a manner of speaking, and he held the youth tightly in his powerful arms as the teen panted and bucked wildly in his hands, somehow articulating his shuddering climax around his spurting penis and managing not to dislodge it from the pretty lips of his little Sammy-Song. He was helped in steadying the newly naked boy by Billy and Susan who pressed in tightly from Armando's sides and ran their fingers over sensitive parts of his body.
Kit and Billy were both excited at seeing their young incest partners sharing the sperm of the tall Mexican boy. They picked their girls up and hurried the remaining yards to the next side path with its grotto and bench. No brass hatrack was supplied, and the wise minds of the group attributed this to the fact that it would be a waste of Plunkett resources to provide and polish an accoutrement that would probably rarely be used. They wondered if Armando might not have remained in his suit longer than most males who took the path. Not that it mattered; he'd performed spectacularly and little Sammy-Song was clinging to his hand as her father carried her into the pretty rest area.
. . .
At this point in the story of what had happened to his uncle's friend, Kit, Brad broke into his chronology. John had been fondling him affectionately while the boy had been setting his scenes and embellishing them with detail. Both the males by the cold Yamaha were by now in a high state of excitement, and Brad, the eleven year old, held off his ardent and handsome companion with whispers and gently defensive fingers. He wasn't trying to turn things off, but rather it was time to test his new invention, and that could only be done under the most particular of circumstances. He persisted gently, kindly, and with many kisses, finally gaining his feet, then hauling John after him. Both completely naked now, the boy and athletic biker walked slowly to the motorcycle with the man hot on the youngster's tail. Brad's backpack was propped against the rear wheel of the machine and both males stooped, one on top of the other, to retrieve the pack and, four-legged, walk it back to the blanket, where they came to their knees..
Brad was thrilled with the ardent attention of the older male. The biker was well primed for the experiment, plus it bode well for continuing on together after the passions of their first time together were satiated, surely sometime in the new century. "Complete and..." Brad thought to himself as they huddled over the mysterious backpack. Both partners seemed to have to kiss a lot and John was open in fondling the eleven year old's jutting penis and receiving his touching in return. It seemed impossible to break off for any amount of time, for anything. "Is something more than, or less than, impossible?" John wondered to himself as he yielded to the boy's persistent efforts to deal with whatever was in his bag of tricks. "This better be good," he concluded to himself as he bent to the task at hand, which was unfastening the pack.
"It solves an age-old problem," the eleven-year-old boy explained as he began pulling out his magic spell outfit. This left John feeling a bit nonplussed, because, for the life of him, he could think of no problem likely to attach itself to his willing young friend in the present situation. Little did he know.
"What's it called?" John asked .
The naked boy blushed and said he'd divulge the name later, because it was too descriptive and would give away the secret. "Well, something better do that," John mused as he watched the boy rummage in his careful, methodical way. He thought of the patience required to fabricate the beautiful shipyard dioramas the boy had wrought and hoped the assembly of whatever it was wouldn't run into the hours. Even minutes, for that matter. They'd lain together for half the afternoon, telling and listening to stories, and apparently that was enough for young Brad, because he wasted no time in hauling forth his plunder.
First was a pair of foam pads neatly encased in soft leather. Then strapping. It was all utterly mysterious. Were they going swimming? That wasn't even funny. More stuff. Wires and two small wooden boxes. With sunglasses? Not. Bigger. What? Video games? Impossible. Not the time. Not the place. He needn't have worried. Neither must the reader. It was not some porn thing or the other, well, not exactly.
Displaying his wares with impeccable cuteness the boy held up one of the leather covered foam blocks and pulled a Velcro strap. "There are two lenses, for 3-D," the boy explained. Indeed, two tiny holes in one of the blocks fronted miniature lenses a little more than an inch apart. Around them, superbly executed, were rosettes of grain-of-wheat light bulbs. Behind the lenses were circuit boards, with wires neatly soldered and bundled, leading to a pair of jacks mounted to an aluminum plate and neatly let into the leather covering. A set of batteries completed the obvious components, and, again, they were beautifully crafted into the strange device. Brad flipped a switch and was rewarded with some green diodes and a single beep from a tiny speaker. The christless thing was actually booting, but for what?
As he began to comprehend Brad's device, John had every difficulty with his insight. How smart could a kid be? Eleven. Sure, his models and dioramas were to die for, but there was nothing bold and innovative about the craft, or art, at the level Brad practiced it. But here? Sure, the craftsmanship was impeccable, but the invention, itself, was the thing.
Full discovery took several moments, then, yes, it was as he thought. In fact, John was actually congratulating himself on being alert enough just to figure the thing out before it was fully explained by the young wonder.
Brad slipped the webbing over his head and John assisted by clipping a couple of plastic buckles positioned at the boy's back. For all the world it looked like an alternative life vest, with two vertical members about eight inches apart. Brad's glasses were connected by a short cable and John's by a longer wire. In the eyepieces affixed to the glasses was a clear image generated by the tiny spy cameras. Of? Well, as the males came back together, making up for lost time in the kissing department, all became not only crystal clear, but three-dimensional, as well.
Since the dawn of perversion, homosexuals have been faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem. How to simultaneously kiss your partner, and thrill to the visual excitement of his climax. The foam pads held their bodies apart while the small lights embedded near the lenses provided ample illumination. The images, for there were two of them, were startlingly clear, one huge, in the background, the other just slightly smaller and more delicate in form, inches from the two lenses. The tips of both shafts were slightly high on the micro-screens, a problem that was solved by simple adjustments to Brad's harness.
Talk about awesome! Sure, kissing with the special glasses was just slightly awkward, but the view of their throbbing man and boy cocks as they did intimate things to each other with their tongues vastly made up for any inconvenience. And whispering, as they positioned themselves against each other, still on their knees, was going to go right off the scale. Even being held a few inches apart along their torsos, so just their penises touched, was an erotic element unto itself.
Since the kissing was less than perfectly comfortable, while whispering was more than, Brad continued with the rendition of his uncle's friend, Kit's story of what he'd done to the little girls.
. . .
Rape was in the air. Lust and passion hung over the little group of foresters as they made their way deeper into the woods, Kit's bathing trunks the only covering for the five young bodies. In their condition, it was a good thing they were where they were, but this was a good thing that could not last. No possible way. Just seeing each other and the experimental touching they'd done on their barely one hour of walking had been enough to endanger the virginity of the sprites with them. Adding what they'd done with the young soldier and then the father's hard, fast mounting of his daughter, and the things the scout master had done with his little boy, all totaled a sensory overload that would have resulted in a hot, hard pounding - consequences be damned - had not the ingénues been beloved daughter and sister.
When they came to the next side path, Armando, rendered half-way sane by recent events, took command of the little seal patrol. Instinctively, the Mexican boy knew he had to protect the little girls, no matter how much their partners loved them. If they fucked the kids, the men would come almost immediately, and obviously very violently, and, while the females, in spite of their tender age, might be able to take it, there was little likelihood they'd enjoy the experience, nor would the males once they'd spent themselves and realized what they'd done to their virgin partners.
A number of benches graced this particular clearing, varying considerably in height. Armando headed his group toward one that appeared to be ideal. About a foot and a half off the ground, it seemed to have been placed by some wicked kind of god at just the right height for the nippers to kneel on and thus be elevated to a position from which they could be very intimate with their male escorts. This was not lost on Sammy-Song and Susan who wriggled happily onto the smooth, cool marble. Kit and Billy took up positions on either side of the girls, who knelt facing each other. Slowly the males came to each other, and the young females. Armando straddled the bench behind Samantha and molested her wet chest and belly while she stared at her father and Susan's brother as their huge penises inched toward each other.
Susan took her brother and Sammy-Song took her dad. The males were kept apart by the narrow marble bench, leaving room for the girls to do what they'd practiced doing with other males. It was nice for Kit and Billy that their respective daughter and sister had practiced with their little-girl hands. They were spared the awkward vague pounding of the enthusiastic amateur. Instead, the girls masturbated slowly and deliberately, cupping balls with their dainty little left hands while stroking smoothly and carefully with their right hands. They bent their heads together so they touched, brow to brow, and stared down at what they were doing to the young men. Armando hunched over his delicious little Samantha, loving the feeling of her athletic muscles working rhythmically as she started making love to her handsome young dad. At Armando's prompting, both girls took a moment to run their right hands over their wet chests, and now slick and slippery, they returned to the men.
Kit and Billy alternately stared down at the bobbing heads of their industrious and obviously highly focused little girls, and kissed each other, arms locking to give their shuddering bodies support against what the females were doing to them. And doing now faster and more urgently. "God," the men simultaneously whispered to themselves, "please, please don't let them be racing."
As if. The lust in the girls for their lovers was in no way competitive. They were a universal whole, with Armando, and any though of outdoing or being outdone were as vague and far away as images of cold gravy or pasta without salt. Nor were they locked in the here and now. Love their men though they surely did, neither girl could keep her mind entirely clear of images of what might be happening to little Francis back at the pool, nor what might happen later that evening, and, in all probability, the entire coming night. Both girls were a little stunned with the realization this was their first time; if so much could happen one's first time, well, what then? In pure happiness, the girls raised their heads, as one, and kissed, instantly inspiring the men towering above them to the same activity.
The stage was now set for Brad's invention. Kit's story, relayed by his uncle, had inspired the boy to fabricate a prototype of his camera and video screen device so that in future generations lovers would not have to choose between the delirium of lips and tongues and the spectacle, equally delirious, of being visually, and perhaps a bit voyeuristically, spellbound by their partner's climax.
In the end, having seen both the lieutenant and Armando cum, the girls remained locked to their boys as their hands made a final succession of passages, firm and full-length, to start their shaking men. Billy was first and Armando was thrilled with what his new friend did, notwithstanding the temporizing effect of his, Armando's, almost fainting ejaculation, but a few minutes before. That seemed a year ago to the Mexican lad. Billy was, so far, beating them all. What the cub scout's master had done on his bare white belly, what the young Marine had done; probably what the father had done inside his daughter at their bench site.
Susan's brother was a gusher, not a sprayer. His sperm spurted only a few inches, but it was creamy think and very white, and was produced by the fourteen year old in seemingly unquenchable torrents. It curtained over Susan's stroking little fist, shrouding it in a syrup of hot young male seed. And more, and more. White, thick and endless it seemed to the watching boy. Susan instinctively opened her hand at the first soaking flow, palming her brother rich seed and stroking him with it as she again clasped him and rubbed up and down.
Much of Billy's cum got on Kit, and Sammy-Song was not bashful about blindly grasping for more as she stroked her father with incessant urgency. Kit's spray was, oddly, more like a young teen. Watery, so much so it was almost hard to see at first, then a bit thicker as it began flying and splashing all over all four naked bodies. He was not discriminate with his hard spray, nor was his daughter in the least caring. She kept doing it and doing it, and he kept responding, grunting to her urgent strokes, and rewarding her with as much love as lust.
For almost half a minute the climaxes overlapped, the pulsing thick white cream from the boy mixing fluidly with the hot staccato spray of the young father.
The girls did get to see some of what they had done to Kit and Billy. By accord, they broke their kiss after they'd felt five or six hard pulses from their boys, and, pushing slightly apart, they stared down, thoughtfully moving their heads slightly apart so the males could look, if they wished. By the time it began to be over, all eight eyes were fixed on the flood of semen covering everything, even the faces of the pretty girls. Then from the center of what was almost a little pond a hotly purple mountain arose, fresh sperm dripping freely. It was Armando who had gently repositioned little Sammy-Song and thrust up between her legs. The little girl was thrilled to see her hand-picked lover emerge fresh and hot from between her legs, and, wetting her hands, thoroughly, she grabbed his big penis low with her left hand and high with her right hand and made him cum on her almost immediately.
At this point in his story, Brad lost control. They actually made it from whispering to kissing before anything exciting happened, and both, realizing everything was soon going to be happening at once, had time to focus their eyes on the tiny screens attached to their glasses. There they were, color, three dimensional, extreme quality by virtue of the short, direct hookup from the little cameras to the viewing screens. There they were, and for all his money and support, Walt had never made a film like this. "Forest of the Giant Milkweeds?" Would that due for a title? "The Grapes of Splash?" Who needed a name? Give the story the dumbest most prosaic name possible, the show was awesome; two huge male boners rubbing against each other as the young man and the boy made each other cum just by excitement, alone. As with Kit and Billy, the younger male, eleven-year-old Brad, lost control first. And there it was. He was being sucked by the boy's hot mouth on his tongue, and at exactly the same time, was watching the child's semen spurt in heavy, long pulses all over both their bellies.
In was un-fucking-believable. To feel Brad signal with his mouth, then feel his naked body heave, his powerful muscles almost grunt with seizure, and two seconds later see the hard spurt which covered them randomly. Then there was another shock, and that was him. He came so fast he saw it before he felt it. By the time he could signal Brad, he was cumming on the boy's naked front just as vigorously as the boy was continuing to cum on him. Both the males spent for so long a time they had time to whisper a silent prayer for luck, and it was rewarded, leaving the little lenses free of any blurring drop of fluid. So as they kissed beyond where any others on earth had ever kissed, they double and tripled the sensation by seeing what no others had ever seen.
It went on for so long, for each of them, they were almost getting bored when it finally slowed and stopped. For a few moments they remained kneeling against each other, then slowly fell to John's right, coming to a panting position on their sides. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, they were the two most satiated humans who had ever dwelt under the earthly sky.
"You're uncle is going to be very proud of you," John whispered to his young friend.
"It works," the boy acknowledged, simultaneously panting and sighing with contentment.
"More than," was all John had strength enough left to whisper. His mind off sex, perhaps for the rest of his life, John reprised a notion that had been popular through much of the previous century. "What will they think of, next?" it went.
Outmoded of course. His young companion an exception that proved the rule, most kids had an attitude closer to Who cares what they think of next. Since there was nothing to think of, in the old-fashioned sense, art was going to become the be-all, end-all of any civil connected with future izations. Without stunning writers, society would die of the stripped gears and worn threads of the very boredom that had driven peasants mad enough to die, whole villages at a time, dancing the tarantula, or binge on cults, ritual sacrifice, war, or plain-vanilla, down-home, insanity. After all, how many ghost stories were there? How many venomous snakes? How much freakish weather? How many behavioral disorders? Court shenanigans? Lists of things, beloved of the documentary channels, more about which we would not wish to know than we already do?
No indeed. None of the above. Swords would dull from overuse, sorcerers end up incarcerated for practicing without licenses, dungeons abandon to mosses and molds, and dragons, well, though they might drag on for awhile, they were on at least the B route to extinction. Leaving? Sex. It started the whole thing, after all, and, additionally, was a good reason to ease up at the food trough. A good reason to make nice, habitually. .And even if it was bad, well-written sex was the only fresh snow for the eager otter wanting to get down the hill (and thus, pretty good). Hope you enjoyed the slide.