Blissy's Song -- 11 (M/b, inc,. mast., rom.) by
Feather Touch
Nothing should be inferred from the use of media personalities.
Chapt. 11
Cassius Clay is an emblematic figure. A tremendous dork in his youth, inspiring Howard Cossell, vastly increasing ethnic hostilities based on race. Now he's the sort of quiet legendary hero one whispers of in terms of reverence. Because he could biff somebody.
At times I'm having inklings that I have had my say. E.B. White makes a point of advising writers to include everything they have to say. Hard advice to comply with when one is working fast. There's always that overlooked tendril or misbegotten fiber that never drifts between brain and fingers. You know, the kind that wakes you up at night, then might as well be a vampire at noon while you're working.
Let me include a reminder that the Russians and other nuclear powers should be invited to participate in protecting ourselves, even if they only offer the relatively token support of atomic weapons. For example, England should bomb Belfast, if they have a short-enough-ranged missile. If others don't want to play, shrug, and play alone. Point out to all in sundry that we are not using a single one percent of our available weaponry to save ourselves from the Muslims. Be sure Russia does not miss the implied threat. If Israel wants to reprise Massada, and gather together around their bomb, I, one day, might visit that memorial.
And no secrecy need be involved. Set times and dates. Atmospheric conditions should prevail as the determining factor, and collateral destruction issues weighed quickly and accurately. Arabs should be chosen to fly the closest Imax planes. Hold their families hostage until the film is inspected.
Since symbolism is sacred to the Muslim mind, I would ante up on my prediction that they'll do something on the Texas coast.
I feel guilty adding sex to these chapters. You know, wasting time. But David has been both patient and generous, plus it keeps me on my game plan. It's interesting how this novel started out as a fantasy, then fantasy came to it. Thanks to David, all in real time. But it leaves me kind of stuck. I know, oh, bullshit, you'll be saying, but I had this big conflict with Brenda at the center and Wayne using the child to experiment with motivating workers by offering hours alone with juvenile partners who'd been indoctrinated like the kids that used to jump into volcanoes or lie back on a stone slab. With support, Wayne assumed, the impact on selected kids would be minimal, with the advantage of allowing civilization to continue, indefinitely. and very happily. Regrettably, we'll lose significant amounts of our infrastructure over the winter, and the rioting of survivors will claim the rest next summer. No story but hard scrapple isolation, stalking violence, and unspeakable privation. No place for a humorist, not to put too fine a point on it.
One nice thing about this change in manuscript is getting rid of the bad guy that made an appearance in the early chapters. I don't like writing about bad people. Gran was like that, perhaps to a fault. Being disagreeable was, with her, the ultimate sin. I see one hundred people in a row lining up for their photo ops, and not a single one of them would have ever been invited back for a game of bridge. Does that mean she was a nose-in-the-air snob, or that the crud has raised to the top of the government barrel? You figure it out. (Hint: she sometimes stayed up late to play poker with Mrs. Damon, and loved the latter's stories of war service. Mrs. Damon was a black out driver who was hit by trains. Also a movie pianist, track enthusiast and functioning girl of the people.)
Don't know what has happened to the telethon. Didn't seem to be on, last night. I doubt it's been cancelled due to excess smarminess. Nothing else has.
God, there's a symbolic sight. Off camp Le Jeune. One of the gyreen's new novelty ships, with a gap in its transom to float another toy boat into. Right on television, ready to take it in the ass. Hey, at least they're ready for action.
So am I
"Daddy," Cindy whispered as Steve lay beside her, finally having time to fondle and kiss her pretty young breasts.
"What?" he whispered softly in her hot, wet ear.]
"If I lend Bobby the tent, can we leave it here so you can, you know, bring him out here sometime?"
Condoms for her older brother, paid for out of her own allowance, and her tent for the younger boy. Bobby for her loving dad. Good kid, this Cindy Brady. Steve was proud to be her father.
In the end, they left the sleeping bag, too. Anyone finding it would need it more they did, because if it wasn't in place on a return visit to the dump, they could improvise by using the Jaguar as a temporary shelter.
The trip back into town was rollicking alternating with quiet and introspective moments. As ever. Half way back, the child had cuddled close to her dad and guiding his right hand for a minute inside her blouse she whispered that she had skipped at least a dozen times before crashing. She gave a soft giggle and they returned to talk of life and the new politics.
"Wise man say: Do not be hooves of horse with hundred heads,'" Steve commented. He'd picked the right girl to partner with because the freshly brushed and glowing imp replied that New York now had to call its profile a skylone.' Feeble jokes, but, if at the expense of the right people, the kind white folks sometimes went for. Steve repeated what he'd said about the quality of talent actually lost in the events, pointing out that they'd sourced countless malls and were instrumental in the destruction of thousands of ineffably sweet American hometowns, like Maquoquata, Iowa, which no one on earth can spell, but to which the author has been numerous times. It's an easy place to recognize. A sad, abandon, dirty husk of beautiful masonry a couple of miles east of Wal-Mart. Franchises, children's television, theme parks without end and big old funkin' Vegas. South Manhattan making it happen, doin' the deals, pumpin' the green. Let their families mourn them, while we humans mourn their victims.
Perfect justice, of course, would be for the brown folk to trash the white folk. The white folk deserve it, for one thing, and it will give the brownies a chance to evaluate white influence on a house-by-house basis, for the other thing. Yes, they'd earned a chance to be free at last. Steve thought of Farrakhan. The hard faces always sharing the camera with his slightly more cultured hard face. Brown faces, open for agenda, closed for pleasure. It would serve the bleak right to inherit the earth, a reward for sending the Anglo to his just reward, quickly, efficiently, near the top of his game, and poised for a mortal belly flop of his own device. The ironies of the scapegoat issue. We can, in fact, blame the Jew, by the tiniest of edges, over ourselves. All things being equal, the greatest injustice might be subjecting a single Muslim or Jew to an early and unnatural demise.
[There's a sad sight Fred Thompson blathering the touchy feely. What I called somewhere on these pages `wheeping the gleeble.' With concerned students, yet. (They got that right.) I can't bear to turn on the sound. And Netanyahoo. Flea Belly must be in the offing, there's a size of face and mouth no kike's camera can ignore, and, meantime, it must be pointed out that tiny texas has not made a single trip to Israel. Think of how those people suffered watching their televisions. Moscow Bill almost commuted to the place, and a Republican president can't even make a single trip, days though it's been? How do you like them apples?}
It's hard to learn with a brain that thinks. Steve knew this. Maybe there was good he was insensitive to, a silver cloud in the black lining. Mazine Waters? She'd all but flamed with a red hat in what to her was undoubtedly an appropriate time and place, but it sure was hard to see silver for anybody but Maximum-Faced Max in the maximum face of Max. With a shrug Steve let the notion slip. If a thinking brain couldn't learn, what, pray tell, was left to learn, in the first place?
No brown face in the car. In fact, the little white chick became more animated and seemingly pinker as home approached. They agreed to give the car a quick bath and by the time they were a mile from home the anticipation of a sensation had rendered both speechless. Cindy wondered if her mom would be miffed at her for not staying overnight with her step father, but, maybe in the excitement of this deep blue new presence in their lives, she would forget.
The world had been turned upside down earlier in the month. Steve Brady's world had been turned upside down in like fashion, that very day. He sure hoped nobody would try to turn it again. Meantime, they turned into their driveway, and as Steve brought the Jag to a stop, Cindy looked at him with big blue eyes. "Daddy," she asked, "who put the sky back in skyline?"
"Now, Cindy," Steve intoned, and in seconds they were absorbed in the chaos of driving a luxury car onto Brady land.
While the exhibition was in full swing, with Carol out for a first swing behind the wheel, Steve closeted himself with Alice. At first the housekeeper's eyes bugged out at Steve's check, he described it as half her commission, in advance (the amount was five thousand dollars) and then they popped again, when he told her what kind of place he wanted, and where. "Where!?" Then her eyes had taken on a real sudden new look. New America, New Bradys and now a new Alice. It must be something to do with the power of positive thinking. "So much for Sam," was all she said as she emerged clinging to her marching orders in her heart of hearts.
Even delayed, dinner was over by seven-thirty. That would be changing. Carol was in love with the Jaguar, short courtship, notwithstanding, and was off with five kids for the drive-in in Carson, leaving just Bobby.
"Just you and me for the evening" Steve noted.
"Let's do the laundry," the boy said.
Ah, the Brady bunch. Since around his birthday Bobby Brady had taken a sudden interest in the household laundry. He'd written a program that noted every tick and jot of the associated activities, and was always about improving his performance. He always performed his household experiments barefooted and dressed only in a white undershirt and white jockey underpants. The ancient Steve Brady had been meaning to have a quiet word, for as the boy approached ten his long legs and maturing torso was attracting looks from his brothers and stop sisters, alike. Carol had been neutral on the subject, so he'd let it pass.
Somewhere out there under that moon, with Los Angeles only a distant glow, was an empty little tent. Clever. Now he was totally swollen, again.
"Sounds like a plan," Steve said, and the boy was off in a shot to start his timer and hit the first hamper. Steve wondered if he'd stripped off his shirts, jeans and sneakers before or after hitting the crucial button, or clicking the crucial icon, as the case probably was. Steve wasn't allowed to help, but Bobby seemed glad of his company as he completed the brief whirlwind of activity that got the machine gurgling warmly, and the next load stacked and ready.
The first heat was run, nothing to do for forty minutes or so but lean against the whirring washer and feel its vibrations.
"Dad," the boy asked quietly, just over the surge of the machine, "should I was this undershirt, too?"
"If you want to," Steve replied, his voice also husky and low.
Bobby held his arms up and his father moved slowly and gently behind him, placing his hands on the youth's slim waist. Gently he pressed against the softness laced with sinew of Bobby's flanks, and held him with a light grip.
"Dad," the child whispered, "maybe we should wash all our clothes in this load."
Steve slowly worked his hands down along the boy's sides, finding the base of the undershirt by touch. Staring down at the cute, childish head, he slowly began to inch upwards on both sides, gently pinching and messaging as he went. In moments he came to the warm silk of naked skin, and gently his hands fingered themselves up and together until he had the boy's belly, warm and soft. Like early dinners, this will change he thought to himself as he began molesting his youngest son.
Bobby remained frozen, if anything going a little up on his toes. He raised his arms a bit and arched gently into his father's gentle, tender touch. In a way, he was torn, because he also wanted to buckle at the waist and push his bottom against his dad. But getting molested on his belly was awesome, especially when his dad made his hands go really down low.
"You're really growing up," Steve whispered into his boy's ear.
"You're different, too, Dad. Like you grew up. I think it's awesome."
"Do you like me doing this to you?" Steve rasped, his voice husking between yawns.
"Yes," Bobby replied.
"If I do anything you don't like, tell me to knock it off, okay, dude?"
"As if," the boy whispered back with his own nervous yawn.
"Word," Steve intoned. No one seemed to know what it meant, which, as limited as things had become under Jewry, was probably the point.
"Word," Bobby responded.
For ten minutes they stood against the warm, throbbing machine. Stove gently eased himself against the boy's beautiful round bottom. As the minutes passed, Steve's shirt, shorts and socks went to the friendly confines. Now he was molesting his son with both of them wearing just white cotton briefs.
"Has a man done this to you before?" Steve quizzed.
"No," Bobby whispered back, "but I saw a man do it to Tommy Williams. He did it to him a lot."
"Did you watch everything?" Steve queried the young boy.
"Yes," Bobby said.
"Do you want to tell me about it, or is it private?" Steve continued.
"I don't want to have any secrets with you. There's enough people I have to keep secrets from, already."
"That's changing forever, as of tonight," Steve explained to the boy.
"I saw Tommy in the kitchen. You know that safety patrol thing, well, something didn't look right about him, Tommy Williams. He's real shy. Jet black hair, big brown eyes. Sometimes he looks like a frightened deer. He's skinny, not, just slim, and real tall. I guess everyone looks at him, and because he has this real delicate, cute, oval face. Not like a girl. But awesome, just the same. And he has just a little fine hair on his upper lip. I think that's why the girls look at him. You know, they know he's old enough to, you know, be ready for them."
For a moment the nine year old broke off his story. Gently pushing Steve back, he pivoted slowly, his hands going to the mature male's waist. Without ado, he eased his athletic young father's shorts down, jockeying his swollen penis free, before stripping the adult, completely. His father knelt instantly, and Bobby staged at the huge, almost purple organ jutting high from the crouching male. To make it feel extra good, the boy raised his arms as high as he could, while his beautiful dad stripped him off. Then the man rose slowly to the boy, touching the child high between his legs as only an erect male can touch a developing boy.
"Did you see Tommy's sperm?" Steve whispered as they gently stroked each other at their waists.
"First the man's," the boy whispered back, now panting, now with is voice a sick whisper.
"Did he spray it on Tommy's body?" Steve quizzed, melting into his son's beautiful boy ear.
"Most of it went where you are against me now," the boy responded. He wasn't getting any better. "I think he was trying to get Tommy wet and slippery for what he did to him later."
Steve turned his young boy so his back was to his chest and gently pushed him against the now very warm and active washer. Half squatting, he slowly eased his huge boner up between the boy's soft, white child's belly and the porcelain of the washer. The new position was comfortable for them both, and allowed Steve to take the boy any way he wanted.
"Did the man get Tommy naked?" he asked.
"He molested him a lot, first. But they were both naked before the man started to sperm. Good thing, or his clothes would have been like a total mess."
"How did it start?" Steve asked.
"Well," Bobby began, "I was doing a student inventory verification. But Jaime Allen had borrowed my PDA, and he wore the battery down, so I had to get a clipboard. I guess the kitchen guy saw me go, but didn't see me come back. So I was counting like these giant cans, and when I finished, and started to walk out, I saw Tommy filling out a form on one of the steel tables. I guess it was for a class they were going to give. I was afraid the kitchen guy would be mad at me, because it was after four, and all the kids were meant to be off school property, and I didn't know what was going to happen, so I just stepped behind the door of the store room,"
Steve was glad his son had in no way been spying. His interest in officious roles hadn't become disturbing, but any chance of his boy ending up one of those GO GO GO weirdoes beloved of swat teams and door busters in general, was not a chance he looked on with gladness. And they were such a joke. They yelled GO GO GO, which, in any tense situation, could easily be mistaken for NO NO NO. Or vice versa. They emptied the armed forces of anyone with a brain bigger than a pea, and drank their bottomless beer.
"While Tommy was working on the form, the manager came up beside him, sort of extra close. That made me get scared. I looked behind me and found some two-pound cans of garlic. I figured I could clock him hard enough to have time to get a cleaver, and maybe throw Tommy a carving knife. I was really scared, but then nothing happened. You know, I was ready to see him drop the kid and get on him. The stuff you read about isn't always pretty."
"Shh," Steve whispered. He wanted to fondle the boy in silence for a few minutes. The story had his interest and they would get back to it. Meantime, he wanted to half squat behind the sixty pound boy and gently work his swollen almost boy-hurting boner up and down. Gently, up and down, again and again. And just listen to him breathe a little hitched and ragged as he accepted the gentle rape of his athletic young dad. Bobby's jumbo frank size boy penis sometimes wedged between his father's hard, thick seven inches, and sometimes mated with it from the side. Wetter and wetter they both got. Steve's rhythm got more carnal as he squatted again and again, leaning against the smooth white back with it sprinkle of freckles and feeling himself wet and urgent between the boy's now widely spread legs.
"Bobby," Steve whispered.
"What, dad?" the youth whispered back.
:":I want to ask you about two things. They have to do with what we're doing together, now. Is it okay if I ask you... you don't have to answer, or you can just shrug."
"What are they?" Bobby asked.
"The first one is that your older brother, Peter, likes you very much. He wants to take a shower with you while you're alone together in the house. The second thing is Cindy. She's kind of in love with Peter, but she wants to sleep with you. Every night. Because you're less than a year apart. She's a woman, and I think you might be very happy waking up with her every morning. That's it. You don't have to say anything."
"Yeah," the boy whispered in instant response, "but if I went yabba-dabba do, you'd know what it meant, eh?"
"World's happiest Brady?"
"Wow, Cindy," the boy sighed. Then he whispered, "Dad, touch me, you know, there, see if I'm big enough."
Steve cupped the boy gently, and keeping his left hand tight up against the lad, to feel the beauty of his young body, stroked him gently to his full maleness. "Yes, Bobby," was just stating the obvious. Talk about circles. Peter had been molested because of his size, and than had lead through Cindy to what he was doing to Bobby against the now spinning washing machine. And this child was huge for his age, too. "Poor Carol," he thought, "after today, by the time I come in her, I'm going to weigh ninety pounds and she's going to weigh forty. Never had he wanted his pretty, friendly wife so badly. To drag her worn and used from the bed, into the shower, and back to bed. It would be an all-hogs-dead shame should it come to their having to shoot her. As if.
"If it wasn't for Cindy, I would have sprayed sperm on you three times," Steve whispered.
"I wondered, Dad," the boy responded. "The man in the kitchen did it really fast. Like a minute after Tommy pulled his underpants down, they were hunched together, you know, really sweating and panting, and I could get really close because of the way the table blocked me. They were masturbating each other. The man whispered that he wanted to cum off first, and told Tommy to try to hold back. Then they sort of hunched together more, you know, so they could really touch each other hard and fast, then the man said, `I'm cumming,' and a few seconds later he started getting Tommy all we, right where you're touching me. Tommy didn't say anything, but suddenly I could see he was doing the same thing the man was. Getting him wet all over his front. White, too. Tommy's was thin and the man's was thick, but it was white from both of them.
"Who had the most sperm?" Steve coaxed.
"Tommy did. It was his first time. The man even stood him up, like they did it pretty fast, and held him with his left arm around Tommy's chest, and his right hand doing what you're doing to me, and he was still cumming off. I could understand right away why the girls gave him those looks.
"Dad," the child continued, "I'm glad this happened with us tonight, because tomorrow I was going to go find out who the new kitchen guy is and sign up for the class."
"Do it, anyway," Steve coaxed. "Nothing that happens in our new family should interfere with your life any more than parents have to interfere in the first place. Deal?"
"The Brady Bunch, not the Brady Hairball, is that what you mean?" Bobby asked, seeming to hit the nail on the head.
"Yes, darling," his father whispered as he ran his fingers all over his nude boy.
"Bobby?" Steve whispered.
"Yes, Dad?" the boy answered, now sweating and shaking from what his father was doing as well as from the hard vibrations of the spin cycle."
"I want you to, or I suggest you sleep with Cindy and Pete, at least tonight. You're an extremely attractive partner when you're loose and relaxed and they'll be thrilled every minute to have you with them."
"Sounds like a Brady Careball," the boy chortled, instantly verifying his father's wisdom. "and I think Daddy Brady should be a care bear and watch over his little ballers. Keep them nice and wet with baby oil and his own hot man sperm."
"Starting with the beautiful youngest male," the man groaned, turning his boy to himself as the fast hard pulses of his ejaculation began. They stood within inches of each other, watching the gushing seed fly from the huge untouched penis of the man. Bobby began his young, hard spend half way through his father's experience and for nearly half a minute the stood, heads sagging, cumming off on each other.
"I knew that it was much more than a hunch." Remarkably, the identical thought was traversing each of their minds at the same time. They giggled softly at the minor silliness and watched each other return to the say they normally were. The spin cycle ended with a click. Time for another load.
Parting thoughts.
If our death is to be that of a thousand cuts, is it fair of our own government to administer nine-hundred-ninety-nine of them?
It should be remembered that in the American West it was a hanging offense to steal a horse, because the horse could not be locked and was therefore vulnerable. Our society cannot be locked, therefore we are vulnerable. This is justification for civil disobedience toward those who profile as Arabs or Muslim, with the net thrown as wide as they have thrown it. Fire them, evict them, shun them, curse them, refuse them care or succor, and, as fast as possible, round them up and deport them If North Africa doesn't want them, dump them in the sea and return with the ships. Because of the extraordinary rootedness many of the most monstrous have, this simply means all Arabs and Muslims who can be identified by any means. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx