Creative Camp

The reader is responsible for the contents of the title page.

If you'll scroll down to the stack of asterisks you'll find out why I put them there.

Creative Camp - 18

(M/f, incest.)

by

Feather Touch

Chapt. 18

And we'll get back to them. In the meantime, I hear Chapt. 14 is missing. Did I forget to write it, or just goof up the numbering? It's interesting how mind-sets work. The other day I searched for 14 and couldn't fine it, so I thought the search function was flakey. I mean the spell checker is, so why wouldn't it be?

In the army there is k.p., and once on k.p., the grease trap. At Microsoft, the grease trap is the grammatical and spelling checkers. They are just so odd, idiosyncratic. If I wasn't far gone in fiction, I would have saved a list of the strange suggestions from these writers' helpmates. One I remember is that the spell check file did not have St. Louis, but does have Farrakhan. The thesaurus is also spotty. Mind you, I'm not complaining. I don't have even a paperback dictionary in the house, so all the tools are sensationally helpful, and I've actually come enjoy the little green lines that often turn a perfectly good sentence into a grammatical disaster.

My thought is that you'd better be extremely good at English before you trust the lettuce lines (well, they are green), and I feel a real pang of sorrow for anyone who blindly follows Word's frequently comically-wrong suggestions. As Lynette Jennings, et al, cause divorces by skewing the values of home and hearth, so the grammar checker in Word must cause kids to flunk out of school. In both cases, the victim is lead down the primrose path, and, empty headed, doesn't know any better.

Here's another example, typical of many instances, of the spell checker in action. In the next sentence is the word scenarios.' It's underlined in red. Clicking it, it does not recognize the plural of scenario, and suggest scenario's,' or, `scenario us.' (If I'm wrong on this, it still serves as an example of dozens of interesting variations on helping the poor scrivener that occur every day.) On the other hand, the dialogue box on XP is very pretty; white, gray and light blue. The whole effing package is beautiful. Sometimes I get a late start at writing just because I like running my cursor over all the pretty little boxes, watching then change color, and wondering what they all do. And something I always want to mention is how much I like Microsoft's use of Times New Roman and Ariel. One has been the standard for well over a century, and Ariel makes proofing easier because of its stark clarity. Courier is not a bad third option; otherwise, by the same principle that there is nothing as ugly as an ugly boat, there is nothing as ugly as an ugly font. To me, Apple fonts have always been globby and unattractive, which is ironic these days when about all they're selling is translucent packaging and boutique ergonomics.

Let's see, we just did a big sex chapter. Anyway, I wrote one. I hope I remembered to post it. So, even though we have a number of intriguing scenarios in the offing, I think it's high time we got back in amongst the world's happiest campers, and Charles who is the not-particularly-well-disguised crown prince of a country in not-particularly well-disguised trouble.

The size of future children must be limited through genetically appropriate artificial insemination, along with strict licensing of children, in the first place, or in fifty years we are doomed to the most hideous scenario imaginable. In one of my other works the formulae is eight year olds that are six feet tall in thirty years, then, in sixty years, six year olds that are eight feet tall. I almost have to write to that level to exaggerate the problem, and, as I said once before, Stephan King couldn't capture the horror and misery of two-hundred pound cub scouts, nor those who must house them, feed them and try to love them. See, my mandate is not that you like me, nor that you respect me, nor is it a thing of birth, nor my accomplishments as a writer. I neither like nor respect you, so there. My mandate is simply that there is no possible way you can survive, without me.

It might be good here to review Scott and Amundsen. Scott picked giants of the earth. The keg under each arm type. Amundsen chose wiry, scrappy builds. You do not to need to know history to know who returned from a trip to the South Pole, and who ran out of everything, half way back.

Not only do we need rigorous and arbitrary state control over fertility, we need to be acclimatized, starting very soon, by arbitrary limits on the size of home computers. No more than 150 watts, box and monitor, combined. The technojoke here is that if this were the standard, developers would squeeze more out of the 150 watts, year by year, at exactly the same rate they'll improve software, given unlimited clock-cycles. Where the fertility control must be indiscriminate and absolute, the wattage restriction on personal computers could trigger luxury taxes for units that exceed the approved norm. The point is, we've got to get used to an extreme amount of big-brotherism in our lives, if we are to survive. Computers get us used to the chilly slope, then comes arbitrary size limits on vehicles and homes, finally reaching to excess consumption in much the same way the state did during WW-II. Candy, soda and snack foods should be forbidden by 2009. Gum by 2003. Tobacco. I don't know, what do you think? I love my cigarettes, but I pay $1.15 s pack, where I live. I have enormous difficulty with imagining myself a typical family man with a two or three pack a day habit, then the liberal monsters keep rising the prices. I honestly believe the expense would be such a burden and misery, it would cause me to smoke twice as much. At the same time, I'm quite sure I would not have enjoyed being raised in a home with two heavy smokers. In the end, it may be one of those flip-a-coin issues; either smoke em if you got em, or five years in jail for possession of tobacco in any form.

I should note that I was going to cast this chapter in a series of presentations by various C-Camp boys. I've decided on a more straightforward approach, because the end of this chapter is going to so rattle your cage you'll forget anything that isn't laid out like bricks in a wall. If you want, you can spoil your day by skipping ahead, and here you have an advantage on me. You're the subjects, and you can read that for which you have probably been inadequately prepared, while I, your monarch, cannot, because I haven't yet written it. If you were having doubts about a king who was negligent with numbers of entire long chapters, his inability to do, at all, that which is a quick scroll, for you, might be bookmarked. If you think you're being hoodwinked, you get a Dexedrine high-five for being wide awake.

So back to the king thing, while I've still got your earlobe pinched in my fingers. The country is called Emersonia. It is named for William Emerson. While the pamphleteers were cranking their presses in Boston, Emerson was walking from church to church, preaching all over New England. For ten years before the war. He brought so much gunpowder and ordnance to Concord, the British marched on the town, starting the war. He was just as interested in troops, as he was supplies, and single-handedly organized the Minute Men.

One man, one mission, totally documented and cross referenced Even with his years of ceaseless toil, the Revolution was a close-fought thing. Without them, it would have been over in a week, for there was no other group in the colonies dunderheaded enough to take the babble of the perennial malcontents of roadhouse and tavern out onto the battlefield where musket balls traveled at seven hundred miles an hour.

Interestingly, William Emerson's fate was a harbinger of that which would befall Simon Bolivar. Bolivar became totally disillusioned over his South American constitutions; died crushed under his own liberal, populist heel. This took years. William Emerson found the truth of democracy within months. He was appointed Chaplain of the Revolution by Washington, and supervised moving Harvard to his church in Concord, so the troops could use the Cambridge campus. Then he joined the march to Ticonderoga. He didn't make it half-way. His parishioners started gambling, cussing, drinking, and probably partaking of any camp followers they could get their hands on. That was his stalwart yeoman and parishioners, cut loose of his king. Biff, from the film trilogy. Reverend Emerson got so angry, he literally quit and died. I mean here was a man who walked thousands of miles a year, suddenly dying of dysentery while traveling with a fast moving group? I don't thank it was anything to do with the bowels that killed him, it was just seeing so quickly, and with his own eyes, how utterly wrong he was, from soup to nuts. In any event, die he did, in West Rutland, and Phoebe never even got a pension, because he'd resigned his commission.

So, you democracy hounds, there is the true story of you beginnings. A lot of drunks, and a man. He was wrong, The Civil War proves it, if nothing else, but the experiment was a human imperative; an ideal, so easily obtainable, if shared, but highly susceptible to any lopsided interest or the mechanizations of the insidious subversive. It has succeeded, in an extremely faulty way, only because it was tried on a ground overflowing with everything from pine cones to uranium, mountains of coal and iron, and half an ocean of oil and gas. The system itself is just a route to socialism, ever the faster as it gets the more inclusive. Imagine a ditch digger's vote being the same as mine, and you have the whole cockamamie thing in a nutshell, with the ditch diggers of Sandhogs 88 licking their chops over the thirty-plus dollars an hour they'll soon be paid to do a job they claim to love. Guess who they'll vote for. He's fat, his name is Teddy, and but for the miracle of Chappaquiddick, he'd have brought his heart-throb populism to the very oval office

Since there is no way on god's green earth you're going to get away with this nonsense much longer, I fill my sex stories with politics. The country is Emersonia and the party is The Projects Party. The principal project is importing half a billion immigrants , largely Chinese, few from Eastern Europe and North Africa, to clean up the mess, bury the power lines, reclaim land wasted on scrub forest and growing fruit; so on and so forth, until we've recreated large areas dedicated to various cultures from the past. That is project one, and there is a small number of others.

As to the military, we need. to go back to a plane popularly called the Spad. Not from WW-I, but largely of the Korean and Vietnam eras. I believe its proper name is the Douglas A1A Skyraider. It has a 3,000 horsepower reciprocating engine.

Look what we have now. Those big dumbo carriers. A few thousand dollars worth of scuba gear, electric motors, oil drums, fertilizer and diesel oil, and all you need is a shotgun shell to open one up like a Pepsi. And these planes the media tell you are supersonic? Sure, if you give them half an hour and two hundred miles to get up to speed, and the same to slow back down. If you have tankers stationed along the route. And so on. Essentially, they are weapons of the Tom Cruise variety; lots of holly, little wood. Their resilience in a slugfest would be nil. A Spad based force would use small carriers, and need fewer of them, in the first place, because they can be operated off small fields. In many cases, for example semi-permanent areas of tension in the Persian Gulf, the carriers could be made up of cheap barges and towed into place by atomic powered tugs. In other cases, hulks could be used. Older oil tankers and container ships fitted up with flight decks, very much like the "Essex."

In the end, the mission is to get lots of platforms in the sky. And keep them there. Jets can't do this under the best of circumstances, and, in a real war, all the enemy has to do is disable a tanker, and he kills an entire squadron. Also, jets are worse than useless when it comes to dukeing it out with the troops. Spads aren't useless, they big, tough angels with eight tons discretionary load that they can transport at up to four hundred miles an hour, or loiter with for eight hours.

Some Spads should be flown by enlistees. Milk runs, routine missions. Two reasons. First, common sense. You do not need an O-3 to drop a smart bomb on a bridge, or orbit on a propaganda mission. At all. Second, it would be a tremendous motivational force if the soldier knew that if he did well there is every chance he'd be able to fly for part of his career. The Spad, itself, would become the basic military unit, and the aircraft would be produced in as many as twenty variations for missions from long-range reconnaissance, to dropping six paratroops, per aircraft, from under-wing pods. It would eat armor and wash it down with infantry, and that is what a weapon does; not pass over leaving romantic trails in the wild blue yonder.

Schools. Care options from six a.m. to eight p.m. Two hours of hard ball drill and recitation, per day; otherwise, supervised activities from sports to book clubs to bathing. Twenty percent full time, twenty percent part time, and sixty percent volunteer. Total use of laptop computer by each student for bulk of academic drill and repetition, plus texts, personal files, recreation and so on. Very small schools, often using residential housing. Teachers taking on the roll of coaches, coaching the kids with their computers. Strong emphasis on senior students helping younger ones. There is no better way to learn something than by teaching it.

Mega schools lead to megaocrity and that is not survivable in a complex society.

Syllabus should consist of a national lesson plan, a reading list that begins with The Royal Readers, pre-war English primary school texts which boast the only writing on earth better than mine. Loads of drill. Morse code and semaphore, for example, as well as a high level of drill on keyboard skills. The human memory is similar to the human arm; the more it is exercised, within reason, the stronger it grows.

The schools today have broken down into a long series of rap sessions, usually about ethnicity, issues, experiences, culture, and closure, with sagging amounts of homework. The kids turned out by these union shops are well below mediocre, and stand no chance, at all, of surviving the rigors of a changing and dangerous world. Their Short Attention Span Theater will be played out in an arena even the lowest of Romans would give wide birth. In fact, if it sticks its present course, the best America can hope for is all-out thermonuclear war on the premise at least many would die quickly. You've let Ralph Nader run things and he's an utterly ruinous and absolutely and totally insane camera monster.

See, your garden needs weeding. Newfoundland. That's the place. Under my reign we send Roseanne, Flee Belly, and about 250,000 noisy subversives to a military camp in Maine. We give them a week's cursory training, and parachute them onto Newfoundland with about the same support and supplies, minus the guns, perhaps, that we gave our boys who paratrooped into Normandy. We do not like these people, these spammers and hackers, these schmoes, empire builders and professional manipulators of a hundred ugly stripes. We do not care if the break their legs, or die, any more than we did with the boys we loved on D-Day. The mission is too important. Rosanne launching a cunt grab after screeching the anthem is something that kills us. Jane Fonda. Hundreds. Thousands. At least a thousand executives from Hollywood and the media, Geronimo! Thousands of lawyers. Thousands who have engaged in spurious litigation. The auto fatalities of six or seven years, torn from their homes and hearths, given a week of training in the Maine woods, then off they go, never to return. Since there is no conceivable way you have a future with the Ruth Bader Ginsbergs of the world, you better think as seriously about weeding the garden of them as they are about killing the entire garden, simply because they know how.

The way it's going to play out is this. The p.c, will become an appliance. A standard household item that cost two to three thousand dollars from the mid eighties to the early ohs, will soon cost a few hundred dollars. Specifically, a very powerful, very complete laptop for three hundred dollars. This means all those fabulous people who brought us this great living, breathing miracle will be redundant. Just a few workers in a few plants that spit these machines out around the clock in the endless, endless millions. The number does go to a billion, or more, but at the tiniest profit margins. Ultimately, the whole thing collapses, say 2015, because a used machine is just as good as a new one, and half the time you can find one in a dumpster. By that time, the Net will be set and pat, with broadband reaching the last remote areas.

In the military all this is known as RIF; reduction in forces. Yesterday's colonel is today's corporal. Yesterday's corporal is on civvy street. In the American IT sector the numbers are about seven million jobs, reducing to perhaps half a million to develop new games and perhaps come up with incremental improvements to what very few people seem to realize is perfect, now.

I've been watching pure snake oil the last couple of days. The big gaming show. Internet hookups for your game cubes; nonsense beyond ridiculous. But with one noble exception; Microsoft's new Train Simulator. The girls laughed (TechTV) and I don't think even Louderback really got the point. Imagine driving a heavy freight over the Rockies, or on any challenging piece of track. Even a steam locomotive, where you have a variety of moment-to-moment variables, plus you have to be able to plan miles ahead. Personally, I can think of no greater thrill than approaching the crest of the Grapevine with a full mile of bombs for San Pedro, and then easing that puppy down into Los Angeles. Why I honestly wonder if I'd use the brakes, at all.

Speaking of L.A., as I said I didn't, in the last chapter, two icons come to mind. The first is from Larry McMurtry, who describes a taxi ride in from LAX with "Two stone-silent businessmen." The second is a moron swimmer I saw on my first visit to Santa Monica Pier. The coot was in his seventies, splashing and frothing up a storm in that cold, gray, ugly water, and going absolutely nowhere. Tres L.A. Last year they had a story about a suicide that crashed into a construction zone and made the cops kill him. They closed the 405 for twelve hours until the police investigation was complete. This is what Jews do to you. A fanatic obsession with minutia and nitpicking, hairsplitting detail, combined with a total lack of interest in anything but the cleverness of the argument. That every shell casing was photographed from eight angles after the cops killed the guy would be roughly tantamount to six or eight commandments, while the dozens that died as a result of the horrendous traffic snarl would just rate a finger; what do they do, whip it sort of against their noses? You're in ripping, horrible danger, guys; blind as bats in your insatiable lust for a bunch of crap that means nothing, even if you can afford it. Remember, I grew up with all of it, and I know from a life of experience that the only good thing you will ever get from a Jew is an Oscar Myer or Hebrew National frank. That they do well, as long as there's a rabbi keeping a close watch on every move in the kitchen, and the USDA keeping a close eye on the rabbi..

Crime. This is shooting fish in a barrel. In Europe they're beta testing this kind of a machine. It is a polygraph on steroids, so to speak. It was first developed to see if Alzheimer's disease could be predicted from algorithms of facial point mapping, posture point mapping, and voice input. Ultra sensitive sensors are used by the machine, and the readouts are compared against a large data base. Not only was the machine perfectly accurate in detecting any degree of incipient Alzheimers, it provided a virtual character readout. It can, for example, use a few seconds of video of people meeting in an airport, and accurately characterize the people involved, and the event, itself.

After all, we can all do this, to some degree. Long parted friends will have an obviously different demeanor than a couple getting together to discuss routine business, and so on. This machine just does it to, very literally, a super-human degree. It not only cannot be deceived, it will clearly segregate any such attempt as exactly what it is. The input media can be anything from flip-cards to the latest in video. It works as well with voice as it does off body-English data, and can use the two, together. And not only is the machine perfect, it can be used by anyone. Does it cost millions? No, it's a software package.

As mentioned, these machines were in beta testing a year or so ago. This story was featured on DWTV out of Berlin, which is no longer on my system. My readers are terrific at providing input, and I'd especially like an update on this concept..

In out game playing posturing society it is unlikely a machine will be accepted that will put hundreds of thousands of defense lawyers out of work. In Emersonia we face the problem by sending the clever lawyers to Newfoundland, in hopes one day the vastness of their wisdom and stalwartness of their character can come back around to us in a way that makes us very proud. In the meantime we use the machines, aggressively, to separate those whose hearts are truly elsewhere, rendering them menials or deporting them. Weeding the garden.

If you don't like it, you don't have a choice. Your kids are getting more gigantic by the freaking hour, and the first rounds of layoffs in Silicone Valley have not well and truly begun.

I really think the stupidest place is Plano. Miles and miles of complicated streets, lanes, cul de sacs and alleys, so beautiful in the agent's diorama. But how do you get a pizza delivered? Give a friend directions. Get to the store? And at the mall you park six hundred feet from your store, average.

This why I hit you so hard. Because you are so dumb. You pay a fortune to live in the most sub-human environment ever devised on this planet. And the richer you are, the bigger you slice of Plano, which means less and less kids within a five minute walk of your front door. Maybe none. No one other than rural agrarian laborers have ever lived like that.

Drop a jar of mayonnaise in Plano. Company coming, if they can find you, so you must have more. Let's say six miles and thirty turns to the main road leading to the mall. Most of the time, there will be very heavy traffic on the road, and it will take ten or fifteen minutes to get the last mile and park. Then walk six hundred feet, and six hundred feet back to the car. Repeat the ten to twenty minutes to make the first mile home, and the twenty or thirty turns to find your little corner of heaven. Hope you didn't forget the limes. In fact, the only thing good about living in Plano I can think of is that it's very unlikely the paramedics would find you in time, so you might not have to go on living there, or Atlanta or a long and really deep-shit stupid list of massed warrens of cutesy, lifestyle empowering layouts be slathered, schmoe to dumb-dumb, all over the country.

Oddly, I half grew up in precisely such an environment, but the thing was, we were rich. Spent summers at colossal palaces on the Cape; had boats, extra cars, and more stuff than most. Still, it was miserable. Just a few kids to hang out with, none of the read; I ended up envying the farm kids for their animals and hunting, and the city kids for their ball games, libraries, and big social pool.

In all, it's a lifestyle that would confuse the hell out of any alien, just as it does your king. You're nuts. You should be removing all but essential freeways, using computer enhanced surface streets, and resettling commercial wastelands. Shopping and normal human facilities should be mandated at reasonable distances in residential areas, as well as supervised hangouts for kids. Failing to do as instructed will result is severe punishment befalling you, and your descendents, absolutely guaranteed by your alpha dude.

Uh, oh, coconut attack. On official attack is at least eight kids after four coconuts. Bloodless but noisy. I live on a Caribbean street in a Caribbean town and suffer grievous losses with all the dignity I can muster. But don't cry for me, you've got Shrek. Sound like a nice Jewish boy. Be happy.

I'm beginning to see why I write about sex. you're so boring it's artistically impossible to get interested in you or do anything more than preach the pedantic two-step. You don't read, therefore you are nothing but beasts, capable of eating well enough the rich green alfalfa of the elysian pasture, but stone cold useless when it comes to anything else. You allowed Rickover to bully you into building a hundred nuclear subs for ring-knocking jagoffs that need, themselves, to bully others. You're still letting them put spam in the can even in the face of voluminous evidence that the zero gravity environment is about as safe as standing between Jesse Jackson and the camera with the little red light.

Me? Well, the kids have gone with their coconuts and the Punta Rebels are back from New York and practicing next door. It seems pretty stupid to have free raggae on top of everything else, but I'm one of those assholes who actually is as smart as he thinks he is, so I've had it for seven years. But no coconuts. Did I mention that a popular local herb costs $17.50 an ounce, the same as a month of cable, or that my little house rents for $75.00 a month? I even brag about not having been shopping for five years, because I have not been shopping for five years.

Shrek. Very ugly monster; green with trumpet ears. A loud-mouthed ass.

Could I do better? How about "grow Pedro." A little island kid. You control his life. He can go off with a washed up mercenary on a mission to shoot a drug lord in the buttocks with a gold bullet, he can go to school, or he can go to the waterfront. You can guide him into the life of a syphilitic boy toy, or he can end up the governor of his island. At least some school time is mandatory to proceed in the game. The academic sequences are not filled with dancing turtles and squirrels that prattle the same three pages of nonsense, ad nauseum. It is rather a fast moving, hard hitting series of drills, aligned to various academic levels, and thrown at the player as fast as the strike of a snake. Doing well in the classroom opens increasingly mature and sophisticated game play; indeed, representing all the choices open to a modern day kid, wherever he lives. The game includes a flight simulator. Not sixty different planes, one plane. A J-3 Cub with sixty horses thundering under the cowling. The only fun in flying is shoehorning a small plane onto a short strip in bad condition. (And yes, I'm sure it's fun to land a wide-body.)

Excuse me for being smug. I'm watching a Corona ad about changing my latitude. I'd have to go a number of degrees north for a Corona. That's how I like it.

Where were we? On short final for a muddy jungle strip. How much air did we let out of the tires before we left? We'll soon be finding out if it was enough. I give every flight sim I've tried a flat F. They're jittery nonsense, hardly above shovel wear. Mine will be one plane, numerous short fields, muddy fields and hidden field variations, and plenty of killer scenery. The sniper sequence in "grow Pedro" depends on making one perfect shot at a thousand yards, and whether Pedro prospers or not depends on how he mixes work, school and adventure in the fishing village where he lives. The game is geared to any school-age audience, and the academic interleaf can be changed at will (for example, a workup for the CPA exam). Whatever the scholastic discipline, increased performance brings on higher levels of game play, and the play, in turn, keeps you at the books by providing periodic relief from them. It has schoolin', so the peeps will love it, and it has sex, so the pervs will love it. It will be the number one seller for twenty-five years, and will severely damage the moron factories letting the techies play at writing, which makes exactly as much sense as letting me tinker with your bios.

As I've mentioned before, David publishes my stories as he gets them. They are building up. The fan mail is rock solid, and should I mis-number the chapters, I hear about it. The readership is high, and though I'm not even half way through my rookie year; getting higher. Sooner or later its going to click that the average movie is a big flubbing dub, and this guy writes different. Duh'uh, maybe he'd sell. By happy coincidence I have a completed screenplay titled "An All-New Jaws." It has a plot with twists and turns. It has full-fledged characters, some of whom do not like each other. It doesn't even need a shark, but it has one, just as these stories have sex. I also have a completed novel, "The Pirates of Rickety Pier." More. It's kind of what I do. "grow Pedro" is probably the biggest deal, simply because it doesn't have a lot of stuff about me being king and you being a colossally greedy, short-sighted and self-destructive real pain in the ass subjects. Who needs that? After all, I subtitle my eleven hundred page novel. "The Only Manifesto You Will Ever Need." It has about four hundred pages on Emersonia, little which I would change though it's been fifteen years since I wrote it. Again, big plot, big character, and a big sprawling epic of what America could be. Add the inventions and the reward for Gee and it would almost seem to add up to enough potential to interest someone. Then again, if the think box weren't made of such brittle material I would be writing sweet stories about my cats, or playing "Deer Hunter II."

Hey, Spielberg's got a picture coming out with little boys touching each other around a swimming pool. It's a bot, but twinkie touching twinkie is a start. I'll fatten up my goose so she'll grow more quills. I want to be ready for the epiphany. Meantime, I'll hang out on Nifty where at the moment I'm getting ready to write the greatest sex scene of all time. You guys that skipped ahead already know that, but, as I've already stated, I'm in the dark. Was it good for you? Just remember not to get carried away. The writer is from the detested one percent of the richest, and you know how we skulk in the night and steal the milk from baby's bottle. What you should be blaming us for is allowing a system that keeps you bent in toil over your lathe or keyboard, paying for your lotto and your credit cards, until you're eighty years old. In short, what you are doing so well is allowing us one per-centers full access to every muscle of your body for every day of you life because you're behaving like a bunch of lost-valley peasants. That's how I think of you. Let the pols hack on and on about the Amawegwan Pweeble, to me you're a bunch of slack-jawed morons and village idiots. You need a monarch precisely as a family needs a father. Other options may play in the media, but the long-term results are a coming disaster. To a very large number of you, this is a firm grasp of the obvious. Oughtta do something about it, lessen it kills ya.

What did we do with crime? We got a machine that separates the bad people and the good people. Well, what do we do with the bad people?

Remember the Spad.? The miracle weapon? We need a hundred thousand of them, so the prisoners will build them. Merida has a prison. That's in Mexico. This is how they do it at Merida prison. The first time a con causes trouble, they beat him, and the second time, they beat him to death. Works for me. Prisoners make about three dollars an hour building the planes. If they live up to the mark, they get to spend time at the house o' sin, which, since it's set up to my specs, is a place of varied pleasures and great happiness. The basic means of getting out of prison, besides having no trace of violence in how you are assessed by everyone, is gaining ten grand in your savings account. See, when you get out you've got a wad of dough, to be spent only under the supervision of your parole officer, and you can build planes in your sleep. I do worry about prison break ins, but we need a lot of those planes, so we'll see.

For juvenile offenders I believe not only in public whipping, but that the offender should be strapped naked, frontal view, in front of his or her peers, and laid into with a bamboo cane, precisely as it's done in Singapore. Graffiti, hooliganism, bullying, hacking, vandalism. Not the spank, spank, spank of Ed Bangor, but a blistering crack that bounces a shattering scream off the rafters, repeated three to five times depending whether you're the ring leader, or a following moron. In the English navy, they whipped you around the fleet; five lashes on this vessel, five more, on the next, and so on. Might be worth keeping in mind. My ancestor traded pulpits to get the Revolution under way in a manner to his liking; maybe trading gyms for public flogging would be a good idea. Frank Sinatra said it the best: "Start spreading the news."

I think my cats like to get yelled at. Maybe you do, too. Maybe you've been misbehaving for so long because, subconsciously, you need a beating; you want it. Masochism seems strange, but there are stories about it, so I guess it exists. I don't understand it, but then, I don't have to. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that those who are crucified actually welcome the last nails; smile at the hammer man. Is that your game? Are you so stretched, psychologically, that you crave the endomorphiates, or whatever hormones extreme trauma release? Well, you've certainly come to the right place. I'd had years of experience by age six, so I fairly strut with confidence in my ability to dish it out. You have to remember that the American background is made up largely of deported criminals, ne'er-do-wells and remittance men. This our obsession with defendants, rights and privacy. Thus an extremely abstract and theoretical point of law, that it is better to release a hundred guilty men than convict an innocent one, has become a working reality. How else could it be with legislatures crammed with attorneys and the Trial Lawyers on the same influence list as the NEA and the AARP.

We don't really need another silver bullet against crime, but there is one. Detention. From eight to ten-thirty p.m., seven night a week, 365 days a year. There you sit, no reading, no talking, no nothing but sitting watching the clock and reviewing your mode of living so you never repeat the experience. Detention is served up in hundred-hour blocks; shoplifting, dui, repeat traffic offenses, domestic disturbance, and a long list of nuisance crimes and infractions (for example, not returning your library books on time.).

It's the Web, see. Now you can put fifty or a hundred people in any reasonable place, normally the bleachers at a local school, and monitor them from anywhere. Plus on-site cameras. Ain't it neat? And just about free. Whipping for the kids, detention for adults. A world of deterrence at a fraction of a cent per goody two-shoes.

I mentioned the house o' sin as a fixture in prisons. Also, in the military. In my army, reveille is sounded at 8:30 a.m., because I am smart enough to know, having spent many years as a young person, that young people need lots of sleep. After reveille, a blistering half hour of p.t. No more than two hours of training on useful, salient, subjects per day. The rest of the time is spent at sports or intellectual or cultural activities, more or less as one chooses. Twice a year there is a tune-up week; all that good old Julius Caesar crap of noise and commotion, which always reminded me of a burning hen house. Add the strong possibility of being able to fly a three thousand horsepower airplane, and I think we can reduce the recruitment budget to a dollar a year. In all seriousness, the Emersonian military would turn away many young men simply because their skills and abilities would be better applied in other fields. At the same time, we'd take a few of the best of the very best.

The house o' sin is where all good soldiers go for about fifteen hours a week. Coke, pot, girls, boys, music, chess, arcades, sleeping cubicles and so on, all to be consumed on premises, only. You're a soldier, your king loves you, and, if your corpse he must have, you'll oblige him by living so happily you'll still be grinning when you're dead. Gays would not only be accepted, but encouraged. Man/boy couples would be widely accepted, with boys as young as ten. Give me my hundred thousand Spads and a 250,000-man core cadre and we'll sit back as total king of the total mountain, able to rule the world with a feather touch that tickles a million for every time the talons come out to slice and dice.

The sex safety centers? I think I covered them in another story. Anyway, it's a two pronged approach. The sex safety centers are brothels where men can have limited contact with boys and girls as young as eight. There is a vector for permitting semi-permanent relationships. The other prong is the sex safety channel on television. Twenty minutes of each half hour are devoted to explicit kiddy porn. The remaining ten minutes are used to discuss pederasty, which involves twenty percent of girls and fifteen percent of boys, in general. Good stories, bad stories; tapes sent by viewers. Stories sent by viewers, all with a strong orientation toward an escape route for anyone caught up in an uncomfortable situation.

Who owns TechTV? Paul Allen, but after him, who? What's with this ugly Shrek thing, anyway? They're promoting it like the second freaking coming. It has the same glossy/smarmy look as Tron, Ishtar and Yentl. Do Jews really not see the ugliness? That ugliness is actually offensive? If one considers Fran Dresser the whole world of Jews and beauty comes into focus, and Babs goes a long way toward establishing this as a lingering condition. Clever as these spawn of whoever are, they've come up with an icon so fulsome, no camera is needed. You can hear it down the block, through a blizzard. If Fran Dresser's laugh is ugly, well, I can play ugly, too. I call Jews schlong schleppers. Think Buddy Hackett. That's pretty ugly

No Jews at Creative Camp. For all its ugliness, sometimes plain old bigotry fit perfectly. Sweet, bright, friendly Anglos and boys of a dozen races and cultures. No Fleishmans befouling Cicely, even though I'm a bit soft on the guy and respect is dedication to his patients. But it takes a gentle touch on the keyboard, indeed, to render a Brooklyn Jew as a human among us, and even Maggie draws off and nails him, twice, if I recall, for his pure Jewish disagreeableness. I would use a firmer touch on "Northern Exposure," and remind the viewer, from time to time, of how they are fighting over each square foot in Israel, then point out that Jerusalem has the largest cemetery in the world. Such intellectual brittleness has no more place in the modern world than cast iron does on the space station. But reverence of the dead is in the lines that make up their indoctrination, and that's that. Not for long, schlong, not for long. You can play the Anne Frank comedy from now to doomsday, but you can't hide behind it, because, to someone like me, WW-II was entirely worth it if it kept a single Andrea Martin out of Hollywood, and Ms. Frank certainly had a passion to do something with all that face and mouth.

Speaking of schlongs, let's get back to our bright and sunny, sexy world, and leave our Jewish friends to stew in the rich gravy of their infinitely deserved misery.

Now Alcatel is going to buy Lucent. I knew this from the first. >From those first whackily stupid ads, you remember, a whole series of giant monitor screens with an obnoxiously clicking keyboard and a cloying, preciously understated narrative about how Lucent is Bell Labs who just happened to invent the transistor. My great grand uncle ran Ma Bell for decades; built the labs, then staffed them. It's a perfect example of sleazeballs somehow getting into the system, and now those tacky ads of ten or twelve years ago are the tomb of exactly what happens when trendyboys and techies get their fingers on things.

MIT says they're bright, and they come away with the ludicrous notion that they're intelligent. They are unread, ignorant and very often too stupid to run their won affairs well, much less anyone else's. I have dozens of them in my family. Nine of my first cousins went to Harvard, several to the medical school. They are not even vaguely intelligent. They couldn't sit down and write a single page of anything. One cousins got dual 800s on her boards, and she thinks the whole problem with the American economy is overpaid executives. She, and a tiny band of her ivy league cohorts, bent both nuclear and coal energy policies all out of kilter. They hired very noisy lawyers with amazing rubber faces, and there is no guarantee, as we eek it day by day, that their influence was not mortal. Rest in peace, tonight, knowing she is just as stacked with misery and human unhappiness as I asses it is possible for a person to be. She once sent me an envelope inside a letter. She had used her computer skills to fake a postal cancellation that read "I am not a crook," with a stamp of President Nixon. I laughed heartily, but I'm afraid it was at my memory of her bleeding fingernails as she chewed and chewed, not her droll political commentary. I was going to write her back and tell her that crooks were not in the habit of festooning their offices with microphones, but she's the one with the dual 800s, and printer ink is costly.

I am a happy person. Yesterday I had coconuts stolen. Right from under my nose (since my house is on stilts). I only have two mature palms on my land, the rest are for the neighbors. I can ill afford the loss of a single nut, yet I allowed four to be stolen without comment. Yes, I'm not only happy, but I'm old, and I've been happy for years and years and years. If you get mad and stick me full of holes, you can't take away ten seconds of living on the vast canvas that is our modern world.

I know I deserve a lot of credit for Chapter Seventeen, but I'm good about not overbeating my own horse. Yet, it was a good gallop. We've been hacking the brush, trying to clear out a little deadwood, but it might be time to finger the reins and point Dobbin's head toward an open meadow we've carefully checked for animal burrows. First, you ease the reins, then you squeeze you calves against the flanks of the beast. You inch your feet back from the stirrups, so you're just holding them from flopping with your toes. Your heels go way down, to lower your center of gravity a trifle, and increase the gripping power of your lower legs. After that, it depends on the horse. Some you can talk to a full gallop in seconds; others, well, put it this way, a king should know how to handle a horse, and I know how to handle a horse.

In fact, since I bothered mounting in the first place, I'm pointing the horse's nose toward an oak tree, standing up from a valley. But before we make this little trip, I've got a bone to pick with you Xers, and I'm going to pick it at my own plodding pace. The story concerns a game called "Counter Strike." First let me say that we pay by the hour for access here. So, I heard reference to "Counter Strike" and decided to try a demo. I perused the title page to see if my system would run it, looked at the other information, and finally started the 90 meg download; something like ten hours. I spent several hours trying to get it to run, taking time from my readers, and, finally, went back to revisit the web site. I'd glanced at the FAQs before starting the download, they'd seemed highly technical so I'd knocked off after a few pages. This time, I scrolled page after page after page to the very, tip-top bottom, where I found this questions: "Will you ever release a single-player version of "Counter Strike." Answer: When hell freezes over.

For all your technical adroitness, you are a very poor, very unaware, and very ignorant generation; spawn of hippies. Your dicking around with us will prove spectacularly counter-productive. We're old. We've seen, it done it, and most of all, lived it, every hour of the way. We don't give a shit. You trick us and play high-and-mighty, we'll abandon you, and that, children, is all it will take. We turn our back for an hour, you'll be lost for a month. We had a vastly more interesting younger life than you did, you're second rate and subservient. You music is so monotonous, you alleviate that great sphere of nothing inside you with tattoos and tongue piercing. And will until you're in your freaking seventies. We grew up with "The Monster Mash" and Chubby Checkers; simply could not find it within us to be so sad.

This is getting better. Even Dobbins senses something is up under the tree and he comes to rest on auto-pilot.

Brad is half yielding, then resisting John with urgent pleas. The scene is confusing. The bike is now cool and silent; the sheet-blanket is rumpled, but that's natural.

:"I'm just a little confused, is all," Brad whispered as they lay together, reduced for the moment to kissing.

"We haven't eaten a hog since before lunch, we could go hunting and I could drop you home," John said.

"You're not going anywhere and neither am I," Brad said firmly. "It's not the psychological aspects I'm confused about; they're an iron bar. It's sort of a sequence. What I should tell you and what we should do, and in what order. It would almost seem technical, but I want to do everything, all at once, so it's like more personal."

"Maybe they make a PDA for sex," John whispered. The boy giggled and whispered back that he might actually need one. "But," he said more seriously, "it's funny how close you came."

"To what?" John asked.

"To my invention," Brad said. "That's the problem. I've got the invention in the backpack, and I want to tell you some stuff to make it more exciting, but, if it gets two exciting, the chance for a proper field trial is lost."

"I guess just go in sequence," John suggested, "and hope for the best."

"Well," the boy began, "Rusty and I spent a lot of time together the summer I was six. Then I went back to school and forgot all about it. Fickle hearted, I guess, or maybe it's just that youth is wasted on the young. Anyhow, when I got near eight year old Uncle Brad started writing more than usual and we began planning a birthday extravaganza in Florida. I called Rusty, and he gave me some refresher pointers on the initiation and desensitization process; suggested I spend a lot of time with him on the water slide and wear a baggy bathing suit. He rated our possibilities as ten-curled-toes, i.e, two thumbs up. I promised him we'd meet when I got back.

"Well, all the excitement did something to the clock and the calendar, but they didn't quite stop. Eventually, at the dawn of the end of time, he was there. Neither of us could talk, and mom thought that was cute as hell. Once in awhile she'd give me a big, goofy wink and hug me and tell me everything was going to be fine. Luckily, that part only lasted a day. Then we got on the plane and we were by ourselves. It was almost funny, because we were trying to feel each other out at the same time. Uncle Brad said he knew of a hotel in Orlando that specialized in mature boys and their older friends, and I started to tell him about Rusty. He let me go first.

"The pool was closed for three days for a new pumping system. When it reopened, Rusty and I could hardly keep our hands off each other. Polly White kept wanting to play with us. She whispered something to Rusty, and he told me to be cool and let her play along with us, which I was very happy to do. When the other kids left, Rusty made a phone call, and she stayed to help with the towels. "Many hands make light work," I think she put it, and I thought I heard Rusty groan, apparently just at the thought.

"Anyway, Polly was kind of a strong chested pixie with brown moppet hair. She looked like the little sister in the mac and cheese ads, the one with the invisible friend. She was very strong and lively for a girl. She was so obvious in playing with Rusty and me, all the kids noticed and Rusty spoke to them and told them that the next day everyone could stay late, and to think about any questions they might want to ask or experiences they might want to share. They giggled themselves out of the place, and, as always, we worked on diving sprints for half an hour. Rusty joined us, and when the time was up, this time it was him that stepped out on the diving board, naked.

"The moppet's jaw dropped. He's beautiful,' she said to me, and he's is big as Billy. He's my brother. He's nineteen and I live with him on the weekends.'

"She was an honest little thing," Brad went on, "no coyness or subterfuge with Polly. As soon as she saw his boner she told me to take her bra off, and stand behind her so Rusty could watch me do it. I started to fumble with the catch, and by the time I got it loose, Rusty was with us, standing a foot from Polly with his penis almost against her tummy. Do it slow,' she whispered as I started pulling the straps apart. I did it slowly, and when her chest was bare, Rusty pulled me from behind her so I could look at her. Billy likes to look at me, too,' she whispered.

"Do you like to look at him?" Rusty asked.

"Yes," the girl smiled. "And touch him, too."

"Do you want to touch Rusty," Brad asked

"Both of you. Do you both want to touch me?"

"Yes", the males replied in soft unison.

"I'm not old enough to fall in love, is that okay?" Polly asked.

"Maybe we could be businesslike and incorporate," Rusty responded, bringing giggles from both the children.

"No bored meetings," Brad added.

"Lots of maternity leave," Rusty whispered, making the little girl blush just a bit, before she shot back with "Lots of nepotism." Brad didn't flinch at this, but then again, he'd held forth on Bess Truman as a good reason for few men to like fewer women, so he was more up to speed than the average little boy. Rusty was reminded that a Chinese youngster his age could read, write, speak and understand Mandarin or Cantonese, or both, plus do arithmetic in them. Age was nothing if not mercurial and there was surprisingly little difference between six and sixty, assuming an enriched childhood. There was one sure aspect to the subject, and that was that there were no arbitrary limits on dorky sixty year olds, nor sensible six year olds, and while the former were an utter nuisance, the latter were life's treasure of all treasures. With a chuckle to himself, Rusty completed the thought. Imagine leaving a six-year-old girlfriend for a younger woman. Ten years of bliss before she could even drive.

"Do you boys want to take my panties off?" Polly asked.

"Do you ask Billy that," Brad whispered

"So far I haven't had to," Polly giggled.

They cold see why. She was no toddler; a long legged female, with a soft white tummy and a beautiful chest that was impossible to imagine sprouting the rosebuds she'd be sprouting when she turned nine or ten. As a teen she might develop like the movie Jan Brady, her breasts beautifully of her chest more than actually pointing or hanging. Rusty let his thoughts wander to the pool scene in the sequel; a brunette Jan faking her page, and wondered why he bothered. Six was a beautiful age for a girl, he'd make due.

Rusty abandon the children as he went about his duties. Brad and Polly found a nest in a corner of the laundry room and gazed at the powerful nineteen year old as he worked quickly through his routine, his big penis jutting from him in a display that was both totally natural and awesome.

"Do you want to get me naked, or wait for him?" Polly whispered as soon as they were settled in their next of clean towels.

"Let's wait," the boy whispered.

"Okay," she whispered back. "He looks so much like Billy, you know, with that Rick Schroeder body, I feel right at home. Like Saturday night. We always do the laundry then. Deja, and what a view."

"Isn't anyone allowed to love you," Brad whispered.

"That's for the cinema. Makes the shop girls cry. Opium for the masses. Love is having a dozen or so friends you do lots of things with, all your life. Love screws that up. If I was in love with Billy, I wouldn't be here with you, but I love Rusty so much I want to call him Billy. It's meant to be confusing, and it is. That way, we grow up level headed and don't go around bad picking because we wonder what his penis will feel like inside us or whether he can make us climax three times in a row. We don't care, because our brothers or fathers can give us that, if we need it. It's sophisticated, but it beats the hell out of the years of totally unnatural frustration most kids have to go through; years that can easily lead to flameout or suicide, based on unrequited love, pure and fucking simple.

"Plus," Polly added, "who knows what I'll look like when I get older? This may be the only chance I'll ever have to really be soft and intimate with boys. And as if that wasn't enough motivation, how about weight? The only way I'm going to get fat with Billy and I living together is the bun in the oven kind of fat, and we get excited just thinking about that."

"How long are you going to wait?" Brad asked.

"We just want it to happen naturally. I have an okay body for whelping, so there should be no big deal even if it happens when I'm ten or eleven."

"But you wouldn't want to be a mom at that age?" Brad queried.

"Not if I had to do it all myself, but mom loves the junk and even though I used my Barbies to conduct experiments with paint strippers and oven cleaners, that doesn't mean I'd be totally helpless. Besides, I've got a strapping big hunk of a beautiful brother who is not exactly a flake. He's got a nice place down the block and he's not even twenty."

"What does he do?" Brad asked.

"Cobbler," she answered. "Fixes shoes and he's learning how to make them."

"That must be refreshing," Brad commented.

"Good for you," the girl answered. "I could share my charms with three future media personalities and four budding marine biologists in my row, alone, and there are six more rows. Come to think of it, there are two bond traders in the second row, four and five seats to my left, but everyone says they're gay."

"Dreary," was all Brad could say. He couldn't think of anything he wanted to do, but was glad for a first-grade heads-up on knowing what he did not want to grow up to be. All things considered, maybe fireman was still the best option. Anything but a lawyer.

Rusty joined them, having completed his chores. He stood three feet away from the cuddling children, looking down at their tender young bodies as his big man's penis swelled and throbbed with the hormonal excitement of a young male about to spend an hour or more molesting two willing kids. For long moments they held their tableau, fascinated by each other and by the complete lack of strictures governing what they did together. After these moments, Rusty nodded slowly to Brad and Polly whispered Yes, now.

Brad rose to his feet, extending a hand and helping Polly to hers. He presented her to Rusty, who stood stock still as she slowly approached.

"Be a good horsy for Little Miss Godiva," she whispered.

Literate boy that he was, Brad was able to interpret the girl's request as indicative of her desire to be naked with her two males.

"Let's ride in the office," Rusty interjected in a whisper, "it'll be more comfortable."

Polly, who was settling back to her towel nest, regained her feet with Rusty's help. He held her hand and grabbed Brad's as they walked from the housekeeping area down a long hall to the small, dark room largely given over to a luxurious black leather sofa that stood on thick wool carpeting. As he lit candles and turned out the lights, Rusty explained the unexpected furnishing as a bequest from a member. These tasks accomplished, he took hold of his children's hands and pivoted them so they were all standing about four feet from a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

In the candlelight their bodies glowed a soft gold. With an inward grunt, Rusty suddenly remembered he'd been celibate for over three days while the facility had been closed to the public. And the female child wanted him to be a horsy while she rode him naked, as the boy watched.. Even without the tactile possibilities of molesting two children, Rusty was having every difficulty restraining his mad, hot semen. The boy in his cargo-style swimsuit, and the little female in her red bikini panties came hardly higher than his waist; weighed, together, a little over a hundred pounds. Polly's big brown eyes looked directly into his, as did those of little bare-chested Brad. Both children cuddled tightly to him, occasionally shifting their gaze in unspoken synchronization from Rusty eyes, to the reflection of the big boner jutting from under his belly, to his hot penis probing between them.

"Is her ladyship ready?" Rusty eventually whispered.

"Yes," both children chirped, with a giggle for punctuation.

"Then," suggested Rusty, "I think the young master of the hunt should ready the mistress of the house for her ride through the village."

"Goody!" exclaimed Brad. "I always wanted to be Heathcliff. "

As Brad reached for the little girl's hand, she grabbed Rusty's shoulder and shinnied up his flank, her young leg gentle against his swollen penis. Reaching his left ear she whispered, "My stallion's name is Billy." Then she dropped back to the carpet and let her little boyfriend lead her to the leather couch, where they sat like two kids waiting in a dentist's office. Neat, tidy and nervous. But it was only a game, after all, so the little girl brightened in a few moments. "Would my Billy like to nibble on something?" she asked. "How about a yummy red apple?"

Lying back on the black leather, Polly thrust her hips in the air making it obvious that her idea of a treat for her horsy was her bright red panties. Rusty dropped slowly to his hands and knees and approached within inches of the proffered morsel.

"Master of the Hunt, do your duty," the girl whispered to Brad, "before the villagers become restless."

Brad played along. As Rusty, the horse, stared from inches a way, the boy slowly pulled down her red panties. "Let him help," Polly whispered to Brad, "it's good to treat them like people, sometimes.

"Come, Billy, good fellow. Help the handsome boy get me ready for your back." The girl seemed to know what she wanted, so Rusty leaned the last inches to her waist and used his teeth to help draw down the lacy wisp of red fabric. One thing was for sure and that was that the child would grow up to be a lady. She lay, arched and still, while her males examined her. She spread her legs for their lust and shared the hot hormones that pumped through them through their ragged breaths and shaking bodies.

Polly had played with the real Billy, her brother, enough to feel comfortable and frisky when he was preparing to mount her in his special way. She'd planned to ride her horsy around, naked as her namesake, ending, after a time, with his forearms, hooves, whatever, up on the couch. At that point she was going to lean way forward and chastise her mount for not pacing along, like a good stallion should. Having delivered herself of her gentle reprimand, her plan was to enlist Brad's help in making a careful inspection of her steed to see if he could determine what his problem was. As a certain point she intended dismounting, herself, and joining her little boyfriend in tending her animal.

Rusty, naked, over her and so close, drove the game from her mind. She was no longer a kiddo about to play a sexy game with her beloved teen brother; a game that would end with the gush of his hot boy seed all over her front and her face. This male was different. He smelled different. He radiated an energy that drove her legs wide apart and humped her to him.

Polly had started with her brother six months earlier, in the bathtub. He'd washed her hair, kneeling on a bathmat. His molestation had started with a gentle fondling of her neck and shoulders. She'd understood in an instant what he was doing; both instinctively and in relationship to the child safety course in school. As his Billy's fingers had toyed down her throat and onto her chest they approached the area covered by a girl's bikini. Inside that was bad touching. Pausing to give her a chance to temporize, he had ultimately continued tracing down from her throat and then from side to side on her naked chest. As his right hand moved over her it brushed bubbles away, and she used her little hands to help keep the billowing clouds at bay, so he could see her..

In a few minutes he was openly fondling and pinching her nipples and she was rising to his gentle touch. He'd retrieved a towel with one hand, and looked to the side while she stepped from the tub and into its soft folds. Once wrapped in it, he'd taken little Polly by the hand and led her silently to her bedroom at the end of the hall. He'd finished drying her in front of the mirror, than had her hold the towel to herself while he stood behind her and stripped. Billy has whispered to her that he got very big when he was excited and did she want to see. She'd nodded her head and he'd stepped from behind her. For a long minute they'd stood facing each other and holding hands, looking down. Then he'd pulled the towel off her shoulders and dropped it to the floor. She'd let him slowly to her bed and pulled him down beside her, promising she wouldn't tell anybody. He'd cuddled, molested and loved her for two hours, spilling his hot young sperm on her legs and thighs and all over her bare chest, as well. She'd learned how to help with her little hands so they'd been able to go all the way with each other several times before they had to dress and pick up their routine.

That Billy had been tender, gentle, mild and slow. She'd felt affection to the depth of love, but her real love was just having him near, having him as her friend and wonderful, patient teacher.

This Billy was different. This one called Rusty. She could see it in his eyes. He was going to fuck her. Instead of her mounting him in play he was going to mount her as a stag would a fawn. Brad was obviously going to help, and so was she. Her whole body. Her body had become wet when her brother had gently masturbated her as she lay on her bed with her legs spread wide apart. She'd become hot and slippery to his touch and his fondling of her had sent pistol volleys from her widely spread knees to her belly, and higher. Now she was soaking. Totally female wet. Brad discovered with his fingers; touching first in awe, then curiosity, then, as Rusty looped his right arm around his slim waste and slid his hand down to cup it over the boy's penis the child simultaneously caught the scent of his girlfriend and was driven by his basest instincts to masturbate her firmly and steadily.

Rusty was mounted over the little female with his arms against the back of the leather sofa. As Polly looked up she could see the powerful teen male chest inches from her, and looking down she could see what both the males were doing to her. His right hand wet from her, Brad was now using it on Rusty's erection. He was coating the stallion with her, and, guiding him to her.

The first touch brought a shriek from the child: "Billy!" Then she gasped, "Oh, Rusty! It's you. I'm sorry."

The teen just said, "Oh, babe," as Brad brought them together. The sensation of the little boy's hard penis against his right thigh as the boy knelt against him was almost as delicious as the sweet female underneath his powerful body, and the feeling of Brad's hand as he simultaneously guided the mature male's penis and masturbated it, was almost the heaven of the wet young virgin he was so close to freshening.

Rust had never tried to enter one of his young female swimmers. With one especially mature girl, he'd allowed a boy to do something like Brad was doing to him now, but the boy had masturbated him to climax, and, while he'd ejaculated all his semen into Penny, the chubby little blond, he had not thrust even an inch of his big teen boner into her tight young virgin body. All of those girls had been outright virgins or had just begun the tangential activities that would eventually lead to open incest or other illegal connexion. But Polly was different. Openly living with a nineteen year old male. Spending every weekend night in his bed and always awakening sticky with the semen he'd repeatedly sprayed off between her young legs.

Brad, while enthralled with the powerful male body so hot and alive under his encircling left arm, was, at the same time, fearful for his little pool mate. He pushed gently up on the hard male log in his right hand, guiding its tip past Polly's belly button. As Rusty felt the boy change his position, he maneuvered his right arm so it want around Brad's waist, allowing the young boy to fall to the cushion with his ear pushed to his girlfriend's sweet lips.

"Brad," the girl whispered, for he'd approached at a signal from her eyes, "after I've been with him, you guys are going to have to beat my butt."

"Why?" the boy whispered.

"Because I'm only six," she whispered softly. "I'm going to be sore and I'm going to be walking around stiff-legged for a couple of days. I want to say I fell in the shower, and I need some bruises to prove it."

"To Billy," Brad asked.

"No," she said. "I'm going to tell him everything; my mom; maybe my dad. The kids at school. Most of all, Ms. Pritchard. She got done the wrong way when she was a kid, now she's always sniffing around the girls. I mean, it's good, I suppose, but, like the saying goes, different strokes, and I want a bruise in case she decides to take a little peek at my butt."

There was a pause as Brad contemplated what Polly had said. She waited patiently for an answer, finally prompting him. "Well?" she whispered.

"You have been very bad," Brad finally responded. "Maybe you could use a spanking."

"We'll think of something," Polly replied, pushing Brad back to his position of kneeling against Rusty's right flank. Realizing the time for anything else was over, the boy wetted his hand on the girl, finding her place in the process, and then boldly brought the male to his female.

The eyes of the lovers locked onto each other as Rusty raised on his powerful arms so he could focus on the sweet pixie face beneath him. Polly craned her neck and returned his stare as Brad massaged their young bodies together with his stroking right hand.

"I want to see what you're doing to me," Polly whispered, and Rusty understood it as a request to take her eyes from his. He responded by looking down between their bodies, and Polly followed.

Where Billy's big penis was always between their bellies when he was getting close to his cum, Rusty's was inside her. Thrust into her between her spread legs in a phallic splendor that made her grunt and thrust to him. His arms locked rigid just above her shoulders, the big boy was intent on entering her slowly, gently, and very fully. She played her body against his; danced herself to him, hugging and scratching, and yet he remained stoically rooted, flexible and lithe in responding her clutches and thrusts, while slowly moving on past the little sting of her hymen that Billy had been so careful of even if he masturbated her an hour at a time (Saving it for someone special.)

In a way the sight was obscene. She could see where the jokes came from. But any funny stuff was beaten to a hasty death by the hot waves of entrance and of his entrance.

Brad fell again to her ear. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

"It's okay," she whispered back. "Cat's have kittens. Females are built for it. Remember, I'll only be about twice my size now when I start producing eight-pound babies." She concluded she was big enough not to have her hips displaced, and that was all that counted between a normal male and female.

They kissed like children, and Brad rose again to thrust his boner against Rusty's muscular thigh.

Rusty and Polly took his entrance in stages. While his motion into her never stopped or varied, their passion rose and fell in tides of staring into each other eyes, and her grasping and mewing against him because he would not stop what he was doing to her, or do it. The little girl remembered an adage that went, Relax and enjoy it. Rusty was too athletic, too nimble and disciplined to allow her the hot thrusts she tried repeatedly against his powerful stallion body. Finally, the girl gave up and surrendered herself. Lay back on the soft black leather, laced the fingers behind her slim little-girl neck, and let her body relax. She restrained her excitement to the aesthetic by drawing mind pictures of her brothers long, hard ejaculations. and transferring the image to what was going to be happening in her womb before Rusty left her. Her mind flooded with the images of a documentary on reproduction where a tiny camera had clearly showed several spurts of semen deep inside a girl's body.

Rusty did not take advantage of the now still child underneath him. He looked down at her closed eyes and pretty face and finally slid at the rate of a quarter of an inch each few seconds until Brad's fingers moved aside, letting him penetrate fully.

Polly felt the infinitely fine stubble of Rusty's shaved groin against her tender lower tummy and realized it had happened. "Welcome, lover," she whispered to Rusty, then she freed her hands and brought his face doubling down to her neck so she could whisper to him.

She beckoned Brad and he leaned to hear her, keeping his penis firmly against the powerful teen who'd taught him so much about sperm three days previously. "I want Billy's baby," she said, stroking Rusty's arms tenderly, "because anything could happen; I could get fat or sick or have to move somewhere or get hooked on drugs or turn into a birch or this or that or the other thing. We're going to live together full-time when I'm ten. By that time, he'll have saved enough money for a discrete year off for me, and our parents will adapt the child, who will be a girl. He can start taking baths with her, just like he did with me.

"It works on several levels. First, a man with a child bride is going to stay home every night, so less movies, restaurants, and all that expensive stuff. When the first child bride provides a second one, and she provides a third, the saving really add up, what with dollar cost averaging and compounding; voila, happy and rich. No adultery. So slacking. No moving hither and yon in search of money or climate. No expensive gadgets or hobbies. No addictions and no fighting. Just heaps of books, a dozen close friends, and two or three new X-Box titles every year and you have god's very own concept of a perfect life here on planet hearth. And it's possible because now they can find DNA defects that might adversely effect the kids, plus they can make sure it's always a girl baby."

"Imagine twins," Brad commented, and six eyes glazed over for a few moments.

It was now time for the sex lesson to begin.

All three grew quiet and signaled each other with quick glances from where Rusty was mounted against Polly.

Brad took control. He threw himself on the couch and Rusty knew to brace himself with his left arm and use his right hand to pull down the child's swimsuit. The instant he was naked, the boy regained his stance against the teen, and Rusty thrilled to the touch of a naked boy penis against his leg. With his right arm gripped tightly around Rusty's waist, Brad reached down with his right hand and fingered his way to the hot, wet and slippery place where Rusty was joined to Polly. Acting on instinct and in response to the trembling surges of the hormone-wracked teenage body, Brad found Rusty's mannish balls and rubbed and stroked his fingers against them. His big penis surged immediately and Polly's eyes popped wide open. She looked so cute, for a second with the half innocent, half what's-going-one-here look of the little girl watching the rabbits in the bank card commercial. Surprised. Interested. Then entirely welcoming. Brad was also riding his stallion like a circus performing, leaning low to the right side, so he could peer up between the lovers and see the pretty face for himself.

It was the little girl's turn, and Brad found her inner thigh with his wet fingers. He squeezed her, masturbating and fondling her for just a few seconds. He couldn't see their eyes from his positioned, but they were surely closed, anyway. He knew his touch had caused Polly's vagina to clench by the husky panting grunts Rusty was powerless to held back. He was falling in love with the child, and grunting over her seemed a way to signal his feelings. Brad's hands once again found Rusty, and squeezed tenderly. Again he felt a hot, jabbing spasm, which popped the pixie's eyes so wide they might have been sprung in freight. Again, Brad went to the now wet thigh and again he squeezed. Polly clenched deep inside, harder this time, and the responding grunt came quicker and was louder and closer to her ear.

It took Brad just a third time with his gentle, slippery fingers to trigger them.

Suddenly Rusty didn't need Brand and neither did Polly. They'd found each other. With a last thought as to how it had been over three days, Rusty abandon himself to the little girl. Polly squeezed, and felt the immediate throb; did it again and again, slightly, slightly faster, each time, until Rusty's hoarse grunts were but seconds apart. Then, like a peal of thunder almost on the sofa, itself, they found each others' natural rhythm and it was over. To Polly it felt he'd gone completely out of control. Perfect cadence but in less than a minute it was spoiled. The big penis in her was not responding in a predictable manner, not at all. It had come totally alive with a hot, fiery willfulness that didn't notice her strong vaginal loving. It pulsed hotly and wildly; seeming not to care. Polly gave up and used her last ounces of strength just to hold her buckin' bronc as deeply to her as her strength would allow. It made no difference; the utter wildness inside her only got more out of control.

In a Pretty Polly mood one day, she'd masturbated her brother under their dad's big office magnifying glass. She knew that was what was happening inside her.

Rusty was being a bull.

Brad knew, too. The shaking of the teen as he freshened the little filly pined under his waist would have signaled a blind person as to what was happening between the young couple, but, in addition to that, was the strong flow of sperm flowing and even pulsing from their union. With an urgent whisper he got Polly to open her eyes, and the girl immediately tried to pull herself as upright as possible. Rusty had just strength to help, and soon the heavy outpouring of milky white seminal fluid was making her pant with added excitement. It was really happening. Her stroking of him had worked, thanks to Brad's magical teaching fingers. She'd made him cum in her. He was still cumming in her. More sperm, and more, and he was still wild and deep in her.

Her Pretty Polly brain had an instant thought that it might be a good idea if she contributed a few cells to the fetus, but it was no time for comedy. Not with that hot, pulsing wildness doing what it was to her, and the stream of hot teem semen that was flowing freely down over the leather of the expensive couch.

The stallion couldn't be said to be tiring, rather, he'd reached his destination, fresh and alert. Rusty's last spasms into her womb were no less ferocious than his first, but they were farther apart. It was intensely exciting, the moreso, waiting for the next, and next. It had to end, and she thought it had, was slowly releasing and freeing her love, when the most shocking pulse of all raced through him. Polly felt it ricochet through his big horse body, and was just beginning to hold him urgently when it reached Rusty's penis. For the only time, the lunged against her, bellowing, as she shrieked and soared like a rocket. Almost. Almost. And then she was shaking like a leaf in his arms, oh, it had been so close, her cutie hair, lank with the steam of her almost successful mounting, and her body sliding from so close to an impossible peak. She found Rusty's ear and asked him to make her cum. He whispered back that that was for Billy. She sighed in acceptance, loving him as deeply for his simpatico nature as she now loved Billy for his special gift to her.

Brad draped himself over the two limp bodies, and Polly made a sensation sandwich out of the feelings of his little-boy shoulders and the full-grown male penis now held tenderly in her cervix, with its big spermy purple head deep in her womb. As some degree of consciousness returned, Polly reached for Brand's shoulder and pulled her now naked little boyfriend to her. "Billy won't let me put my lips on him so he can get excited inside my mouth, will you, please."

"I don't know," Brad said, shyly.

"You were the best teacher in the whole world," she responded. "I'll bet most girls never learn to do that, or that it takes them a long, long time before they get it perfect so they can lie absolutely still and feel every tiny little things that's happening inside them."

I know, I know, I'm back, and why would I be back if it weren't to show off?

In the first place, this chapter includes Fourteen. In the second place, this is but the overture to the grandiosely described greatest erotic scene ever written. Finally, I feel I have a bit of a reputation to protect, and, since it's such a small bit, it behooves me to protect it well. My readers know I take ostentatious delight in ending chapters with a little touch of savior faire A closing graceful note, until we meet again.

We have Polly thanking Brad for his sensitive touch in teaching her to match the pulsing of her stallion. So, we end with Brad's line in reply: "I guess you could call it On-the-Throb training."

Chapt. 19

What's in the backpack? What's Brad's inner secret? Does he have two of them? Has someone nuked Creative Camp? Is the fake chapter really a cover up? Where is Charles and what did his characters, John and Brad, do after Brad's story of Rusty and Polly at the pool? How about Blissy and his little friend, Timmy, the eleven year old over from sheep country? How about your Prince? Is he just going to lie around writing porn all day, or are there liegemen? Mostly, since this is Nifty, will this, when complete, be the greatest erotic epic ever written?

I guess that's why there's a Chapter Nineteen.

Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx