SHADY'S CLOSET / MISSIPPIPPI STORY -- JANET
by
Tom Emerson
Nothing is implied by the use of public or private figures in this story.
Janet was, in the end, three weeks in being neatly packaged by her mother and delivered of a Friday afternoon. We went, as I had with her brothers, Stephan and Ryan, through the early closing routine, and I compromised by locking up at quarter of five, leaving a pile of paperbacks outside the door for any truly desperate last minute book addicts. By the time I made it back to my attached apartment, Janet had the lights off and half a dozen candles lighted. Further, she was wearing a string bikini. Well, she'd just turned ten, so why not.
"Marshall gave it to me, isn't it wizard?" the girl said, turning slowly as I warded off heart failure by sinking into an easy chair.
"You were some silent troopers a month ago," I said, not knowing whether to be irritated or amused by the vast secrets Janet and her twelve year old brother, Stephan, had managed to keep through a frank and open weekend four weeks previous.
"We did mention he was writing a play," Janet said, perching on my left knee.
"He's thirteen, for god's sake," I sputtered, "I was thinking a regional competition or local theater group, now I find Mr. Mathers is headed for on on Broadway riding Ryan's steamroller.
"We were just being cute," the girl finally admitted. "We knew we'd be coming here until we grow up and get married, maybe after, so there was no great hurry. You hardly mentioned you're sort of ultra major league ancestry, either, on our first visit. We found about all that from Ryan, so that kind of evens the score. We're just modest little pansies in the shade of the garden, one an all, ain't it cute?"
"What would you know about cute?" I asked, looking into her big gray-blue eyes. Where some months ago the nine year old had been a slightly pudgy and very ordinary looking schoolgirl, she now seemed to half glow. She'd grown an inch, lost six or eight pounds, and taken on a winsome, coltish look that was evident at a hundred feet and overpowering at that many millimeters. Yet, she was not a raving beauty, which was a good thing because an exceptionally dazzling face would have detracted from the baby softness of her lily white skin, especially her lower tummy and upper thighs where the fingers of my right hand were tracing figures eights.
The girl shuddered slightly and lay back in my left arm, spreading her longer and now slightly -- tantalizingly -- concave-at-the-thighs legs in welcome. As she felt the prelude to my rape center at her lower spine and wash quickly over her pre-teen body, she arched in my arms, lying back with her arms extended past her head, display her breasts. They were relatively huge, straining at her bikini bra as if she were a fourteen year old trying on her little sister's top. "Oh, babe," I whispered in her right ear, finding her quickly with my hand.
"Mostly my dad, I think," she whispered. "He was with me constantly the whole week at the farm, then Chicago, but it wasn't as you know, fulsome, because Marshall had Haley as well as me."
"Oh," I said. On her first weekend visit, we'd talked in place of foreplay, and it had been successful. Been there, done that. This time, whatever the stories, they could wait. Her nipples were the size of cherries and as hard as cherry stones, her breath was becoming more ragged by the second. Previously, I'd only mounted her from the rear, it had just seemed right for both of us, no I was faced with irony in the fact her breasts were delectable pubescent phantasms, and I wanted to molest her as she knelt, head on the sofa, while I knelt close behind, my hands all over her panting young body. They'd feel hot against my chest, though, so it was hardly a compromise. I picked her up, carried her to the leather sofa, lay her back, stripped off the bikini panties and bra and stared down at her as I stripped and she used her heels to spread her legs as widely as possible. I posed over her, my erection surging and hot to my heartbeat, then, after a minute, knelt between her legs. She drew up, gathering her knees in her hands, still wide in welcome. I straddled her, and we looked into each other's eyes as I thrust repeatedly against her, my arms shaking as I felt her hotter and wetter with each approach.
"Yes," she whispered softly, eyes growing huge. I steadied myself as best I could, and froze as she carefully moved against me using her athletic arms to pull her legs. "Yes," I whispered, too, then her softness yielded and I was suddenly overwhelmed with the soft sucking of her wanton need. Again she rose, and I met her with a still careful thrust, finding her wet beyond belief.
"Can you feel Ryan?" she asked in a shaking whisper.
"Yes," I breathed back, now noting the slight stinging sensation sometimes indicating the proximate success of another male with a particular female.
"He said he could feel my dad," she said as I entered to the hilt, then froze against her.
"It's awesome you can talk," I said.
"Well," she whispered back, "it's not the best part, but being with you last month was enough to let Stephan and I know it makes the best part better. I mean, we're over it, now, because we all know about each other, and we don't whisper for entertainment, if that's what you want to call it, alone."
"So the farm and being with your dad was good," I said, and the connection was more obvious than it might at first appear because the ten year old was using her superbly conditioned young, female body much the way the central activity on a dairy farm was carried out before the advent of mechanized milking. It was extraordinary and then some, lying either tight above her, or poised above her, and remaining almost motionless as she brought me to an ecstatic height, holding me gently in her arms apparently to gauge my response in furtherance of maintaining the status quo, any excitement to be had through whispered voyeurism, completely possible with the way the pixie mated. I lowered to her jutting nipples and rested my head in the crook of her neck.
"Exceptional," she whispered in response to my question. "I thought the incest thing might head him for the woodpile towing his daughter by her pony tail, or I guess it would be dragging. We were out on the tractor and I just told him. About what happened with Stephan in the woods, our weekend with you, and how I wanted to be with Ryan as soon as I got back to Dyersville. He said he was glad I brought the subject up because he wanted to talk about it, but didn't want to be a creep. Then we just mowed for awhile, me sitting in his lap and working the gearshift."
Damned like telemarketers and darned like cotton socks used to be, we were doing it. I was fully mounted, her legs now strong and hot around my waist, yet we were lying together and, other than a little kissing, able to proceed with the story, her telling while I listened and asked the occasional question.
"Were you sitting like really back in his lap?" for example.
"Yes," Janet whispered.
"When you started talking about incest, did he react?" I wanted to know.
"He didn't have to say a word," the ten year old replied. "He was getting bigger as we went along, and his hands were on my waist, just a little inside my union suit. That's partly what gave me the idea to just come right out and tell him. I won't exaggerate by saying something happened so fast and so much it nearly threw me off the tractor, but, short of that, it was passionately cool, and ten times more so because of you and Stephan. That's why, once dad and I knew it would be completely successful, we could sort of sit back, as much as you can on a tractor, and relax."
"I wonder," I said, "whether farmers who purchase monster farm machines with smoked glass cabs have a preponderance of cute daughters," I said.
"That would be perfect for a girl," Janet responded, "because she'd be alone with her dad for hours and hours, so she could get used to it, instead of some furtive little connection that would leave her all upset and mixed up. It would be comfortable and completely private, so it could happen again and again, sort of like breaking a horse I guess, building an understanding that there's so much, and nothing more, and most of all nothing unusual or unkind."
"With about ten dollars worth of the right publicity," I noted, "you'd never have to pay for farm labor, again. You could get suburban dads not only to drive, but maintain the machine as well, show up at six in the morning and work `till ten at night. The things are so easy to operate, once they're set up, the daughter could even spell her dad at the wheel and they could go two or three days with minimal breaks for meals and things." I don't know, I'm just one of those guys who likes to come up with a new paradigm for everything, even if they sound goofy at first blush.
"We don't have fancy tractors," Janet said, "we prefer money. Just an umbrella, like thirty years ago, and dad half fancies emulating the Amish and going back another hundred years, making the farm a craft, not an occupation."
I try for craft in my work, unblemished sentences rolling perfectly down the page, nary a typo or glitch (omitted are the worst) per thousand or ten thousand words. Janet was obviously a kindred spirit as the craftsmanship with which she was handling me in her very special way half brought tears to my eyes. She was impossibly hot and tight and a challenge even if she hadn't moved a muscle as I lay between her widely spread legs, buried nearly seven inches in her soft, warm belly, but she did move the add dozen or two of them, all in exactly the right place to make me gasp, shudder, and lurch. And, no doubt in my mind any longer, she was, well, different, you know, physically than when she'd stayed a month ago. It didn't seem the time to bring up the subject, leaving open the mystery of when such a time might ever be, but, in the end, I didn't have to, because she did.
"You feel different to me so I must to you," the pixie whispered. "That's because of dad; he's a big rawboned Norwegian so before he shipped me to Chicago he had an obgyn lady in Racine take a dozen or so stitches."
"She did kind of a ragged job," I panted.
"I think that's on purpose," the girl replied, "you know, like some condoms have ribs, but in reverse."
"Have you been with him since?" I asked.
"Just on the telephone while I was with Ryan and Marshall," the girl answered, modern as tomorrow.
"Well I can't imagine improving you from his point of view, or mine, for that matter, but I guess you found a way. In fact, my warning to you is be a little careful, because if you dad's serious about retro farming he's going to need half a dozen, or more, little milk maids running around the dairy-o, and that might be a different life than you have in mind."
We kissed for awhile. A nine year old kisses like a young teen, only even younger. `Not so fast," she said, making me feel like a preacher which I was already guilty of feeling like, "because the way I have it figured is this. A, I asked him how he felt about me when I was just a moppet, at the same time telling him I would have loved taking baths with him and sleeping with him as much as he wanted, at three. In response, he admitted to feeling the same way. B, I can produce and raise a similar moppet to keep him happy while I go hang out with my brothers and their friends from time to time, in addition to using the child as a magnet to get Ryan, Stephen, Haley, and Marshall to visit. C, I don't want him leaving his hands off me for the next four years, after which time everything should gel so I can go out and do what teens do.:
"It sounds a lot better than school," I allowed.
"Why don't more people go off an live on tropical islands," the girl asked me (she knew I'd done so).
"I'll never have an inkling," I admitted. "They're so romantic they make you dizzy. Television is a wasteland and books are portable. These days you can even have a solar powered electrical system for lights and a laptop, if not a fridge, and yet they sit empty by the thousands all over the world. A little sailboat and some tarps to catch rain, and you're autonomous. With all the modern plastic containers and gadgets, it's downright easy and, for the life of me, I don't know why more people don't try just living where it's so shockingly nice, it's wondrous just to get up in the morning. You should hijack your dad, which is my guess as to why you brought the subject up."
"It would be fun to prove that thing about love not lasting in a cottage," the ten year old said, "only an island, maybe three or four acres, instead. See if I'd ever get tired of him finding sand wet enough so it wouldn't be a problem and laying me naked on it and kneeling between my legs, then covering me like a stag and holding rigid and still while I showed him how much I love him the way I did in Racine when he held me in his arms for hours and hours on the tractor."
I'd logged a few hours on farm tractors, myself, and couldn't help wondering if the vibration, the rough ride, and the spring seat may not have contributed to Janet's being Janet, and, judging by the tenor of our conversation, Janet soon becoming a mother. Speaking of which...
"Are you pregnant?" I asked.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Congratulations," I whispered back, "you guys are rich and savvy enough it should be a trip."
"And with two brother I'd trust her with implicitly, I should have a bright future as a teen," she said.
There was a huge logic to it, that was the scary part. Assuming clinical safety, what other obstacles or objections could there be? Would a daughter/half-sister/granddaughter somehow end up with the short end of the stick? Sure, it would play hell with family trees, but they were in trouble in a culture where the average family moves every four years, anyway -- an incidental factor, though it certainly could make the study of genealogy more interesting to future generations. (Perhaps thus confused, these yet-unborn would overcompensate by growing up highly organized and disciplined.) It may not have been a great theory, nor one universally applicable, but the thing is it was a time for theorizing, for dwelling on the abstract and delving into the metaphysical, for philosophy, for academic review, for any intellectual diversion from the multiplication tables to the periodic tables to the rules of evidence to the Hippocratic oath to the twelve steps to an imaginary game of chess; that would allow me to lie over the child, not letting my mind wander, but evicting it and all its network of nerves on account of their excess zeal in responding to feral impulses and dragging me along with them. Yes, a mind is a terrible thing to waste, but I didn't want to kill the damn thing, just distract it, especially now that the softly panting girl in my arms, tiny thing, was now telling of her father, whispering to me all the details of arriving on his farm three weeks ago.
"Sweetheart," thirty-eight year old Karl said, "you don't want to ride with me. It's just back and forth, hour after hour; you stay with your brothers and I'll tickle you half to death when I'm finished for the day."
"Hold that though, daddy," Janet said, "and don't move until I get back -- promise?"
"Sure, babe," the six-three athlete assured the excited child. She flew upstairs chirping: "I don't think you'll be sorry." Karl perched on the railing of the porch, the proverbial straw in his mouth, and, though he was a fit man, he was nonetheless glad of the support of the railing when the screen door opened. He found strength to remove the straw, not wanting to look like a hayseed, but not to otherwise move. Janet was wearing a conservative blue two-piece swim suit, sunglasses, and a big straw hat. She carried a bottle of sunscreen in her hand and went up to her dad, placing it in his shirt pocket. "I'll need some after an hour or so, depending on how much shade there is from the umbrella," she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the big diesel machine growling softly in the yard.
Ryan and Stephan waved good-bye. They both had dirt bikes in the barn and would be saturated with occupation for hours. "Six o'clock for dinner," the man reminded them, startled to hear his own voice. The boys ran toward the barn, the child flew up over one of the giant tires, standing in front of the seat. Her father climbed mechanically aboard behind her, and sat, seemingly in a trance. His left leg automatically worked the clutch and the girl nicked the shift lever into fourth gear for the ride out to the field, then sat in her father's lap to steer.
"Daddy," she said, after they'd lowered the sickle bar and begun the first swath, "are you disappointed I didn't like the doll more and want to stay home and play with her this afternoon?"
"Well," the dairyman said, "you are growing up and I kind of thought it might be a long shot, but I didn't want to get you a dirt bike until I was sure you were ready to ride off over the horizon with your brothers."
"There's more to me than toys and fancy presents," the girl said. "That's why I wanted to ride along. To tell you that I love the doll, and she'll be well cared for, and I'd love a dirt bike, one of these days, but, meantime, a lot has been happening and I don't want to have any secrets from you."
"I hear there's been a string of bank robberies in your area," the handsome Norwegian said, nuzzling his daughter.
"How about the maiden who dreams of her sexy daddy when she's learning how to misbehave?" the girl giggled back, "have you heard about her?"
"If she had actually misbehaved, instead of just thinking she had, I'm sure I would have," the father noted.
"What if she isn't actually a maiden?" the girl asked. She knew her father was engaged in their byplay because the diesel was murmuring along at half its normal output, the waving alfalfa absorbing the whir of the mower so the couple were sailing relatively quietly on their grassy sea.
"I guess I'd want to know all about it if she wanted to tell me," the man whispered in the child's pretty little left ear.
"Oh, daddy," she whispered back, yes, wanting to share all, but more in response to the huge iron bolt suddenly hard against her equally sudden total wetness.
"Tell me, baby," the man husked, "tell me who it was and how it happened."
"I will, daddy," the girl whispered, "but you first. I want to hear about your first time, even though it doesn't mean as much to a boy."
"I didn't think of myself as a boy or her as a girl," the man replied, "but the two of us as an us. Besides," he went on, "judging from the way you feel against me, it's quite possible I haven't really experienced my first time, yet."
"Daddy," the half farm girl responded, "it's pretty dry so we wouldn't bog if we stopped here would we?"
"No, darling," her father said.
"Then lets," the girl whisper, her voice edgy and harsh, "because I feel the same way. It's too hot for all these clothes, and besides, I want to sit facing you, and you've always warned us not to do anything unusual with operating machinery."
The man's strong left leg worked as far as he could tell reflexively against the clutch lever and the girl snicked the transmission from second gear to neutral, then she turned the switch that stopped the engine. The machinery was not longer operation. Waves of stillness bearing chirps and the rasp of locust settled over the now panting farmer and his nine year old daughter. "I'm starting to grow a little if you want to start that way," the child said, placing the adult's strong, calloused hands or her bare tummy, then guiding them under the top of her modest swim suit. "Stephan liked it when I stretched like this," she said, raising her arms high over her head and arching her back.
A second jolt from the man's thighs said as much as his tense whispering. "You picked a beautiful first partner," he husked in her ear as his rough hands gently found her baby mounds and big, swollen nipples, "and in the process made your younger brother a very lucky boy."
"You know what I want to do, daddy," the girl said, still lolling back in her athletic father's lap as he began openly molesting her.
"What?" he replied.
"Just once," she whispered, "go out with a campus-king jock, maybe when I'm fourteen, and, you know, let him take complete control so I'll know how sweet it is being with you and my brothers and a few very special friends."
"If he had you in the back seat," the father said, "and was doing what I am and quizzing you in a hoarse whisper, would you tell him that you're having incest?"
"Only if I wanted to marry him," the girl said, "because the way I read it, a girl who's happy with her family is irresistible to a male because a, she has more to share with him, and, b, she's not likely to cheat in any way that means everything."
"You've got that right, precious," Karl said, his hands now low on his daughter's creamy white belly as she arched, panting, to his gentle fondling, "and there's nothing to earn a husband's commitment more powerful than listening to the squeaking of the bed in the next room. Such a slim, fit girl will always be very fully welcomed the moment she's back in her husband's arms."
"I'll stay fit," the girl promised, "but slim? Around so much hot, creamy, white sperm? Baby might object."
"Baby," the man whispered, "won't have anything to object to, darling, if baby doesn't exist, and, in that vein, baby, it would be a very good idea to descend from this hot beast of steel, dress appropriately for the heat of the day, then remount, only with the lovely farm girl sitting facing her adoring farm boy, sans the sunglasses so I can look into her eyes."
It should be noted that after the word "descend" Karl was looking down on a barefooted girl up to her waist in the thick grass. By the time he said "remount", he was in the grass behind her as she arched wildly, standing high on her toes and linking her finger's behind the bronzed neck of the tall athlete. For minutes the adult's hands roamed the slightly pudgy belly, now venturing well down into the panties of a swim suit that was more like a sun suit. He bent as the girl spread her legs in welcome, then braced herself on one of the big tires as her father's right hand slipped far into her blue suit.
"Daddy?" the girl whispered, supplying, "yes, love?" on her own, then continuing, "can we be naked? I've never been masturbated all the way before and I want it to last and it won't if I have to fantasize about what you'll look like."
"Huh'uh?" the panting man almost whispered. Karen had said she was spending a lot of time with a writer across the river. The fellow must have his own rules of logic and be an ace at instilling them on impressionable young minds. Nodding to himself over the prospect of discovering more about his daughter, the thirty eight year old used his left hand to free his child of her top, then skinned down the bottom of the suit, bracing her as she danced free of the garment and again spread her legs. "You too, please," she whispered, steadying herself on the warm tire. "Yes, love," Karl choked and in a moment his clothes were beside hers on the flaring gray fender of the vehicle.
"Can I feel you against me more before I see you," Janet said as her father placed his hands over hers and moved gently against the naked nine year old.
"Yes, baby," he said, and the two thrust firmly together, the male's right hand again going deep between the girl's trembling thighs. He found her fully and took her slowly, trying not to overreact to the heat of her silky skin against his bronzed and gold-crinkled chest or her panting mews at at long last being her daddy's little girl
The tableau of the Nordic male hunched over the slightly pudgy schoolgirl lasted many minutes. The two barely moved but an ant crawling on the tire, and looking in the right direction, would have seen that now Janet's right hand was close to her father's wrist as she experimented with the huge erection she'd raised on her toes, while he slightly squatted, to receive high above he slick, with thighs.
"I've seen it happen with Stephan," the girl said, "so I know what it looks like, so tell me before it's too late if you can because I want to be looking into your eyes while it's happening inside me."
"Yes, darling," the dad said, "I want that, too."
By accord they slowly released each other, stored their clothes in a safe place, and mounted the machine like zombies in Tranceylvania. Janet positioned herself at a little distance staring into her dad's face, then down at his huge circumcised erection. "I'm glad I'm nine and you're eight, rather than the other way around," she said, smiling shyly at the extremity of her dazzling wit.
"Mary the writer," the father suggested, "he's doing wonders for you."
"Okay," the girl agreed, "now it's your turn."
The religious say wonders never cease, nor did the girl. She stared at her father, brought him to her to kiss long and longingly, her tiny fingers toying with his burly, but not overdeveloped chest, then licked her way slowly all the way down, never ceasing until she was openly licking his flaring glans and losing herself in the musk of a highly aroused adult. She left him to stare up into his blue hawk eyes once again, this time bracing herself on his powerful shoulders as she rose on her knees. "Oh, baby," he whispered, looking into the total permission of her eyes and holding her firmly by her heaving flanks, rising her yet higher against his chest as her hands went from his shoulders to him, guiding him awkwardly at first to where she was wettest, softest, and utterly venerable
The mating took several minutes. By unspoken pack, neither moved any more than necessary, neither spoke, neither blinked, and, by some miracle, neither quite passed out and fell off the tractor. When the child felt the adult's wiry hair fully against her thighs and lower belly she hugged him and finally spoke. "The farmer is in-standing in his field," she said, again with the shy smile that was a great relief to the adult because it showed the young girl still had a grip on perspective; they were, after all, merely mating, not reinventing the entire emotional center to the human race. As if.
"All we need now is the tractor," the girl said after several minutes cuddled deliciously in the tall athlete's arms. Instinctively, Karl knew what his daughter meant, and releasing her for a moment, started the big diesel. "I guess from now on you're going to have to shift for yourself," she noted as she felt his left leg tense on the clutch.
"Yes," the man allowed, adding: "but I don't know how I can freshen my lovely calf while I'm, you know, steer-ing."
The pun was a dairy delight, a steer being a gelded bull, and I have to admit that if the father was pleased with his daughter's response to my blue-blood Yankee foolery, it should also be noted he'd done a fine job preparing his twit for the infusion of wit.
Stifling an instinct to pop the clutch on the tractor, for the pure sensation such an act promised, because doing so would strain the mower, Karl put the tractor back in motion, guiding the machine with his left hand while he held the naked child tightly against him with his right arm. "Oh, daddy," the happy princess sighed, not for the first time, as the machine gained way, swaying and lurching gently as it proceeded, "we need a bigger farm so we can ride this way all day, every day."
"Or," the practical dairyman said, "a slower tractor."
"And a smaller one, like a little Ford, would, you know, be bumpier," the girl agreed.
"Keep it up," her father whispered, "and we'll be out here on Cub Cadet."
"Making hay while the moon shines," Janet added with her shy smile.
"Or, making cubs," the man whispered softly, and despite the motions and vibrations of the machine the girl sensed her father ejaculating deep inside her. She stared into his eyes, her own glazed, until two minutes had passed, then settled against his chest, mewing and wriggling until her climax followed his, lasting twice as long and leaving her limp and half conscious against his powerful body. As he turned the tractor at the end of the row, the farmer halted for a moment to retrieve the sunscreen from his shirt pocked and stuffed the garment between his and his daughter's thighs and the seat as a sponge for the pooling fluids. For hors they rode this way, the girl developing the intimate skills beyond the challenge of seeing how fast she could make her brother cum to experimenting with how long she could keep the male so hugely and surely inside her from another shuddering, convulsive effort to leave her with child. "Bigger farm and smaller tractor," she whispered the fourth time she felt his stag's pulse deep within her, "or no farm at all so we'd never have to get out of bed to tend to it."
"Be handy when it comes birthing time," the man nodded in agreement, and they rode on.
"I knew you'd like the story of my dad," Janet said to me, looking up with the same shy smile. I was cumming fast and hard in her as she grasped me so firmly I could feel her feeling what was happening, then the shuddering loss of control as she tripped yipping into her own belly-flop intensity orgasm.
She revived dreamily some minutes later. "How perfect can perfect be?" she murmured. "My dad, my brothers, you, artist of the future, and the mad contemporary artist and his daughter, all with a conventional home life free of alcohol and strung-out behavior."
"And you're pregnant," I whispered in response and I swear she began purring like a seventy pound cat.
Children are mercurial which is why the law encourages leaving the average child alone. The only thing average about Janet had been her appearance when I first knew her, and when whim overtook her precious young mind it was not to look up me sputtering You beast through her tears but to change both the venue and cast of her story in an instant. This, through the agency of her thirteen-year-old brother, Ryan, brought us to a certain Chicago hotel suit, a tap at the door, and a lone figure in the anteroom.
"Oh, living doll / rapper's moll / you know how I fall / for the sweet and small,." Marshall Mathers sang as he opened the door.
"My daddy's crazy / but he loves his daisy / so let the world grow hazy / so I can be the lazy of the night," Haley chirped back in her sweet pre-teen voice.
"Big enough to really kiss?" the rock star whispered looking down at the five-foot tyke.
"Yes, daddy," the girl replied, looking up with huge eyes, then springing to him like a cat off a hot, galvanized roof. They staggered as a onesome across the carpeting and half crashed onto the sofa beside Ryan. It took her some moments to notice the boy, but when she did she came to a full stop.
"Oh," she breathed to her father, "and I hear he's rich so he can walk out on us anytime. Who needs icing like that on such a cake?"
"We had to settle for what we could get," the proud father allowed, to Ryan's grin.
"It's not the shoe is on the other foot," the girl responded, "me having to please instead of me being pleased, it's both shoes off both feet."
"I think you're going to like my sister," Ryan said, his eyes locked on those of the nine-yea- old superdaughter.
"Dad said she's just my age," the girl responded, "Janet. I hope we can hang out pretty soon because I don't think I'm going to feel any differently about dolls and tea parties in the morning."
"If you invite my brother, Stephan, you may," Ryan observed, a warm twinkle in his eyes.
"If it was up to me we'd invite your ancestors back two hundred years, you know, dad has this theory about leaving things out, and arrange their caskets on end around the attic."
"My mom's into genealogy," the boy said, "so the first part would be easy."
"Great," the girl said, "it will give us something to do and after awhile we may get smart enough to leave the digging to nobody."
"That would be leaving nothing out," Ryan agreed and both dissolved into giggles while the young father adjourned to the kitchen to see if his hands were steady enough to cope milk and cookies. What a straight life the two on the sofa represented. No more parties, nix the liver glug, out with high-test hemp, the hills for the pills and the bimbos in limbo, from now on it was going to be down with his briefs and her panties, with any trace energy left over devoted to fine tuning existing mores so they became gradually more tolerant of alternative relationships. Slam-bam-print-this-ma'am wouldn't work, and considering the star's significant brush with the law, one strike, was to be particularly avoided. Hints, innuendo, unanswered questions, gossip, and rumor. "If my identical twin and Haley's identical twin found it special to spend time alone together I might still invite them for the holidays," -- things like that, not to promote but to defend, not an activist campaign, but rather a gradual blunting of the activities of the phobic.
Pull it off, the young legend realized, and he could stand above his music; stand as a man, not merely a performer -- (he overwrote (which is writing for the sake of writing) and leaned too hard on others and on technology to qualify as an artist). The long, steady push, making news of no news when his daughter and he finally came clean in, say, 2012. Yes, Shady, but will they accept your granddaughter? You've got your work cut out for you, so try getting things off to a good start by not spilling the milk all over the suite's presidential seal.
Splash, silence, then the ripples reaching shore. It was almost musical. The splash would be Haley and Ryan on their first date, all out; lemonade, limousines, and a lozenge-size diamond, then silence for as much as a year, meantime maddening the photo floggers with as many as a dozen body doubles for the kids, with his own cameras recording the fun and games. Then the rippling. Blushing interviews, awkward evasiveness, and fade back to silence for another year. By that time Haley would be a very young mother, and that particular splash would make her queen of the world, her child, in a sense, the first ever born.
Now that we've seen what an artist can do with an inch or two of paper or screen, let's get back to the story.
"Oh, daddy," Haley gasped as her tiger young dad entered from the kitchen. Marshall had debated hiding himself, pulling out a shirt tale or carrying the tray low, then decided against it. He and Ryan had hit the right note, much dignity with a bawdy trace or two, so the shirt remained tucked in, and he held the tray, well, high enough. Haley also clicked into place, not saying something along the line of You must be glad to see me, big fella, but merely blushing and staring him in the eyes with her huge eyes. The biggest thrill of all was watching her hand go instinctively to Ryan and their knuckles whitening in an instant. All the young man could think of was a foaming bottle of champagne, and the imagery could hardly be less appropriate when it came to serving a snack to children. Amazed at his own maturity he shrugged his edgier thoughts aside, time enough for them, later, and the three chatted about the vices and virtues of money and current events (which, in our skewed timeline, would have been Oil War I, but, since we've mangled it beyond repair, a hazard of publishing as one goes, actually involved Oil War II). While the three disagreed how many hydrogen bombs it would take to get the Middle East off CNN for a week, they were smug in all arriving at number between twenty four and twenty six. They nodded in regret at the administration's sending 150,000 hostages into the void, but agreed with each other that it would represent a last-ditch effort at maintaining the heap rather than junking it, outright. Yes, they nodded, the present world would clench up at the audacity of the act, but a world scrubbed of Semites would obviously judge the pinpricks on the globe with at least tolerance and perhaps even goodwill. Also, the three agreed oil wars were to be won, utterly, because every hour of every day depended on distillates in every way, the cheaper the better.
They moved from politics to current events and on to the evening ahead. Marshall hung out three gowns observing that most girls would think it pretty cool to have one, and Haley chose a little black dress. The star had spent enough time in the chair to handle the child's touches of makeup, and seen enough hair styles to copy a little something high and ladylike for his pixie. He gave the five carat emerald cut diamond to Ryan and the boy gave it to the girl. They lolled around in jeans and baggy sweatshirts, barefoot, dabbling in this and that as the eight o'clock dinner hour drew near. At seven, they got down to business and the young couple, buffed until they glowed, entered the elevator at five to eight. They had a delightful evening, by all accounts, and were back by eleven.
Marshall, his athletic dancer's body wrapped in a small towel, sat in a corner of the suite's master bedroom. The boy carried his bride across the threshold and sat her at the marble-topped dresser. "It was a lovely wedding," he whispered into the crook of her long, slim neck.
"Yes, darling," the girl agreed, "but don't you think the young couple must be nothing but two bundles of nerves by now?"
They continued their smoldering byplay as the groom removed the gem and its platinum chain from his bride's throat, conscientiously placing it immediately in the wall safe and spinning the dial. His young female waited tensely for his return and jumped at the touch of his hands in her hair.
"This is all so new," the kitten mewed, "please be gentle."
"Yes, my angel," Ryan said, "but being gentle does mean being, so let me unfasten your hair, the more to grace the pillow, and your dress, the more to grace the rest of the planet."
The cooing stopped, Haley's hair tumbled, and Ryan slowly unzipped the child to her waist, then offered his arm to escort her to the master bath. She disappeared with a demure kiss and the boy crossed and sat on the bed, dazedly removing his shoes and socks. Still moving like molasses on the rocks, the thirteen year old disrobed hanging his clothes neatly, then slipping into silk pajamas. There was elegance in their every move, more passion in their restraint than any display within the law could have hinted at. She was now in a kimono, red silk, matching him, quickly in his arms as she emerged from her toilet, both breaking for a moment to light candles and turn out the lights. He unattained her gown as she unbuttoned him, and after five lingering minutes Ryan was in his briefs and his child bride in a training bra and silk panties. He lowered Haley to the bed and stripped naked as he stared down at her. The nine year old removed her tiny silk bra, handed it to him, and stretched her arms high toward the headboard. They remained in the tableau for some minutes as Marshall quietly moved his chair close to the off side of the canopy bed. Haley gradually raised her bottom from a towel they'd placed over the silk spread and her young husband striped off her panties. The girl then raised her legs, pulling her knees to her chest, then spreading widely as Ryan knelt on the bed, then moved over her. He positioned himself high on his arms while the half-frightened girl held is slim, panting flanks gently with both hands. "Daddy," she whispered softly. Marshall knelt on the girl's right, reaching over Ryan with his right arm, finding the boy almost brittle he was so hard, and guiding him to his daughter. Protectively, he nurtured their connection, then found a gentleness inherent in the young husband that made his intervention superfluous, so he sat back down, first moving the chair closer to the head of the bed so he could see perfectly. Ryan stayed high on his young athlete's arms, also looking down over the child's budding nipples and flat but slightly padded belly. That made three for the show, to put it crudely, as Haley also demonstrated considerable visual interest in the thirteen year old's long, slim penis now an inch shorter than it had been before her father's gentle touch.
"You feel like a king panther except you're entirely the wrong color," the girl whispered.
"There aren't words for what I feel, Haley Mathers, Mrs. Ryan," the boy responded in a ragged whisper, "except Mrs. Ryan."
"Fancy talk for an animal just hot from the jungle," the girl said, her head now lolling as her gaze wandered from her handsome father to her beautiful mate to what was happening between their juvenile bodies.
Silence for several minutes, save their hot breast. Marshall dropped his towel and stood, hugely erect and so aroused his seminal fluid dripped on his daughter's right shoulder. The girl, tensing by the moment, finally lunged with a yelp against her young teen husband. "Oh, babe," both males hissed, realizing what had happened. She grimaced in return for fleeting seconds then relaxed with a shy smile. Ryan, badly shaken, desperately sought her approval, whispering incoherently as the welcoming glow quickly blazed anew in the golden candle light. He was well inside her now. The female's legs dropped to the bed and she began experimenting with thrusting against the boy's tender, rigid, first-do-no-harm body. "Yes, love," the boy encouraged and reading the light in the girl's eyes, correctly, as it turned out, began meeting her nascent efforts, penetrating her fully in a few dozen halting strokes. Again the young couple froze, whispering softly to each other, mostly about how convenient it would be to, they were puppies at heart, make love. Ryan, so scared, and, by physical necessity, the aggressor, was pleased with how big and hard he stayed in spite of his adoration of the pretty schoolgirl panting and sweating beneath him on her bridal bower. Such like had stunted many an adult, or so legend had it, probably merely urban legend, had it, and here he was, at thirteen, bigger than he'd ever been in his life and not even spoiling it by getting all hot and bothered like a boy jerking off moments before the alarm clock beeped.
"Lie down on me for a little while and rest, Ryan," Haley whispered, "but if anything happens try to get back up because I think dad wants to watch you be successful with me, and I know I do." The boy responded by lowering gently, arching his back so his first intimate feeling of her was her swollen-cherry nipples hot against his heaving, bare chest. They held the sensual position Marshall finally got the hint and, already standing, knees braced against the bed for support, at Haley's right shoulder, began masturbating, squatting so the tip of his big penis was slicking his child's right nipple.
Again with the tableau, the pint-size version of the honeymoon couple with an athletic young adult braced against the bed, legs widely spread apart, masturbating against the female's bare chest. Nor was the same-old/same-old merely visual art. "Daddy," whispered the girl who was now lying flat on her back, legs splayed, arms over her head so her husband could enjoy her slender, juvenile form to the maximum, lying comfortably while one male strained and shook above her, the other at her right shoulder, "tell us about the first time something exciting happened to you."
"Daddy, put the moon in a bottle with a clockwork so the darkside shows at night and doesn't keep us awake," the girl might as well have asked. But the mite was his flesh and blood, his only daughter, so, "oh, baby," he whispered, "do you know the picture they used on my Web site -- light gray sweater over a blue plaid shirt?"
"Of course, daddy, you know it's my favorite -- when you were eleven."
"Sorry, darling," the young father said, "of course you do, and thanks, I guess it is pretty nice."
"It's more than way cute," the girl said, adding, to Ryan: "He has long brown hair, shaggy but kinda neat, and touched with auburn. You know about the blue eyes, but a slim face with slightly big kid teeth and a cute, friendly smile. I've got the original in 8X10, and I don't think you'll mind because you're just the bittiest bit cuter even than he was."
"What I could do," the boy said, "is get an enlargement printed on vinyl and molded to be a mask, then wear it so you could fantasize."
Improbably the girl, holding her first orgasm at bay by a thread, giggled. "I'll wear it for you," she whispered.
Nowhere was it said to be fun. As you might have guessed, Ryan read "Playboy" for the articles. It was passionate, it was mystical, ethereal, and transcendent; as they saying went, even when it was bad it was pretty good; but fun? Playful? None of the magazines, no matter how lurid and graphic, dared so much as hint in letters, features, or articles that alternatives to unrelated, consenting adults existed even under the most rotten log in the most fetid swamp -- plastic megababes, or you were the troglodytic spawn of a harpy and satyr. Huh? Not that it was all tickles and giggles; in fact, Haley's stifled outburst, under anything but extreme provocation, would have probably sent him reeling with embarrassment and rendered him dysfunctional -- a candidate for Flintstones Viagra -- until his eighteenth birthday. In the end, it wasn't fun, the articles were right, it was passionate and ethereal, but it could be fun. Had it been fun for Marshall Bruce Mathers III when the rapper was eleven year old? The newlyweds were in a perfect position to find out, and yes, the thirty one year old did settle on the bed beside the young couple, holding them gently as they managed to sustain a languid intensity that, young and fit as they were, might well take them through to the morning. Marshall hoped he could made do with one story, told once.
"Hello?"
"Yes, I'm calling for The Third, you sound like your picture, I'm the photographer from school, Nick Farol, and I just finished doing your class, and, well not to tell tales out of school, but it so happens, well, I'm kind of new to this game -- maybe you can tell -- I used to be a disk jockey, like to talk, you know, the sound of my own voice, awesome, if you ask me, which would be hard to do, even edgewise, but I usually say something, you know, more significant than two cans of Del Monte peas, fifteen-ounce, for ninety seven cents, and, in this case I wanted to say that seeing as how I'm new, and seeing as how I'm trying to build a portfolio, and seeing as how you're the cutest kid out of all the kids your age in this part of Kansas, I wondered if I could get you to model for me, for money, yes or no."
"Were you really a disk jockey?"
"I'm only nineteen, so I'm not really anything, but yes."
"I like music. I sing and play."
"That would give us something to talk about, because posing is about like watching paint dry."
"Do you have a tape recorder?"
"No, but I can use Studio B. I do publicity photos for the station and still pinch hit at the mic when they need me."
"Cool, I thought maybe you'd been fired or something."
"Nah, I dogged it four years in track and basketball; not into quitting, but I'm too young to be lonely; don't have enough what-ifs to fill the idle hours, so I put radio on the back burner and got into photography. Maybe I'm weird, or something, but I happen to think young boys are the cutest thing running around loose, thus we have you at one end of the wire and me at the other."
"Well, I'm posing now; can you tell where my tongue is?"
"Practically in my ear."
"Then you're too bright to be a disk jockey, but photography is partially an art so the sky's the limit, except at night, then you use a strobe, probably big news, eh?"
"You talk, too."
"It's my mouth / it's not south / it's at the head of the pack / it's for school / it's for park / it's for the kiss and the snack / it's all me / like a tree / let the lightning crack / till I'm done / till I'm through / `till you're wantin' me back."
"I'm all ears."
"Are you cute. Wait! Bozo -- sorry, that's me. Did you say you took the pictures, or just that you're working in the lab."
"I took them."
"Do you remember me?"
"Ask me if I remember anyone else, it would be more subtle."
"Becky Albright?"
"Okay, that's one. Red print, white lace collar."
"I do remember you, I thought you were a kid assistant, or something."
"Thanks. I get carded everywhere but Chucky Cheese."
"Where a kid can get a kid."
"Do you think I want to get you?"
"I've got two coaches, two preachers, and my biology teacher circling me like hawks."
"How do you feel about it?"
"Not homophobic, I hang with too many bros to be anything-phobic, but each and every man-jack of them is six-pack city, and I don't mean buff abs, which looks pretend, anyway."
"How about sleepovers and hikes in the woods, tree houses?"
"Mostly I do music with three buddies, and all four of us have a girlfriend named Becky Albright."
"Sorry. I went through that age. A girl smiled over my shoulder once and I smiled back, thinking there was something a little funny about her eyes, then there was a voice behind me and it wasn't an out-of-body experience but the guy she was actually smiling at, so I didn't try it again."
"But you're totally cute. You could please the mother of a ten year old, and she'd probably let you please her daughter."
"The library was to me what your garage is to you, assuming that's where you practice, so I was out of most of the circles that were worth being in -- jocks, music, leadership, and four proms in a row."
"And while most of the kids are wracking up student loans at ten grand per signature, you're out there doing it, a double threat already. Probably can write, too, which is sad because you have to be so good at it; but the other two, spinning platters and souping film, you can go anywhere"
"Are you serious about your music?"
"Deadly so, any questions?"
"When can you get here?"
"As soon as I know the way."
"By now, you must have left something out," I said to Janet.
"Did I?" the girl wondered, eyes wide.
"You said Ryan told you every last detail," I said, "but if that's true, there's no way he could have lasted, even after what happened early in the shower with Marshall, inside a receptive virgin for as long as it took this story to begin."
"Let me think," the girl said, chewing her lip.
"No thinking necessary," I said, "I'm over three times his age, and you're not only not a virgin, you're going to have a baby, and I'm not lasting, nor was I. Her orgasm clouted her like a book to the back of the head and she bucked frantically under me, her heels beating against the backs of my thighs, her head lolling, one breast iron, the other of steel, if the right one don't smoke you, the left one weel. Something like that. She regained consciousness with the vitality of youth.
"He did cum," the girl panted up from her daze. "You're right. I forgot because he almost did, that it wasn't like on the Web, all pulsey and throbbing, just something that happened naturally between a husband and wife. Her only reaction was to nip his shoulder and tell him she loved him, and, like that, she was all the woman a woman can be, at least while she's nine years old."
Good, we had that settled.
"I don't have a lot of costumes but pick any one you like, they all hook up with Velcro."
"You sew?"
"Pretty well."
"Would it be really weird to try on like that yellow party dress?"
"Only past the door. You'll find the linen, as they used to call it, and accessories in the yellow box on the shelf. You can change in there."
"Sorry I'm taking so long."
"Are you kidding? My sister's your age and she takes longer than this to decide on her shoes."
"Okay, I'm ready, but no shoes, is that okay?"
"I think they're effeminate."
"Me, too."
"You can pretend you lured me away from a picnic."
"Marsha, did you get thistles in your panty hose?"
"Yes uncle Nick, do you think you can help me?"
"Sweetie, I'll have to come behind the tree. Don't be scared."
"See? all the way up to here."
"If I'm gentle, they may not ladder."
"The cost sixty-nine cents, please be careful."
"Yes, sweetie."
"You probably didn't see it, but I tripped and one thistle went right down my front."
"Is it worse than you legs, dear?"
"Yes, uncle Nick," ever so much worse."
"Let me help you with that button. There we go. Goodness, Marsha, it's a very lucky thing you're old enough for a bra or you might have received scratches and pricks."
"Well, you could pretend, uncle Nick, and pick the nettles out very carefully, but not too carefully because my legs are itching, too."
"Is this the best way to pretend?"
"It makes me feel very grown up."
"H'mm, I see, at the same time, you're pretending to be a girl."
"Are you sure?"
"...absolutely."
"You know what I'd like?"
"What?"
"To be -- absolutely -- sure about you."
"We both seem to have a lot to prove to each other; should we use the sofa?"
"I'm not ready for anything to happen inside me, you know, down there, is that okay?"
"Yes. How about inside your mouth?"
"Just experimenting, okay?"
"Let's just get this bra right off completely."
"Pull your shirt up so I can get the last two buttons."
"It's very erotic, raising your hips like that. No other welcome quite equals it."
"Do you do it for lots of boys?"
"The only thing that's lots for me is work, but two years ago I did it for a precocious nine year old boy."
"So we don't have to, you know, worry about stuff?"
"That ball would be in your court, if anyone's."
"I'm like awesomely safe, if nothing else."
"When you grow up you'll learn to look at things backwards, from their opposites, for perspective, For example, you say nothing else, yet my hand finds nothing but you, so nothing else suddenly becomes a warm, sensual mile. It's not meant to make sense, but when you're really interested in another person and want to get off to a slow and comfortable start, then you may have to rely on more than linear, temporal thinking in the name of dalliance and erotic deferment "
"And talking in circles helps?"
"He who would throw a sand bag into the torrent must stand on the dike to do so. In other words, the risks are so high that spoiling the event through haste is not an option."
"They aren't high with me, I think you're awesome; I'd never tell."
"Charles, he was the nine year old, he wanted to measure me. I'm sure that would be on the childish side for you."
"In video club we focus the camera with a tape measure, you know, playing Hollywood, so I know eight inches when I see it."
"You must be six. In profile, you look bigger than I do. In other words, less of you isn't excited."
"I like having you behind me."
"This is how Charles and I did it, only it was usually in the shower after he'd asked me to wash his hair."
"You can get closer."
"Would you like me in front of you. I can squat a little if I lean back against the arm of the sofa and you can rise up on your toes."
"Yes, I want to watch you."
"How do you feel about getting wet from me? I haven't done anything for a few days and I don't want to gross you out."
"I've seen what happens in magazines. Didn't look like you'd need a lifeguard or anything."
"You could do what you're doing with the training bra in your hand."
"Okay."
"Just a little weird is nice."
"I can feel you really getting bigger and harder."
"I'm cumming."
"Don't stop."
"I won't."
"I'm cumming, too."
"Did you see where I left the camera?"
"Their, Haley and Ryan's, first time was even more like brother and sister than husband and wife, but Marshall sprayed on the little girl's chest as he finished his story, and then the newlyweds became lovers. He tells the story better than I do. And it's way sweet that you're cumming in me for the third time, even though it happened six times that first tractor ride with dad."
We separated for awhile. I was feeling my age, though I had not the foggiest idea what it was.
THE END
About the author.
Thomas Cochran Emerson is entering his third year as a Web contributor. Under the pen name Feather Touch he published "Jimmy and Frogger", "The Flyyy", "Dennis the...", "Ropeyarn", "Creative Camp", "Blissy's Song", "Michelle's First Secret" and "Michelle's Second Secret". As R. Forbes Emerson, he has published "Hollywood Stories", "Santa Fe Stories", "Stonington (Me.) Stories", "The Tarzan Mushroom Hunters", and, most recently, four hundred thousand words of "One Fish at a Time", a work in progress. All his files can be found in the "Nifty.org" Archive. Most are listed under Bisexual, Adults/Young Friends. Others may be found under Bisexual Camping and one or two may be filed under the heading sf/fantasy. "Boxers or Briefs?" is listed under Gay Incest, and his latest, "Rebecca", under Bi Incest. "Fullerton Park & Ride", bi/incest. Latest addition adds yet another pen name in Pen Dragon: "Mississippi Stories -- Stephan" and "Mississippi Stories -- Janet", again, under bi/incest. In total Mr. Emerson's contributions run to some 1.1 million words. The author lives in Belize, "slightly addicted to the Caribbean." While his stories never cheat in upholding the alternative tradition, readers sallying forth with optimistic outlooks would be well advised to always download alternative material. It can be many miles of rough road between this boy losing his underpants and that girl letting big brother experiment under her training bra. Yes, you have been warned.
Emerson was born in his ancestral home of Concord, Massachusetts, in 1946, "The Year of the Porsche," in his words. An absolute devotee of the craft of leading English astray, thus providing gainful employment to those who would lead it back, he admits to being a hot-house artist with the modern word processor his soil, water, air, light, and enabling nutrient. "Hell, all I need then is a seed," he says.
Directly descended from the leading activist of the Revolutionary War, and scion of a family that includes the most quoted man in history, his poet and philosopher great great grandfather; the CEO of AT&T during the heyday of Bell Labs and Western Electric, and other luminaries ranging from two governors (Winthrop and Bradford) of the Plymouth Colony to the founder of American Standard, he views his (native) countrymen as his subjects, and writes of and to them accordingly. His hobbies are limited to photography and trying to explain Samantha, his fifteen-year-old girlfriend, to an unamused father. Since flattery got him everywhere, he likes the occasional reader letter.
Quote: "Was the phrase `adult entertainment' coined just for me?"
Posted by Thomas@btl.net.
xxx