Date: Wed, 27 Feb 2002 09:46:50 -0600 From: Tom Emerson Subject: Hollywood Stories - Grace Hollywood Stories - Grace (M/F, mmmmm/F/M, inc., ped., oral, mast.) by R. Forbes Emerson Nothing should be inferred from the use of media personalities in this story. The human corpse. Tragic to loathsome. Sometimes, interesting. The bodies were buried in very dry sand with a high content of salts and minerals. Their fabrics, especially, had stood the thousands of years and so preserved traits of love and affection that the archeologists would weep over as they proceeded with their tender investigations. Then, two day before, a pretty scrap of shawl with tiny bird feathers had simply stopped the dig. Since the youngster had been buried in a seated, vertical position, her shawl warded off even meticulous science. Carefully they returned the desert sand and gave the long dead child back her eternity. "We're not meant to get so -- involved," Grace Carol sighed to her father. "It's never been like this," the sixty-year old desert fox answered, puffing on that throwbacks of throwbacks, a pipe. "When the boys started getting watery-eyed, well, that's never happened before. In some instances, mummies have been used as firewood." It was a nice place to be having the conversation. But for a single small trunk of electronics, they might as well have been with Marco Polo or King Tut. The ageless sky hammered out its starlight, the dunes of the Sahara loomed in rigid moonlight over eight camels, two horses, and a camp. To the south, though it made no difference, was an Arab tent, to the north, and maybe it did make a difference, was a twenty foot Bedouin tent that served as office and quarters. Grace had her own separate quarters. All three of the linen structures were faired into the desert in semi-permanent placement and centered on a fire the size of a wagon wheel. The dig was just to the east, and the ramada, to the west so the rising sun would highlight any animal who'd wandered off in the night. The two days since The Find had been spent in using the computer to trace new burial sites, and a good deal of overburden had been shoveled up to form the neat earthworks of professionals. Grace knew as a certainty that she could easily find the precise place on the earthworks where the loved one had been unearthed; succeeding areas of wall, for it was a sort-of wall, stood straighter and were more precisely sculpted in their gentle circle of the simple tombs. "Removing the overburden created a burden," Grace though to herself. Normally, they'd work late into the night, cataloguing, indexing and generally working with the articles retrieved by Finarre, Cerence, Killeel, Cranphoo, and Faruk, their guides and crew. They were called Boys by Dr. Grace, because they were boys, and ranged in age from Faruk, just twelve, to Finarre, a strapping eighteen year old, with such fire in his eyes Grace had been tempted to hold a slide in from of him to see if it could be viewed on the wall of their headquarters tent. The boys were of a family, none brothers, all cousins, and Finarre's father made a point of visiting in his shiny but ancient Twin Beech every second day, circling, talking on the radio, then flying off wondering why he'd wasted gas on such happy campers. "I think of this as a religious time," Owen Carol mused from the sparse rocking chair he allowed as a rare symbol of his senior Arabian status. "Nothing to do between now and sunrise, how would it be possible not to conjure up stories of the great mysteries and unknowns?" He gave the church credit for its cleverness in peddling myth as a balm for confusion at ten percent of the buyer's earnings, but it ended there. What could be more obvious than tales on a star blasted Arabian night? Maybe one day he would write his own. Grace was delighted just to hear her father's voice and sat almost purring on her birthday present of some years earlier, a red silk pillow with gold fringe. She'd never used it, only filling the oversize casing with cotton now that she was back with him and on a dig, as she'd promised herself on unwrapping the expensive fabric on the occasion of turning eighteen . Like the rocking chair, it was a dash of luxury in a world neither opulent nor crimped. He'd traveled and written, she'd maintained averages and haunted libraries, paying her dues largely out of sight, but never out of her father's mind. Who'd believe in a religion that kept his little tomboy wonder child at such distances for such stretches of slow, old time? Pshaw, they'd do better to make up there own little set of totems and rituals. Maybe they would. The boys were special this trip. Word of professor Carol's gentle ways, and his absolute willingness to dig, and have his students dig, over many years and on many sites, had earned him the cream of the large Muslim family who served a select grouping of small colleges. And there had been a shift in even this gentle, happy-camp state of affairs after The Find. No sooner had the immediate emotion of their sad violation begun to pass than there was a tightening of ranks, yes, partly expressed in the meticulous engineering of what was merely a waste wall, but in hotter tea at breakfast and most notably in deeper smiles that came more quickly and stayed a little longer. Subtle, like how Faruk really did walk the horses a full mile after his morning joy rides; the way he'd parade along the ridge, holding forth his sword to Allah, was not quite so subtle, but he was twelve years old, and bound to play. But now whichever horse he rode returned dry and not almost, or nearly, or just-about dry. Owen Carol rocked, finished his pipe, and looked at his daughter. Would it ever stop being a shock, this beauty that seemed to be done, forever, with biting her fingernails? Student hair, lightest gold, and kept out of the way as best as was possible in ten seconds a day. Wide brow and huge eyes lost in green worlds of their own. Her neck was like that of a royal swan, and fell to a body that could have been ten years old for its downy skin and milk coloring, but which swelled with high, full breasts abundant even for her twenty-two years. The researcher let his mind to the lack of fate in his life. Because he prevailed, he had ample credentials to name his time, name his place, and name his crew. Waiting also played a crucial role; waiting for Grace to go through the annealing years of school, and waiting for a dig so small, so out of the way, and so delicate that he'd have every reason to have a crew of one. That he would have picked his daughter if she'd been a he named Clyde Clock, and a smelly he at that, made him doubly and triply proud. She was the best qualified for this dig, leaving a nepotism factor of zero. He was actually here. Five days and he'd gone nowhere, never been out of her sight until she slipped off to her private digs around midnight, there to lie aware until sleep overcame her and she drifted off on an Arabian desert with a happy heart. It was only around eight. Sparks glowing through the fabric showed that the boys were bracing up the fire and she could hear their quiet, competent talk as they settled fire and animals; could picture Killeel, sixteen, racing diagonally along the highest dune to check the horizon one last time, and indeed, the boy did report clouds moving from the Northwest, precursors to a warm desert evening. . For entertainment, she looked at her dad, six feet away and rocking. She'd never, that she could remember, seen him sitting without a book, magazine or tablet for his own writing. She'd fought with many of them over the years, always seeming to easily win a place for her bottom in his lap. Owen Carol was a big man, six feet, six inches tall. It had always worried him; the George Washington syndrome; being picked, just for one's size. Made him work harder, is all, and in the vaguest of ways he cursed his stature; if he'd been normal, he could have slept with the little effort needed to get slowly to the top; not had to make doubly sure his physique and countenance had nothing to do with the wheels within wheels that outsiders referred to as academia. In appearance, he looked vaguely like Jeff Chandler when he played in "South Pacific," though so much desert over so many season had rendered him more craggy and serious-faced than the actor, and of course he was taller.. Totally non-frivolous, Grace thought, yet endless fun. It was a nice combination in a man: slow smile, deep smile. His hair was steel colored, and sparse but distinctly there and crinkly on his swimmer's broad but not boxy chest. Now she could look at his modestly open white shirt without coloring, but the memories had taken three full says to quell enough that she could look and not flush at first glance. No point in staring though; those far off eyes could be anywhere, but return in an instant. Hmm. Might be nice if they did. The music. That had changed the very night of The Find. It was softer now; started earlier, was played by the boys closer to the great tent, and went softly on longer into the deepening night. And weren't they on the verge of overdoing it, this soft night? The whistles slid softly, the lutes strummed in undercurrent, and the tambourine seemed to have lost its penchant for cavorting and to have settled into a slight and jingling beat, soft as a beating heart. Ta-ta tum, ta-ta tum, ta-ta tum. "Do you miss having students along?" Grace asked. "I might have a few years ago," the desert fox replied, smiling down at the winsome lass sitting Indian style on her big red pillow. She was dressed in cargo shorts and a crisp, white blouse; boyish clothes that accented the trace of youthful male adding wonder and mystery to the high cheekbones and slight freckling of her oval face. Legs, boyish, too. Long, slim and beautifully muscled with just a subtle trace of concavity gracing her inner thighs, visible even underneath her shorts. Grow Molly Ringwald just a few years from her "Pretty in Pink" days, and that was a fair approximation of Grace Carol. "It must have been fun having a couple of dozen undergrads running around," she said. "Paper chase writ in sand," he acknowledged, to her girlish giggle. Since submissions from Dr. Carol's various digs made the top journals, they'd obviously been up to more than cuneiform rendered with a feather. She loved that he didn't have a beard. Clean shaven. In her final year at school she'd wondered if she could endure walking into even one more ever-lovin' lecture hall to take a seat in front of yet another academic bush, half of whom seemed to go out of their way to sport overdone youthful specs that rendered the disagreeable downright offensive. Of the six or eight thousand reasons she was glad to be offshore, her dad's clean, real face was perhaps number three or four. Was she that prejudiced and insensitive; politically incorrect? If her father ditched the razor, would she feel differently about him? She feared she would and was grateful for the surety with which this would not happen., `less the man was dying, in which case she'd happily lend a loving hand with his Norelco until he shot at her. Something to think about in maybe twenty-five years; meantime, watching him throw dirt three boys away as they peeled away ton after ton of sand was a whole lot more interesting. Shirt off, he shed his sweat like the modified crossing of a rhino and a gorilla, the crinkly mass light on his full man's chest laving her half giddy with a need to strip herself to the waist. The boys with their lutes, fifes and tambourines seemed to have moved subtly closer, and had been less than subtle in imbuing their soft songs with lilting vocalizing that was a million miles removed from the churning Arabic of competing merchants. And the wafting tones were having their effect. Not suddenly, but distinctly, it had become difficult for father to be with daughter and girl to be with man. But you couldn't very well look away from music, pretend it wasn't there. And it was only eight, the boys were just warming up. On two of the first nights, the crew, Faruk through Finarre, had visited to play cards and practice their English. One would think, with the non-existent nature of the evening work load, they would have been more eager than ever to visit and hobnob. Hmm. Then, like Saliery seeing the emperor yawn, twice, she saw her father gulp. Her nipples hardened immediately without time for the vaguest coherent thought; she tingled in her groin as deep as the base of her spine. The subtle wiry hair of him, the no-nonsense face that could be melted in certain ways for certain periods of time, and the wrongness of where he was, all radiated through Grace. Set her quietly shaking. "Dad," she asked, "don't you think you're a little over English for the locale?" "Rocking on a carpet over sand is good exercise," Owen said, somewhat lamely. He'd been the one to gulp. The beauty of his daughter was bearable, just by a fraction, but bearable. The music was more bearable, but, added to the big breasted, long legged girlish wonder just feet away, it created a tension that could have held the tent in place if a thief were to sneak in and quietly abscond with all the poles. Grace gulped. It was like yawning, one triggered the other until they took conscious control. Since they were already exerting extreme efforts to avoid each others eyes, they both felt a simultaneous loss of control of their twenty foot circle, gracefully accessorized with minimal carpets and gifts from their friends of many years. Grace had accompanied her father several times during her school years, so some were old friends, others bespoke adventures of which she had only second-hand knowledge. To be so at home, so far from nowhere, and to be so dizzy, not a drop of wine in camp, being so fully at home. It had to be more than the music and the lamps, bells, candle holders and coffee urn; more than the occasional luster of the gold of a special treasure, or the silver more common, had to be. For long minutes the rising tide in Grace felt like homesickness, then she recognized it for what it was. A nausea at the very thought of ever being away from this home, be it big tent, little tent, big house, little house, or almost no house atall. Sleeping bags in the Yukon might have been stretching it, but anything over and above that unlikely scenario was simply him. Homeman. If they had homeboys, why not? It certainly worked for her. "I think they have the wrong idea," Owen Carol commented. The music was going all but bump-grind, bump-grind, bump-grind. It had been fun to giggle at his arch observations as a twelve year old and Grace found it better by far at twenty-two, though it did make her breasts surge and ache anew. Five days, and she had hardly got used to the thrill of just being near him; she'd ached for any opportunity to be closer, and now there was a beautiful little opening, like the yawning emperor. "How wrong is their idea, Dad," she asked, her voice low over the soft music permeating the tent and dancing with the half dozen candles and their soft shed of golden glow. "What do you mean?" the man whispered low over a single flute. "We've never talked," the girl said. "Not that we've had many chances. Now might be the time." All soft side now. "What's on your mind, darling," Owen asked. "It's been so many years, I don't know if it even matters anymore," Grace said, "but it won't not matter until I tell you." "Tell me what?" the doctor asked. "First," Grace responded, "tell you to gather yourself around, which means off your rocker, and onto yon vast pillow so you may lie in comfort and dream as you will as you hear my story of Africa." Dr. Carol was mystified by his daughter's request, but any confusion was lost in the beauty of the moment. The tall girl rose, extended her right hand, the father rose to it, and she led him to his place, Egyptian cotton, more suitable for the rawness of him than her slinky red silk. "Sit," she whispered, and they settled on their backs a foot apart like two addicts in an opium den. "Warm," Owen commented. It was. Grace knew this was a result of a rare night cloud cover; the desert usually chilled soon after sunset, tonight it hadn't. It was nice to have it warm. Warm like Africa. Part of the story Owen Carol knew from letters and general feedback. Doctor Egan, both a name and title, he was always called Doctor Egan, Bet's second, love-at-first-sight, husband. Doctor Egan worked on the coast as researcher and general consultant to quiet agency that placed finely honed bits of talent here, there and were needed on various theatrical and documentary productions. He and Bet had taken Grace to Africa to work on the second Pet Detective film, and the girl, looking her tomboy cutest, had been signed to a speaking part. His daughter had kept him very much in the dark (after all, it was Africa, she'd rationalized), finally presenting her big moment, since he'd rarely get to a theater, on a hand duped Beta tape. If he lived to be a hundred, Owen Carol would always remember his loneliest moment as watching the tape, the girl's silly aping, off in Timbuktu. He thought right through the earth to England, where she'd by now returned to school, and assumed she got the message. The man looked to his left. Smiling eyes peering back, and now more than smiling, now deeper with a need that slowly refocused as a palpable need to share. Share Africa. "What?" he whispered to her. "I just don't know how you're going to feel," she began, her eyes big, her hair loose and all around on her pillow as she gazed at him. "I know how I'm going to feel if you don't tell me what's on your mind," her father observed, demonstrating that which could be so special about him, a firm grasp of the obvious. "It was that totally, dumb-ass rhino," Grace began. "The mostest, stupidest of dumbest dumb-dumb scenes ever to be boarded or clapped." That was cool, the archeologist thought to himself; he'd never heard his daughter use insider talk, and she'd spent half her life around sound stages as Bet's number two raked in his third of a million doing this and that. He assumed she meant story boarded and shot, after being `clapped.' Technicalities aside, it was dumb. Mixing a moron and a rhino could hardly be expected to yield high theater, but even high trash had alluded cast and crew in their execution of rhino and strident imbecile. Of course the audiences had liked it, the heat, the spastic plastic fan, the moron all-a-freakin', the ray of light from salvation, and, in the theatrical version, the departure of naked zygote from ersatz giant herbivore via birth canal. Grace tried to explain. "They hid it behind a sheet. None of us knew, Hank and Carol, who played my parents, and Becky who played my little sister. We did the lines as our Land Rover pulled up to a big sheet held on poles. These were removed when the AD called First Action. Then he called Action. I had a camera right in my face, and when Jim started clawing his way out -- no one didn't freak. Hank almost did hurl, Becky cried that she was scared and hid her eyes, and everyone was carrying on so you'd think a rhinoceros had just given birth to a mangoloid right in front of us." It was pretty dumb, but she went on with the story anyway. "Finally they yelled Cut and everyone got to dancing around, that's kind of the way it is with Jim, half the time the scene after the scene is better than the scene. "Doctor Egan came up with a bottle of champagne and filled a glass for me. We partied for awhile, and he stayed with me. "Dad," she whispered just loud enough to be heard over the quiet music filtering in from the desert, "I won't say I didn't mean for it to happen. If I had it to do over again, it would happen again. Doctor Egan was terrific with us; always talking about you, I guess perpetually embarrassed about what had happened with him and mom, but still not loving her less because you were so and so not involved. Mom was just in love, and god, do I ever forgive her for that." Both lay back on their pillows to lose themselves for a few moments. "He started by just complimenting me on my line, and meant it for what it was. I was so amazed by the special effects, I just yelled COOL without even thinking. Of course the timing was just when Jim stood up, naked, but that was a coincidence, sort-of." Owen looked over to see her pretty coloring, and arranged himself more comfortably on his Arabian size pillow when he noted the heave to her big breasts. "Do you love me?" she asked. "Madly enough, I suppose," Owen replied. "Do you want to come closer while I tell you?" she asked, her voice coaxing gentle as a feather. "Nubile students?" he replied, "never touch the stuff." "Lucky I've got a bio connection, then, isn't it?" she chortled, moving close, all but touching, next to him. "It's just the music," she soothed. "Which is to say the desert is just the starlight," he responded, not trying to make any sense, just checking to see if his voice still worked. "Dad," she whispered. "it happened with him. Two hours after the scene, by a big flame tree on a ridge, with lions chasing gazelles and gazelles eating grass, all around. I don't want it to be a secret. It wasn't a secret with mom, not for ten minutes after we got back to camp. She understood and hugged my up and down, and I want you to." "If we were at a conference or in church, I'd hug you up and down, too," the scientist allowed, adding, "that's just how I feel.". That was her dad. And he was taking in his arms, yielding to hot gravity. Einstein thought time was relative? How about the attraction of minor masses? "We talked," Grace whispered, going on with her story. "Talking is good, and whispering is even better." The beauty paused, thoughtfully, and seemed to come to a conclusion. Whispering politely, she took a brief departure, leaving Owen with music and memories. He'd tried not to think of this kind of thing, an effort that compounded its futility exponentially. As a McKenzie Phillips type on digs, the deepest of holes surrounded her, to the point that in his mind she became the princess of the donut. Big earthen trench circling the more diminutive efforts of a wee lass. It was hard to think of Grace as tuition checks and holiday tickets at such times, and sometimes he didn't even try. In the end, what good would it have done? How long would the most detached virtue have lasted after the tawny beauty slipped back into the tent, dropping her robe as she approached, eyes huge, and settled on her knees at his waist, Jeannie with her Mater, with her light brown hair, and with her tiny cut-glass vials. Her silk was now fashioned as though she might rise to tend sheep in ancient Greece, the tracery of her bra and panties accenting how beautiful she was. She held up the first of her tiny glass jars. "This is for us," she whispered, from Doctor Egan's agency. It is a pheromone distilled from that which is retrieved and from the plumbing of a large girl's school, then buffered in the laboratory. It is a musk which overcomes the natural lack of scent between partners engaging in biological incest. With such a start, is it any wondered Owen assumed the second vial held enough of whatever it held to propel a freight train safely to the moon and return in safely to earth. The scientist in him, perhaps guilty of thinking a bit small, leaving it to the writer in me to think a bit big. "It's an extended time lubricant," the girl explained. "I want to masturbate very slowly while I tell my story, and it's a long story. Understand?" Giving all the thanks there was to be had in the temporal state that his daughter had no third bottle, Owen lay still like fallen iron. As she leaned forward, her light cotton draped exposing the girlish blend of her large breasts and moon white skin into the softness of her throat and shoulders, pixie and Pandora. She mussed and fussed a little over the buttons, and managed to use even less care with his belt and the zipper of his stock safari shorts. "This will make it easier," Grace said, holding forth the first of her bottles. If he was truly out of it, she could get his shorts down, unaided, but with the musk, it would be more like power steering, or so she hoped. Returning the bottle to her chest, she dropped a pearl of the contents on her finger and applied it to her throat, leaning back to her panting father to share the remainder of the slight wetness by spreading it on his throat, too. The man fought the evil and its siren scent by rolling on his side, away from the be-frocked child. Then the musk fanged him good, and nature's way of telling man to find another girl in the valley was neutered by smart brains in expensive labs who'd devised a primitive and feral version of Superglue. The archeologist's fight lasted less than a minute, and though he gave in slowly, he nevertheless ended again at his daughter's waist, hips generous inches in the air. "And this one is for you," she cooed, softly, dropping the pretty bottle where she'd be able to retrieve it. In moments he'd taken care of his shirt while Grace got him just exactly the way she wanted him. As his brief's cleared his ankles the big, powerful man spread himself like a twelve year old boy for an adored scout master. Even before she touched him, his penis was a monster he hadn't seen in years, even changing to wild colors for the occasion of a special meeting. As the girl loaned forward to pick up the bottle she whispered, "Don't worry, it's double acting." Still in her Greek dress, she dispensed a few drops of the ichor onto her right palm, worked it around for a few seconds, then, staring into her father's wide steel eyes, she found him. Cupped the big, hot plum of his flaring glans, wet him, and stroked him long and slow to the base of his seven-inch shaft. Grace shifted to between the powerful, corded legs with their sexual hair, and doubled a pillow under the man. Neither made the slightest sound, neither breathed a breath of air, and frozen as they were in first union was how it began. As Grace stared from inches away, a warning flow oozed, thick to almost clotting. and it wasn't much of a warning. Barely had she comprehended what her father was doing with her, than he really started doing it. She held firmly with her right hand, aiding now with her left. The extra pressure seemed to be the final straw, and with the slightest violent tremor imaginable Owen came-off. Still they were silent, the only sound the insect like hiss when his sperm jetted into the air, and either an earthy splatter sound for his bolts that arched high and back to his own now heaving chest, or, with a second delicate sizzle if she guided his male spray to her bare shoulders or long, naked throat. Twenty years of waiting, because she'd clearly wanted him at two, and now two minutes hardly shorter than centuries as the powerful man came his first hot lust, then settled to a varying flow, still punctuated by a silent, savage spurt just when there could not be anything more to him, possibly. Heedless of him the way she'd made him, Grace pulled her lover onto his left side, and soaked her delicate Grecian costume as she snuggled closed and kissed his neck, picking up her story as her dad's massive breathing slowly settled. They'd started to discuss whispering, she reminded him. . "Now you're meant to ask if He whispered with He," she said, after reminding Owen that her unguent was double-acting, "and then I'd reply, very softly, very tenderly, that yes, he taught me to whisper." "Glad I asked," Owen said, so frozen in fear it really was becoming a wonder he could speak. What had happened. Someone had used fireworks against a prowling submarine. That's how it seemed, though the memory had long gaps seeing as it covered such a relatively short time. "We started in the Land Rover," Grace continued. "Of course, we couldn't whisper whisper over the engine, but he let his voice get deep and husky and I did too. "Now you're meant to ask what we whispered about." she cued, little stage critter that she'd been. "I'll remember, next time," Owen said, trying as hard as he could not to whisper. "It's telling everything that's important," Grace said. "Sharing, but more. The one who tells, re-lives, the one who hears, shares, and, as a bonus, it's cure number one for secretitis, which is not always a healthy condition for happy couples, married or otherwise." "Glad you added that last bit," the scientist said. "It was frivolous," Grace replied, seeming to correct herself just by her tone. "It's true, though, or as true as anything can be." The girl's soft voice settled back into her story. "Doctor Egan rounded me up as the party broke up. Everyone was busy on the next scene, and he picked the bottle of champagne up from its ice bucket and said, `Let's take baby for a ride.' "I'd had two glasses, so I thought it was extra funny, but I would have gone, anyway. He'd been working hard on that stupid fake rhino, so mom and I had hardly seen him, and by this time, she was off to spend the afternoon shooting stills with her poker buddy, Mary Shields. She was the art director." Nice to hear Bet hadn't changed her lively ways. World's easiest separation and divorce, that had been. Five passionate years together, then mountainous differences in aspirations, so high and steep it was pointless even attempting a bridge. Relationships are, they aren't. They can't. There is more; there is the future and use of one's privilege for its betterment. Doctor Egan had done it in Hollywood, Bet, not bound to technical slides of antiquities, had come fully alive in photo and fashion journals, and he? He'd come alive as an Egyptologist, recently come a cropper over a wisp of ancient cloth not much larger than a bandana. No hard feelings, just soft memories, and he'd never quite figured out whether he should feel complicated or perhaps a bit shocked that his replacement with Bet could have been his brother and almost his twin. It had been vastly easy for Grace and her siblings; just made sense to everyone. And low and behold, the intervening years of celibacy had added that ten percent in productivity that, over the years, had allayed his guilt for getting where he was because of how it seemed he looked in the eyes of others. No woman like Bet, and that was pretty much the end of that, but not completely. He had his secrets, as did his child. "We started off at one-thirty, lunch on top of the wine so we wouldn't scare the lions." "Lord have mercy," Owen groaned to himself, "he let her drive." If the loneliest moment of his life had been watching the Ace Ventura tape, the most tormented had been in disallowing her to take off on her onesies in, coincidentally, another Land Rover. If it had been a bench seat, where he could have sat next to her, he would have been happy to let her fool around a little, but not with the shifters and bucket seats separating them, not at age seven. She hadn't gotten mad, but then she hadn't had to. Now here she was tooling around on the veldt, still years and years under age for a license. The important thing was that she'd survived. "Did you know you can't learn to use gears just by watching?" Grace went on, her whispering at once as soothing as the boys, and the more exciting. "But I figured them out, and just pretended it was a bicycle and I was a kid and didn't know what I was doing. He even asked me to speed up..." He might have known. "...and thought it was funny when I pulled on the hand throttle and steered with my feet. He said, `Yes, lass, any way that keeps the rubber on the sod,' and pretended he wasn't interested. "And this," she coed across the inches separating her from her father, "is where you're meant to ask me if I suspected anything, you know, if I had any idea what was going to happen." "This is where most fathers would send their daughters off to bed," Owen observed. She ignored his by-play, her breasts ached too urgently to give it a thought. "Dad," she whispered back, "what's the last thing that happened with you. I want to tell you everything, whether you think you want me to, or not, and my dream for tonight is that you will tell me, too. The things that happened, what they were like, how you felt about them, everything. That way, we'll be able to have special, embarrassing things to blush over at awkward moments, you know, like if at some future time the issue of reticence should ever come up in a conversation with strangers." And he'd bothered sending her to college? Held her back? Stunted her growth? His shame left him speechless, and in need of no strangers to witness his discomfiture. Finally he did find his voice; usually could if it was important. "Whatever happened, Grace," he said softly, "your stepfather gets his own hall of fame for raising you. You are a true beauty and an absolute delight to me, and, as I said, I love you madly." "Then listen to the music, my beloved, " she whispered, "and let our secrets join us." "I'll try," Owen said. "Pretty soon I settled down, and we were purring along at about twenty miles an hour, sticking to an established track so we wouldn't impact." "You were terrific, darling," Doctor Egan said, "you're dad's going to melt when he sees you." "It was way cool, with the sheet," Grace said, blushing. They ambled along for some minutes. "I feel different," Grace said, interrupting a comfortable silence. "How?" Doctor Egan asked. "All over. All through. I mean before I would have seen the rhino and I would have wanted to line it up in the sights of the big Mauser, wouldn't have cared if it knocked me for another loop. Now, weird as it was, I'm different. Seeing the beast as a mom. I mean even moms can make mistakes, so the end result wasn't her fault, but what was going on, underneath, so to speak." "Your mom and I have been talking," Doctor Egan said, "and wondering if it would happen to you slowly, days, weeks, months, or fast, even instantly, one minute you're a kiddo on a bike, then a certain incident, a certain look or touch or word, and, hold-the-phone, you've gone smack dab from kid to girl." "So you know," the pixie said, blushing slightly and concentrating on the trail winding its way gracefully up the side of a gentle valley. She'd resumed steering with her hands. "Not much privacy at your age," Doctor Egan observed. Grace smiled a bit ruefully, and nodded. When she finally dared a look at him, she brought the vehicle to an easy stop. "You drive," she said, "I'm not old enough to drive and talk, and I want to talk." What had done it? The same as now. The hint of wiry hair on a man's chest, that was okay, that hint on a man she loved equally to her natural father made her unsafe to operate heavy machinery, nor would she have taken liberties with a pair of scissors. The birthing, the man, and the whole entirety of Africa. She was underdeveloped, looked hardly more than nine or ten; underdeveloped, too, because of her visceral need for libraries of any kind in any language she read. Underdeveloped, subject to change without notice. Now she was sitting in the passenger seat, and not doing a whole lot of talking. Her comic little mind debated the wisdom of giving up her first chance to really drive -- for this? If he was a nice man he'd ask her... "I don't know where to begin, quite," Doctor Egan said, "other than to say that once, and more, upon a time there was a step dad who loved his stepdaughter very much, who respected her more, if possible, and who cherished her as much as the beautiful mother who bore her and the father to whom she will always belong." "Maybe he could ask some questions," Grace whispered nervously, "because his stepdaughter has been a girl for a very short while, and doesn't quite know what to say." "I guess he'd want to know if the girl, however new, loved him." "I love you," Grace whispered over the noise of the Rover. "No," the man responded, "if the Girl loved him." "The kid did it her way, and the girl is delighted to inherit, she loves you." "Grace," the driver said, looking across at the elfin beauty still riding shotgun, but a foot nearer on the bench seat, "something happened with your mom when she was about your age. She credits it with allowing her to succeed, to concentrate in the darkroom and chemistry labs, to let society whiz on by while she trained to be who she is. She wants this for you. Frankly, it scares the hell out of me, what she wants. It shouldn't. It's nothing more than happens with all the kids who join Dan's agency, but you're not a kid with stars in her eyes, or, at least you weren't at breakfast. That makes it different. Your life is the library, just as your mother's is the studio and lab; and you may want to proceed with your life, just as you are." "I think," the tomboy said, "that it might be easy to love a stepfather who beats around the bush, but I'm not sure how much patience she'd be willing to -- SHARE." "Well," the man gulped, "I guess I'm in for a pound. Has anything happened with you, yet?" "Yes," the girl replied, "I've read "Lolita." "Do they cut to the chase in that yarn?" Doctor Egan deadpanned, unsuccessfully, because the little girl giggled and launched herself across the seat and against his right shoulder, leaning in to bite his neck. "Kid to girl to giant chicken," the driver said, "what's on for the rest of the afternoon?" "Chicks," Grace thought to herself with a blush, "starting with this chicklet unless he doesn't want me to keep on being the happiest girl in the world." Out loud, she was a little more demure. "I was thinking we could give Rover a rest, save gas, and find a place to roost until diner time." "And what does Rover say?" Doctor Egan queried. "What would you say," the girl giggled, "if someone kept throttling you all the time." "Guess I'd Land," came the silly response. "Up in that flame tree?" the girl rejoined in an instant, pointing to a bluff half a mile ahead. "They have thorns on their branches," the man observed. "Put there by god to keep off morons," the girl said, "leaving the entire continent of Africa for you to maneuver in." Sensing his pixie of a stop daughter was not in a mood for a tour, Doctor Egan guiding the vehicle free of the trail and gently under the beautiful tree. For long minutes they sat listening to the click of the cooling engine and gazing out over a tiny blip of Africa that stretched twenty miles and held easy thousands of animals. The girl moved across the seat, his right arm went around her, and she leaned comfortably into his tall, powerful torso. "Are you nervous?" the man asked the child. "Totally," she said, "almost as much as I would be if you were one of the jocks at school and I was wondering if it would be Chlamydia or just a little touch of herpes, with a few warts so I'd never forget." "You guys live in interesting times, for sure," the consultant replied. "We're blessed to live at the end of time," the girl replied. "People are getting so big, and so fat, it can't last. Our slice is the last serving on the plate" "It was nice of them to make it the best helping," the man observed. "It is ironic," said the girl in response. "but I guess fitting. Inevitable. People can't help wanting and voting for their wants, and they don't want anyone cutting off their snack food and closing down their fry joints." "The sad thing is," the adult added, "is they don't for the most part even want to experiment seriously with cloning - full human usage. That's the one thing that could save us over the next fifty or sixty years; designer kids." "Anything would be better than the lumps we're getting from nature," Grace agreed. "Your dad has the right idea," Doctor Egan mused. "probably isn't an extra ten pounds on an entire crew..." "... including whites, after they've been on site for a few weeks, " Grace added. She didn't mean `Whites,' and was merely using a shortcut to indicated foreigners to the desert. "You don't appear to be afflicted," the stepfather observed. "Listening to you being with Mom at night," the girl whispered, "does not make me want to take any chances. Not many fat girls get a man like you." Good observation. It was a sweaty little secret at Smiling Eyes, Doctor Egan's agency, that certain vigorous activities amongst children were encouraged partly so the boys and girls would stay in shape. Seemed sort of crass, but then a flopping belly on a ten year old was not exactly the last word in human dignity or elegance, either. Add to this the happy fact that most normal kids suffered very little in the way of mental development, and the philosophy made double sense. Intellectually broad, narrow at the waist. A certain child, and she looked about eleven, was sure-enough, a prime candidate. Serendipity, that would be a good word for Grace's enthusiasm. And on closer inspection, Doctor Egan noted an extra cute inch on his sprightly passenger. He'd never looked at her wantonly, as her natural father had from time to time during the donut digs of her teens, but a thing like that can change in an instant. Yes, Grace was just a little big down there, and it was a no-joking reason. Of course, none of the reason for being alone with here were exactly light amusement, but even so few extra pounds at her age and on her medium frame separated library lump from delicious doll. She'd do so well, either way, the whole morality play of his plans for the child were probably stillborn, moot and irrelevant. Yes, yes, but why take chances? They looked out over the veldt dabbled with ponds and lakes of sunlight that rolled across the land, guided to the horizon by the sheep in the sky called clouds. Doctor Egan squeezed the girl gently to him, and she snuggled and purred, pretending she was a happy old house cat. "I wonder how many girls," Grace mused, "have gotten to grow up with a man like you in a place like this?" "My thoughts would be a little different," the man replied, "and so I wonder how many men have ever been lucky enough to have a stepdaughter like young Miss Grace, movie star, and beautiful Miss Grace, human being." "Happy Miss Grace," the girl whispered, "even if she is a little dorky looking." "That's a joke," Doctor Egan chided the child, "you're more attractive than a dozen mirror queens with their temporary complexions and dainty teeth. They think so much of themselves, when a man thinks of them, it's an intrusion and an affront." "Doesn't sound good," the sweetie pie observed. :"And it gets worse," Doctor Egan said, "especially at ten or eleven in the evening," "At bedtime?" the girl asked, with a giggle. "Ain't no such thing, Ma'am, not if'n they're pretty enough, why no, young lady, in them there cases, ain't no place for a man in the looking glass." "Might muss somethin', way I hear it," Grace drawled. "Might do a dab of trouble to the waistline, just for good measure," the man played with his yummy charge, ward and friend. Grace giggled softly. Sat thoughtfully for a few moments, and reached with her right hand to touch the man at his throat. "Do you think Ill get a baby from being with you?" she asked, her voice soft as a lamb. "That would make it uncomfortable to study, baby wants to play, mommy wants to read; I mean, think of carrying a kid around in a papoose, then swallow the papoose." "So we have to be sensible?" she asked, looking up with wide eyes that would never make a man feel sensible. "Impossible," he said, "we have to take chances. If something happens, you'll know within days, and we'll have you back to your grind in no time at all; trade a pollywog for a woman." "I hope it does," Grace whispered, "even if it was just for a day or two after the little thing turned blue." Doctor Egan didn't know whether to be bemused or nonplussed by Grace's yearning. Was that what was next, designer pregnancies? The blue stick, then an hour in a clinic; oops, on Monday, funeral on Friday? He remembered what Dan had told him bout Mikey; a man doing a certain daily function with a boy while in the shower, or doing it in the boy's mouth. Different strokes for different folks. On one hand, the girls was right; a pollywog would be sacrificed for a human experience, and how much more was there? Every Monday and every Friday. Absurd. Monthly, extremely unlikely. Once a year? That sounded like having fun in the shower, while not making kinky a way of life. Of course, the way things were, with ten year olds showing their baby places in ultra low-cut capris, limiting little buns in those tender little ovens might be hard to sell as an annual event; maybe one for Christmas and a second for a girl's little birthday would suit Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public. If the logic was twisted, maybe it simply synched with ever turning mass realities. Treating children to be like adults had many facets, and everyone at Doctor Egan's agency knew that some of these went beyond the physical. What would be the ramifications of girls knowing a child, at least spiritually, then sacrificing it after a few days for her own future? In the man's mind in played out as follows: there would come a day for most females when the ritual, whether annual or semi-annual, would stop. When blue would be true blue. Wouldn't that day be the more special considering what had gone into it? On the other hand, it made for an easy cartoon. Inevitably a little girl, maybe and older version of Margaret, enemy of Denis. When the artist gets done, there's a twelve year old showing her boyfriend a row of stoppered test tubes. "That was Larry in '97, and this one's Daddy in '01, and you know Coach Jones? this is his from May in '02, and the last's from Dad last week.." Made him horny just to think about it, and the counter cartoon was a kid so fat there wasn't room for her little chemistry set. Touché. Doctor Egan blanched at the realization of how little the fencer's touch would mean to a barrel kid, and went about his responsibility with renewed commitment... "Darling," the consultant said to his precious date, "would you like to talk about the physical side of it?" "'Lolita' raises more questions than it answers," the girls responded. "I know," Doctor Egan whispered, "that's why I'm asking. It can happened between us silently, clinically, so you'll reach home knowing, but not having shared and with much still private. Or, we could talk frankly. Different people like different things when they make love." "Which do you want?" the girl asked. "To talk, to have you answer question, to tell you what I'm going to do. To share the experience like good little Californians." "Oh," the girl chirped spontaneously, "I think we have more to share than anyone who voted for or against Gray." "So you'd like to talk a little?" Doctor Egan queried. "A little?" she answered with her patent friendly giggle. "Okay," he said, "it's what we believe in at S.E., honesty without promiscuity, only the truth at special moments, not too many special moments, or they'll become like a prostitute's special moments which are obviously her days off." The eyes got bigger than ever on the sandy haired pixie with teeth that would be perfect when she grew into them. She asked her question mischievously, and it was kind of her to do so, because it could have been dead embarrassing, otherwise. "Is there such a thing as having all talk?" Twerp, twit and Tinkerbelle. What on earth was he to say to that? Graceful creature, so aptly named, that she was, she spared him even having to open his mouth, though open it he did, and gape like a fish he did, and pant like a dog, he did, and sweat like a pig, he did, all for a little break in the silence of his lamb. The break in her silence was a soft whisper. `If you look at my chest, can you tell if I'm old enough? I mean not through my blouse.?" Maybe the classis so-cal bimbo had charms he'd never considered; at least one could carry on some sort of conversation. As if. No, he'd hang tough. Pretend he was all grown up now, a big boy, and not to be put off his feed by an elf with big teeth and huge, bright eyes. On the other hand, could it be she was laying a trap? Not through her blouse, but how about through her training bra? Would she get him coyly back to the verge of sanity, then ask another of her cute questions? Was he man enough to find out? He'd already asked that, but, temporizing, asked it again. Too bad he detested Hemingway as man and typing charlatan, because with all of Africa so close at hand, he could use a mentor. All of Africa and seventy pounds of girl. All that was needed now was a little healthy curiosity. "Make the seat go back," Grace whispered. Doctor Egan's left hand dropped to his side and worked the lever, allowing the seat to move half a foot to the rear. Grace tumbled herself solidly and mater-of-factly back in her stepfather's lap, lacing her fingers behind he neck, and arching demurely. Her eyes were huge as she stared up from his lap, and her chest rose and fell. "Some moron always yells cut just when the good part starts," she whispered, "so don't even think about it." Couldn't talk. Wasn't meant to think. If this kept, he was going to be relegated to tourist status; there for the view. "Feel me on the outies, first, and see if you can tell." the pert tomboy suggested. Rendered mute, rendered vacuous and rendered blind to the very rift, itself? It hardly seemed to matter to the precocious child. Now she was after his sense of touch. That wouldn't last long, not with the heat of her, and the gloves in back with the tools. All but comatose, he sat staring at her flushing beauty, her heaving chest, the delicate base of her childish throat and the first tantalizing sculpt of her, so white and gently laced with the blue of the veins carrying her hot, young blood. All senses on the highest overload, except his sense of smell, and then he inhaled through his nose, just to see if he was still alive, and caught the trace of her expensive perfume. Strawberries. Gee, that was subtle with her immature strawberry nipples showing plainly as she arched demurely higher to his hand.. One sense, salvaged and patched as it might be, was all it took. His right hand went to her belly while his left found an ear, and the slim neck beneath. For Grace, the final stimulus was visual. Sure, the realness and depth in his face, so like her father's, and the steel eyes; were, and it didn't take any girlish group think to figure it out, to die for, but none of these quite equaled the tight curls of wiry gray hair at his open button. Boys and young men could be sleek, and might be nice if you loved them, but a totally male man in his fifties, and the thoughts of being against him, were beyond what any youth could be. Africa, land of instinct. Instinct, land of truth. Truth, land beyond which there was no land. Two open buttons. More and better. She let her left hand fall away, the better to just look. Now that they were being active with each other, Doctor Egan found his voice. "There are two ways we can be together," he said softly, looking into her adorable face. "As father and daughter, teacher and student; gently, clinically, mostly so you can learn but with some physical feelings, too." "Or?" Grace asked. He growled, trying not to make it sound fierce, "Or, as lovers, Rip your blouse off, and be with your hard and fast, almost like rape." "I want the first way," she said, looking up tenderly. "I've seen the fast way with chimps, and I'm sure it has its place, but I want to share everything that happens. Is that okay?" "Yes, darling," he said. "We have all afternoon," she reminded him. "Yes, darling," he said again, and found her first button. "Do you want it to be a real lesson, between us?" he asked, exposing her first showing of herself to a man. "No books and pencils?" she teased. "No tools, no implements," he assured her. "What would the lesson be, for a little girl on her first date of class?" Imagine such an otherwise perfect package coming with a Freudian slip? "It would be about something that's often done improperly, and often described improperly in erotic literature and pornography," Doctor Egan answered. "Kissing?" she asked. She knew it wasn't the answer but she didn't want to lie like a bump a log and not participate in what, after all, was her own education. "Kissing," he said, his voice suddenly getting the more husky and ragged; a series of nervous yawns wracking him, "but not on the lips. Kissing a man on his erection. His penis when it's hard. And more, taking him in your mouth, and using your lips and tongue to give him feelings like he'd have if he was inside you. Cunnilingus and fallatio are the formal names, depending on, you know, stuff, and you probably know the others." Grace nodded slowly. They weren't so much naughty words, as numb words. Overused. She heard a few at her private school, there was always somebody, and was glad to leave the rest to the labor class as butter for the bread of their ignorance. Grace didn't doubt she was feeling like the ultimate bimbo, slut, roundheels and nympho - but was she feeling it enough? Certainly feeling the massiveness of her stepfather between her shoulder blades seemed to defy words, be they of poet or potty. "How to they do it wrong?" Grace asked, trying not to be wanton as she surged her back gently in Doctor Egan's lap. "The way it's usually portrayed," the man answered, and not without a gulp, "is that the girl works fast on the man, you know, using the same rhythm large dogs might use, and when the male ejaculates, she takes his semen deep in her throat, or at least deep in her mouth..." "Depending on size?" Grace asked "Size, experience and passion all play epic roles," Doctor Egan answered. "I'll bet passion's more important than the other two," the whippersnapper said, eyes blazing with what appeared to be nothing else, chest heaving as he fondled her girlish tummy. "One thing I'm learning, already," Grace continued, "is why the Olsens were wearing hip huggers before they had any more hips than I do; to get men to do what you're doing. Right?" "At least subconsciously," Doctor Egan agreed, "but it's more likely their outfits were chosen to enhance the value of the property in syndication. .." "Because lots of men will want to watch them and think of doing what you're doing with me," she finished his sentence. "Dream is more like it," the man replied with a soft chuckle. "It just feels so natural," Grace said. "So warm and sort of like forever, sort of like being touched by a man is the key to millions of sisters who have had the same experience and loved it as much as I love it." Owen and his daughter took a moment to stare into each other's eyes. Both were thinking of something that seemed almost nothing, yet was changing their lives even as they lay breathing softly at each other from inches away. Grace, twenty-two, went on with her African story. Doctor Egan's young beauty had said a mouth full. It was, since she'd mentioned it, an upper class viewpoint, easily held by a child who, if she had a child, wouldn't be forced to the brink of existence, or beyond, to nurture the babe. But once you allowed for social and economic security, what? The hazards of birthing? How would they relate to the hazards of disease, emotional stress, and possible violence for a girl that followed conventional mores? Wouldn't any outcome be determined by circumstance? If so, why was it the business of the State, with its one-size-fits-all rulebook, except to hang aggressive predators and anything resembling a rapist for the dogs they were? Along with these thoughts, Doctor Egan and he colleagues at S.E. had a specific agenda they pursued quietly but seriously. In short, they wanted Annette to come clean. If she'd gone through the studio system, free and clear, fine. Good chance she had. But if not, if things had happened, she owed it to the world, and to girls everywhere, to be honest, to say, Girls, these things happened to me, I felt such and such a way about them at the time, but they didn't change anything. If they happen to you, don't you let them change you, either. Sandra Dee could speak to the issue, as a known `victim.' James Garner had run off at fifteen to travel with a salesman. What happened? Probably twenty percent of stars and luminaries had had forbidden experiences, and they could help by talking about it. Fact of the matter was, if they didn't, someone might speak for them. There is only one cure possible for victims of sexual trauma that does not include excess physical trauma, and that is perspective. Two kinds of perspective. One, knowing how minor your assault was in comparison to the assault of disease, neglect, poverty, addiction and violence other children are beset with. The second perspective is to know that what happened to you has happened to tens and tens of millions of others, one out of five girls, one out of seven boys. That's all there is to it. You can either make yourself healthy with perspective, or live in ignorance and misery. Public figures should speak out, in their own voices, and tell the truth. The philosophical stuff? The moral didacticism? Forget `em. Now she had another of his buttons open, and he, her tiny little second button. "Why is it wrong they way they show it?" Grace continued, and what a little student she was, returning so promptly to the subject at hand. "If a girl does it that way, the male ejaculates his semen into her mouth. If she keeps using the action of her mouth on him, the sperm stings the man. The same thing happens when a man cums inside a girl; his penis stings from all the semen in her vagina. Nothing you can do about that, but when the female, and it can also be a male, of course, takes her lover with her mouth, she can do it in ways that make him spray his seed free, so it feels wilder for him, and no stinging from exercising in his own cum." "What if the girl wants the seed in her mouth?" the pixie asked. "The spray still goes in her mouth," Doctor Egan explained, "it just not trapped in her mouth along with the tip of the male, his glans, that's what causes the unpleasant sensation for the cumming male." "It all sounds pretty good, even if it wasn't quite perfect," the girl commented. "Never truer words," the man said, winking at the girl, "but, at the same time, it's a small variation in the way you do it that makes a big difference, so it's worth learning." "Can I practice on your fingers once you finish unbuttoning me?" the girl asked. `I might lend you one," Doctor Egan allowed. "We can trade," she smiled, arching least there be any misunderstanding of her offer. "I'd trade for the least of you market piggies," the man rejoined. "Sorry," she replied with a mock look of tragedy in her bright-girl eyes, "but my toes are all curled up, not asleep exactly, but..." "Say no more," he soothed, pretending he wasn't going to faint dead away at the joy of her. Neither of them said anything. He got her down another button finding her bra. Her eyes popped in surprise. "I forgot I was wearing it; it's only been a week," she whispered. "It's very pretty, darling," Doctor Egan said, pulling the leaves of her white blouse so he could see more of the frilly wisp of feminine pink. He felt so good he had to please her so he placed his right index finger on her lips, without asking anything in return. "Do I start at the tip," she whispered, looking into his eyes, her tiny fingers frozen on his fourth button down from the collar.. "At the tip," he affirmed, astounded to actually hear a man's voice in the parked vehicle. "That's like foreplay, maybe for a minute, then slowly, keeping moderate suction, you take him as far as you can, even trying to breathe through your nose so you can have him deep in your throat. That takes practice, because of the gag reflex. This stage lasts several minutes, varies considerably under the circumstances, both physical and psychological. At some point, the male will indicated he is about to lose control, usually by saying "I'm cumming," or, if speech is not possible, by pinching you or biting you in a previously agreed upon manner. The male is not always sure about this; and impending orgasm can be as confusing as a rip tide, but, when you're pretty sure it's really happening, you move back so just your lips and the tip of your tongue are in contact. The best way is to pretend, just for a second, that your partner is a blimp, and you're a blimp hanger. Your partner hasn't paid his storage fee, and this is just pretend, remember, so you get in an argument with him. You don't want to lose him, so, as he tries to enter, you argue with him. Now you don't say anything, but you use your lips and tongue as if you were talking and shouting, and you do it right at the tip of his erection." "It doesn't sound very feminine if I can't say anything," Grace pointed out, then let the lesson continue. "You will feel a salt spray in your mouths; from some males it will be think and watery, with others, it will be heavy and syrupy, almost to the stage of clotting. Since all your taste buds are concentrated at the tip of your tongue, taking the sperm there is the best for you for having the full experience, just as it's best for the man not to have your lips and tongue holding him deep and tight. "If he's a real lover, you can swallow his cum, or you can just let it run down your chin. The male will like it, either way, and many girls do it half and half, let some of the cum spray in their mouths, then let the male be free to ejaculate on their faces or wherever seems sexy at the moment." "How much is going to come out of you?" Grace whispered, proving to the most remote god in the universe she knew how to carry on a conversation. "If there's anything left of me at all," the man whispered in a loving moan, "it will be just to fill the tires with. In other words, All of me, but, scientifically, since class is in session, there will probably be several tablespoons of seminal fluid. It depends on several factors, especially, how long since the male's last cum." "Is it more exciting to see it or feel it in my mouth?" she asked. How many A's does one monkey rate? Certainly two or three for class participation, for attitude, for overall intelligence, for personality, and maybe an extra hundred for just being her and being here in Africa with her loving and loved step-dad. And how about one for planning? "Are we going to do it clinically?" she asked, "you know, continue the lesson?" "If you want," Doctor Eagan whispered. "Then maybe you can lean back against the front of Rover, and I can kneel on the icebox with a sleeping bag on top," she suggested. "And if we were going to do it passionately?" Doctor Eagan asked. "Sounds like I'd be half drowned already," she replied. "You won't need the sleeping bag," he said, "a man likes to spread his legs really widely apart when it happens to him, tenses the muscles of the inner groin, so you'll be fine on the icebox with just a pad for your knees." Grace thought a moment, then her eyes got yet bigger. "Still, she whispered up at him, now on his final button as she talked against his finger tip, "it might be a good idea to have the sleeping bag handy." "Do you like my story, Daddy?" the now mature beauty asked from her red silk pillow to his blue cotton pillow. "It fits the music, the desert, and the night," Grace's natural father responded. "Are we going to be together, tonight?" she asked. "If so, fully, wholly, and absolutely," he said. "Oh," she cooed, "yes, daddy. Doctor Eagan was so gentle, so clinical, so like a teacher and a natural father, and with you, where it's pure incest, I want to really go all the way." "Did he make you cum, love?" the now raw and husky voice asked. "Gently. I wanted to feel his orgasm, so we were very still, but it got me shivering really hard, so I had one with him." "Did he cum-off in your mouth?" the man wanted to know. "Yes, darling," the girl purred, moving now. "All over my lips and tongue and cheeks and hair; after the first of him to taste, I wanted to see." "Was it beautiful?" He was moving, too. "I always think of it when I see one of those little signs that says Bless this Mess. Oh, daddy, he kept cumming all over my neck and shoulders, and it sprayed off high in the air over me, then I stood and held him against my tummy at the end, and let him pretend I was a little Olsen girl." "How did he enter you?" the panting father asked, now kissing his girl around her lips "I just got layed," the daughter panted back. "We both pulled my shorts and panties off, then I spread for him and he bunched the sleeping bag under me." "Was it hard? Did he hurt you?" "He was big, but he was very gentle. He got over me on his arms, and I helped him find me, and he pumped against me very gently, until he was with my body, then he bucked his hips and made me sting. That must have been really hard for him, because I was crying, so he didn't want for us to go all the way until I was used to him, but my muscles were going crazy because I loved him so much and he was so big and new in me. But he just was over me, still and shaking all over. For like five minutes. Then I found I could move against him without it stinging, and that helped with what my muscles were doing on their own, and then he cried out like a kid, and he was all the way inside me, and I was trying to kiss him, but he said, No, that was for you. When he was all the way inside me, he stopped again, and we talked about you more, and about school, and that what we were should be my only experience if I was going to be able to concentrate enough to get the grades to get to you as fast as possible, and he told me about how Mom calls your name with him, and says how proud it makes him, and they go around simpering for a few days, and plan to get you together with her as soon as I'm done a nice long summer making up for all the time I lost with my beautiful father." "He never kissed you?" Owen asked. "Never. We were together constantly for the rest of the shoot, my wild oats before the convent, but his lips never touched anywhere but my head." "Did he cum in you every time?" the sweating father asked. "Always," she said, her smile perhaps a touch private. "Always exactly the same, on the sleeping bag, in a safe place in the bush, always with my hands behind my neck, always high above me, except when he was cumming, then I'd pull him against me to feel his chest against my breasts. Just physical." "No condoms?" he was now panting like an athlete. "No," Daddy, she whispered softly. "It was our unspoken contract. I'd take his seed, naturally, if he wouldn't make me really cum. That way you were always, always with us." "Have I told you I love you?" the tall, rugged scientist asked his voluptuous daughter. "No, Dad," she said. "Thank god," the man replied. "It would have been a lie. I've never even known you until know, so how could possibly have loved you?" "By laying of the doctoral logic," she replied with a shadow of a grin.. "Bogus?" he queried. "It half makes sense," she hedged. "What if it was just a way to keep talking, because I love talking with you." "Think back on the last man who tried that?" Her suggestion wasn't arch, nor was it flat. Now if you young writers pay your dues, this is what you can do. Call it a lesson in craft. You can take the shoe off one foot and place in on the other. I'll show you how. What her statement did was leave the conversational ball in the court of Dr. Owen Carol. "Darling," he said, still so delighted with the soft neutrality of her lips he hadn't taken time off to actually kiss her, "do you think you're the only one with private stories?" Grace's eyes got big, and she backed away a little so her dad could see her. "Dad?" she finally whispered, half moan, half hiss. "It's nothing very exciting," the father said. "On digs, well, you..." "I've seen it," Grace interrupted sweetly, "I'm glad. It must be so special for the boys; they follow white men openly in most Muslim cities; it's sad, but it must be so amazing for them when something happens." "It's never let off," he mused to her, "I mean, it's flattering as all hell, but one would think that on a certain maturity..." "You're just beautiful, and exotic, and the next time we're in Istanbul I'm going to follow you around like a dog, too, just see if I don't." The father and daughter chuckled and experimented with more near kissing. "Love?" he whispered. "Yes, love?" she responded. "The boys," was his simple statement. Grace Carol really had felt she had it all. A wondrous phenom of a stepfather, now with her athletic natural father, candles, soft music, luxurious pillows and months of the same stretching ahead. Listed it was impressive, experienced, divine, as the song said, Who could ask for anything more? Well, she didn't have to ask, Owen offered, and his daughter runneth over at the very thought of five tall, slim, black-eyed Arab males. "My god," she whispered, "Oh, Dad, my god, my god, my god." "Did Doctor Eagan tell you that semen from young males is different than the cum of an adult?" he asked, voice haunted with passion and crusted with the lust of a man who'd showered with a hotel boy six days before, and worked like a mule since. "It would be so right," she whispered. "They're so wonderful." "The desert needs a new princess," the Egyptologist pointed out to the sand fairy. "In here, or out by the fire?" she moaned into his lips. "There is still a cloud cover. By the fire?" "Yes." It was sultry. The boys had shucked down to abbreviated costumes, identical, gladiatorial, long legs, bare feet, tunics which left half the chest tantalizingly naked. They were the well dressed ones. Grace and Own emerged naked, his phallus long, slim, circumcised, and bent slightly to his right. Grace's breast were high, beautifully rounded into the soft curves of her chest, he hair loose and flowing over the liquid soft ivory of her shoulders. The lowest common denominator won, as it does so often, and soon all were naked and little Faruk had run off to fetch one of the blood Arabs from the ramada, while the others seemed bent on an instinctive looting mission, and, as father and daughter stood hand-in-hand, the horse was brought to its knees and stationed, then festooned with pillows and silks, all lit by lamps to fill shadows from the fire. Apparently no one wanted to miss anything. The middle three boys, Cerence, Killeel and Cranphoo resumed their music, now of sun heat rather than moon glow. Owen was led and laid against the kneeling stud in a gold and red silk bower, and his daughter was fetched to his lap, carefully arranged so he could swaddle her on her soft girlish belly while looking over her left shoulder. His penis stood mighty and high over the trace of girlish softness that graced her inner thighs with the softness of whipped cream. Faruk was in charge of more than the horse, it appeared. Owen knew that the youngest ruled at the end of passion's road, and would later share the custom with his daughter. Right now? They were just panting together as Faruk brought forward the naked Finarre, eighteen, tall, and proud enough to need no stallion for his magnificence. More pillows were arranged, and the eldest of the warriors approached. Faruk led his cousin's hands to the flanks of the stallion as the tall teenager postured slowly to the naked chest of the American beauty. The twelve-year-old's hands guided his powerful cousin to the creamy beauty of the white girl's left breast with its fiery, swollen nipple, choosing it so the young woman's father could see the first touch. The mating of the mature Arab boy, the play of color in the firelight, the textures and shapes of rapist phallus an Venus breast, didn't require the least gloss of seminal fluid to heighten the stunning aesthetics, but it helped. The male generously slicked up the female as Faruk guided him in small, tender circles and then slowly coaxed him across to her right nipple, then to her lips. "The standard Arabian boy was such a beautiful thing," Grace signed to herself, "how did a girl ever choose?" The long legs, the whippet slim bellies, the developing male shoulders, their beautiful bronze coloring, and the unfailing hugeness of male organs on boy bodies, even down to Faruk who had the good grace to look at least slightly embarrassed at the five inch shaft jutting from beneath his child-like belly. She supposed the wonder of it was that everybody didn't choose everybody and lie in lust the livelong day, more's the pity. It was one thing for Owen to have listened to Grace's tale, to picture the mature male who looked so like himself, legs widely spread, as his pubescent daughter experimented with her little-girl mouth, then dauntless as she was flooded lip and tongue, sexy as the spill of the man flowed over her nude chest. Indeed it was an image and a half, but, nonetheless, quite another thing for the young woman's father to see Finarre as the young boy at his right hip slowly stripped back the eighteen-year-old's foreskin, giving her his wet, purple glans for the first touch of their oral mating. The stallion snorted with the weight against him, but remained planted at Faruk's soft clucking. Owen beckoned Faruk, and whispered to him. "Your cousin must give sign of his flight, when he knows it to be true," the man instructed. "If he does not, the female he is with will not join perfectly with him, and he will be of a stinging and burning sensation that men speak not of but Americans do. Again, he must signal my daughter when he knows his wings are beating hard and fast. "Do you understand, my child?" "You want him to howl like a wolf when he cums," the boy repeated, nodding in satisfaction, but Owen and Grace both caught the sparkle in his eyes, and his effort to remain stoic with the scientists was not very successful due to his shaking shoulders. Grace lay with her father, glowing as she had once nearly glowed. "Has there been anyone else?" he whispered, as Faruk now tenderly stroked Grace's face with his cousin's penis, hard as if carved from the blond mahogany of its color. "No," she whispered. "Not even the requisite prof, poet or jock." "Well, my love," he said, "that's why you're here, and just in the nick of time." Now the tall Arab boy was really with the long legged white beauty. Owen and Faruk shared the task of supporting and cradling him, so he could be comfortable in reaching his angel. Grace played her greeting deliciously and sensuously on his eager boyishness, then took the male slowly to his depth, huffing through her nose as her father held her tight in his left arm, while helping with the straining boy arched from horse to silk. Grace joined with Faruk in holding the stripling teen, in fondling and massaging him, in stroking his base while kissing and tonguing his potent, swollen glans. "Will you be able to tell?" her father asked. "Could you tell with Doctor Egan?" Grace's slender hands when to the blanks of the panting teen braced above her. She held him lightly for several seconds, then rejoined the boy in what he was doing, but masturbating Finarre high on his pulsing shaft so she could whisper to her dad. "He's like steel," she said, "it used to take my stepfather several minutes to get like this." Nuff said. She returned to the eldest boy using her hands to guide him slowly deeply into her sucking mouth, then, when he was fully planted and panting hard, she guided Faruk's little-boy hands free of his powerful, athletic cousin, and removed her own hands. Finarre moaned into the flank of the stallion. Owen tried to imagine how she was sawing the base of her tongue along the underside of the swollen male, an encouragement that was likely more psychological than physical. Since he, himself, was far from any safety zone, he tried not to dwell on the sensations Grace must be feeling from a youth in comparison to the man she had known. Where did such thinking lead? To further comparisons; how he felt on her lips and gently surging tongue, and, dizzying, forbidden, out-of-bounds if he, Owen, were to stay in the play, how he would look to her, spurting high from his young man's loins; the style and specter of his ejaculation, if those were the right words; oh, that was bad, and oh, they were worse, all his thoughts, and especially the one thought that truly was beyond him. How the boy would taste to her. The hotel boy had seemed to fizz like ginger ale with salty essence and a hot, spurting vitality that might wake him for months to come. . "This won't last," Owen was just thinking to himself when Faruk freed a hand from the lower flank of his panting cousin, just for a second, and fluttered his fingers in Grace's eyes. All worked against the staining teen, and he was perfect with her when it happened. Owen had once read on a bathroom wall words to the effect that, when one got right down to it, a good bowel movement was better than a good, well, we all get the picture, and I warned you, Words to the effect. Whatever language the graffitist used, he would belay were he to spend a few minutes in Finarre's place; the father would bet on it. And, indeed, the man of potty wit and the greatest poet of tit would, neither, succeed in rendering what the overgrown colt of an Arab boy was sharing with his prize of all prizes daughter now that his soaked and swollen tip lived large just at the tender, lively lips and tongue of the beauty. Far from howling, the boy made not a sound over the tight hiss of his breath. His semen was heavy and white, it cummed-off in long hard pulses every six or eight seconds. Faruk guided four to the white face, then fondled his ejaculating cousin so he spermed on the girl's left nipple, just inches away in the stare of her sweating, panting father. The foreign girl's tongue and lips had done for him so spinally, the steady pressure of a twelve year old's strong, soft hand holding firmly at the base allowed the big, naked boy his full release. He kept on with just her left breast for over a minute; sometimes panting and shaking for hundreds of heartbeats before a gentle coax from the little boy would loose him, impossibly, once again. That had stopped the music. So entirely did it stop a wit might observe someone must have told the players to come off it. Now they were just to the athletic professor's right, opposite Faruk who was still hunched tightly against the now exhausted Finarre. The two naked fourteen year olds and Cerence, the sixteen year old, were standing spread-eagle, arms linked, legs very wide. As the shaking Finarre concluded his loving of Grace, Faruk somehow found the strength to half lift the boy so he wouldn't fall against the sweating, panting girl, and his act exposed to the three musicians the long tendrils of semen leading to a pool of sperm on the girl's belly. The sight was enough to make the three boys cum. They could have been posing for a candid picture, pretending to wrestle as they strained against each other for balance, except for three fully developed male cocks spurting totally out of control and splashing sperm all over their own smooth young bodies, all over their panting cousins, who lay staring up at the striplings, and, as well over the girl as she lay in her father's arms. "It's a wonder he doesn't have a proprietary silver spoon," Grace mused to herself as Faruk used his hands to smear up the hot, fresh sperm on her fingers and feet it from his dripping fingers to Grace's darting tongue. This sight increased the spray from the boys, who slowly collapsed to their knees the better to serve client and host. Owen tried to retain some semblance of dignity and some devotion to science craft by attempting to time the duration of what the three teens were sharing with his beauty, but he lost count after one-hundred-Mississippi. Probably almost three minutes before the three heads were lolling and the entire tableau folded itself onto the outrageous syrupy crest of massed and massive effort. Grace took them gently, tenderly, with smiling eyes that lasted longer than the hard shaking. As the children got younger, they needed more support, and Owen was beginning to wonder if the continent of Africa would be capable of supporting Faruk. "And now comes the sexy part." Grace knew the thought was disingenuous; might even be dismissed as ludicrous, but it was true. Faruk. The most mature of the boys. The most manly. Where Finarre didn't need the stallion to be heroic, little Faruk could have a stallion with a click of his tongue. Math also played a part in the girls thoughts. What would be the perfect age? The perfect age, pretty obviously, was between a sixty year old athlete and a twelve year old Arab cutie. With him, it was, in the end, the most tender and private of all of her beautiful boys. "I have eaten dates and special fruits and seeds for you." The boy didn't explain, and after half an hour, he didn't have to. Finarre and his entourage revived to shelter their young beauty and guide him. "I feel just so slightly the sting you speak of," he whispered to Grace, commenting what the girl still held in her mouth of the boy stud now behind him as if they were alone for a swim in a grove of palms. For al of them Magic had redefined itself countless times in the longest hour of all time, and, yet, Grace was to find they knew so little of magic. When Faruk fluttered his fingers? It was then she knew. His juvenile seed, almost Delicate as a fairy's breath was his gift of a lifetime. Owen closed his eyes and clamped them, held his daughter , and got the shock of his life when the hot tip of a childish boner found his lips and sprayed in his mouth. No wonder she was all but dead in his arms. It had happened with a youth in the hotel shower, nectar, now fruits of gods and spices of angels, seeds of gossamer and herbs of intoxication. Emulating his girl child, he took Faruk's hot seed on the tip of his tongue and between lips precisely pursed for the boy, just as his daughter had taught him with the again freely panting Finarre. Then Grace was with the boy, again, sharing her father's kiss and the last of the child's hot pulses, sharing even as the youth collapsed into the child molesting arms of the older boys. Never had two people wanted to talk and kiss so urgently at the same time; to compare, moment by moment, the wine-like hints and suggestions of nutmeg and cloves and ginger in a young boy's fresh, hot sperm, the absoluteness with which it should be against the law, and the beauty of a legal system preoccupied in desensitizing a nation to the rule of lunacy, which was any law interpreted by an urbanite of the law, and thus imbuing at least a backhanded freedom to do everything but talk. There would be time for that, and truly, I don't mind. I was included to chronicle the thoughts of the desert parties, and it's hardly the challenge of a writer's lifetime to jam a lot of stuff in quote marks and take a coffee break, even if the writer made half the dialogue up. The flavor and subtle scents of the preteen lingered for long minutes as Owen and his young daughter were gently guided into the position of a husband with his wife. Owen flashed back to a drink he'd once enjoyed, a perfect melding of flavors produced by combining expensive vodka, with its hint of potato taste, with Bbeef-A-Moto juice, which covered the meat and vegetables. Faruk was both bolder than the alcoholic potion, and more tracy and subtle, more detailed and lingering. Grave was obviously have the same reaction, and her tongue repeatedly shred with his the wonder of the boy so still with them, though he'd lain in a panting heap for some long minutes now. A pansy football team. Grace was glad to see she hadn't totally detached from the world of wit and reality. They did. They felt like a pansy team as the gently guided her to a comfortable position flat on her back with her hips high on pillows and her legs spread wide and held with the hands of young boys. The team may have been sensitive and even reticent, but it not only had goals, it agreed on a single goal. More than ever, the kissing couple wanted to talk, to cry out to each other in giddy welcome, to complete themselves verbally as the boys guided them to the almost painfully sensitive center of the whirlpool. At one point they nearly succeeded in finding a break long enough for a panted I love you, but then a mystery of figs embossed itself on both tongues at once, and, while of and by itself it would not have been overpowering, as a residue of Faruk's hot semen it was irresistible, to they kissed madly on. One thing Grace wanted to tell her father was about what Doctor Egan had done after their last night together. By the morning light he'd given her a few pricks of Novocain and then taken a dozen stitches along the passage of her vagina, constricting it by half. It was a very private thing, and she wanted to share it with her dad; also, to warn him she was going to feel like a ten year old. It would go without saying that Owen found out about his daughter soon enough, but my job is saying it, even trying to describe the shock the six-four male felt when was pressed by gentle boys to a little baby girl, but then went slowly, slowly into the receptive child. He tingled with ice and burned with fire. He wanted to thrust, mount her in small, tender waves until she bucked him hard and fully home with her long legs strongly helping. Couldn't. No fantasy connection. Even the thought of thinking of withdrawing a fraction to fuck with the girl just the tiniest bit almost made him cum it over. No - going - back. Just slowly to her belly, slowly to her, slowly, loving, second by long second to, to, to. The boys weren't helping. Feeling the steel of his flanks and thighs, they molested the straining athlete unmercifully; fondled vibrantly, played him, petted him, kissed him all over, and even reached in to stroke gently, spreading her wetness to his immense penis, helping, helping, helping -- hands. They knew together and the kissing stopped. The boys sensed it and froze, except Faruk who had just time to flatten his hand from the fisting he'd been experimenting with. With a guttural moan the male began his hard, fast ending with his daughter. She accepted wildly, her arms and legs around him like powerful springs. Faruk wondered for awhile. When a big male took a young female, sometimes he penetrated her very womb, and the nectar of their passion did not flow from the chick. But there it was, after a minute, flooding freely over his fingers, and his final offering of the evening to the panting lovers was their taste rich on his fingers as he intruded boldly on the kiss that had resumed in its endless way. Owen's massive climax left Grace dazed; his hard throbbing had gone on and on and the heavy flow from between their bodies, and the saltiness of his mature sperm attested to his virility, his patience and his love. As if Faruk needed to be followed with a sorbet; but her father was just that, like salted nuts after ambrosia, when the ambrosia was in good supply. Spent, utterly, the scientist did not settle to the heaving breasts of his love in a state of collapse, no, he quickly half scrambled free of her, maintaining contact only with her insatiable lips, tongue and mouth. She hadn't cum. Faruk, both sensitive and intuitive, identified the crises immediately and was matter-of-fact in bringing his senior cousin to the girl and finding her for his again rock hard seven-inch penis. Having guided their joining the boy had the wit to move clear in an instant. The powerful teen set an immediate sprinters pace, rutting the girl deep between her outstretched thighs with a frenzied hammering that brought them both to a screaming boil in a crescendo that beat faster and faster over minute after minute. The teen's wild, rampaging speed was something her powerful father would quickly master, but for now it was exactly what the girl needed to lose it. Finarre screamed and bellowed; howled like an animal into the soft tropic night as, pouring with sweat, he ejaculated again and again. Owen wrapped the sweating young couple in his powerful left arm, amplifying the sensations of his daughter's hot mouth. He felt every nuance of the couple's savage need as Grace shared with her wanton tongue and gently tearing teeth. The boy's howling ecstasy of manhood might have been a mile distant, so little did it intrude on the most powerful orgasm Grace knew she would ever experience; their first. Then the man took his back from the boy and thee was the lolling face, the wet hair, the large wet breasts finally home forever against the lion on her, lying flat against her as her long, strong legs pulled and her long arms wrapped and scratched for all she was worth. To give the younger boys something to giggle about, they brought Finarre into the tent for the night. The camp settled into the desert, the fire died to embers and the clouds swept off. In the morning the sun was back, and it was a good thing, for Finarre's first climax inside a white girl had scared half the livestock, and Faruk was off on his Arab with little challenge between himself and the highlighted camels. As the tea boiled the morning order was resumed, the dumbest beast lowed near at hand. At the ritual time, bows were first to Mecca, then in a second direction, allowing us to end with a feather touch. Posted by Thomas@btl.net