Date: Wed, 6 Feb 2002 17:10:08 -0600
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: "Privacy"

Privacy.
(M/F, M/f, M/M, rom. mast. impreg.)

by R, Forbes. Emerson

This story is written to the academic level, if you want to call it that,
of "Frasier."


       "Anne?" I whispered, getting a prompt and friendly mmm in return.
Meant I didn't have to ask if she was still awake.

       Mary Jane, an Army captain in the nursing corps, and her husband,
Peter, had arrived in mid afternoon.  Mary Jane, and old school chum, and
Peter, a sergeant, her new second husband.

       "Wanna talk?" I asked.

       We'd been spoons when I whispered, now she turned to face me, hair a
tumble, but her voice not only alert, but perhaps just the slightest bit
tense.

       "I saw Mary Jane looking at you pretty much all afternoon," my wife
said, "so I can guess the subject matter."

       We were on different tracks.  But, she wanted to talk, so perhaps we
could straighten things out.

       "You think I want to talk about her?" I asked, to keep the
conversation rolling.  With a woman, it's like this.  Do answer, and do
answer promptly, because the time it takes to be seen as reticent can be
measured in seconds, and not a whole lot of those.

       "You weren't..." she slipped.  Maybe she had been dozing.  Her
meaning seemed to be "You weren't thinking about her?" rather than assuming
I wanted to talk about her, which was more relevant because I'd asked her
if she wanted to talk.  Confused?  Okay, let's make it simple.  I wanted to
talk about him.  Peter Griggs.  Master Sergeant, U.S. Army.  To say it, I
had to say it, and I did.

       "I don't want to talk about Mary Jane," as you know, I said.  "Peter
was watching you.  Did you notice?"

       "A little," she admitted; voice now unarguably tense.

       "Anne," I said, "this may be weird; may be from so far out in left
field that you won't want to talk about it.  You might even get mad, so I
hope you'll at least give me credit for having the guts to try to do
something special for you, realizing you might even, I suppose, dump me for
the stuff I want to say."

       "I doubt that, Grooves," she responded.  Grooves is short for Groovy
Cakes, not the most macho of monikers but it always sounded nice coming
from her, which was the only place it ever came from.

       :"What do you think of him?" I asked, whispering, "Peter."

       Our foreheads were touching and I felt her tense just a bit more.
She lay for half a minute, just breathing gently against my mouth.  "I
don't know," she finally whispered, "what do you think about him?"

       "You first," I responded, lamely.  Please remember how necessary it
was to keep that conversational ball rolling.

       Another pause, then she repeated, "I Dunno," and followed it with
the longest pause yet.  What was good for the gander was irrelevant for the
goose, but it did mean she was thinking, her breath against my lips was not
calming.  This made me very excited.  Anne did finally say something.

       "I thought he was rude, a little, what he said to you," she
commented.

       The four of us had talked about writing as I'd just had my first
submission rejected.  Anne had mentioned I was a direct descendent of a
famous poet and philosopher and Peter had commented, to me, and to all of
us, "You must not be very good."
       Rude?  Perhaps, but I'd loved it.  Said what he thought, and if it
was non-commissioned thinking, it was still true enough.  I've gone on to
become a highly publisher with a colossal ego, but even back in the
mid-Seventies I was full of myself, whatever Scott Meredith thought of "A
Summer for Running."  Peter went on to talk about walking in the woods and
lifting logs, seeing who was home.  I liked him.

       "Think of him in a different way," I encouraged my hundred-ten bound
athlete of a wife.  (Fencer) "For example, think of why a captain would
marry a sergeant, and one who drinks, to boot."  Pete admitted to pickling
his liver, but we'd just had a couple of bottles of wine for the four of
us.  Maybe he was on guest behavior.

       Anne's breathing hitched slightly but she didn't faint or anything.
Peter looked like a big Brit rugger player.  Sexy bald, perhaps a trifle
soft around his generous mouth, maybe a little trunk-like at the waist.  He
was mid-thirties, very much a man, but there was something more.  Beefcake
didn't get the captains, or, if they did, it was captains of infantry.  In
summary, Pete was just a big guy with just a trace of languor in his
movements in ways that seemed to speak a silent language.

       "Now tell me what you think," she said.  Simple words but what was
thrilling about them was that she was not dropping the subject."
       "Okay," I agreed, "but this is the part where you might get uptight.
I don't know the exact right words (still don't) but, you know, after
hanging out with those guys most of the afternoon I sort of began to think
of him as, well, I guess `spermy' is the word.  You know, carnal."

       My wife was a nurse, like Mary Jane.  If she could have helped her
patients with their respirations as easily as I had apparently helped her,
she would have been the greatest nurse, ever.

       "Is that sick?" I asked.

       Bless my soul if my Jersey girl wasn't the mother off all girls next
door.  She was perky, she was friendly, she was sweet.  In three years of
dating and marriage we'd never deviated an inch conversations that could
have been held in Sunday School.  She was in love with me because you don't
drive a thousand miles on a weekend with your wife's left hand under your
right thigh every inch of the way unless your wife is in love with you.
Simple as that.  I suppose, since we're being so gall-darned honest, that
the slight warmth of her fingers never loosing it's freshness and newness,
though we might be driving up the river at the bottom of Canyon deChelly,
with its thousand foot sheer walls, meant that I was in love with her.

       Now Peter Griggs, a big and slightly loosely connected sergeant.
(In other words, not quite the hard-body Drill type.)

       Apparently Anne did posses just a drop of masculine blood (after
all, she was a red-ribbon with the foils), because she didn't leave me hung
out to dry without saying, "I'm thinking."

       Why bother?  I didn't ask.  In truth, I was petrified.  She was a
doll, we were happy, why rock the boat?  Well, I'll tell you.  If our life
was fit for Sunday School, well, not to put to fine a point on it, we
probably could have been together in church without raising a single
eyebrow.  Who of the cloth would disapprove of Saturday nights and the
missionary position?  After I wrote "Why bother," I got distractred by my
twenty seven year old wife.  Why should she bother Thinking?  Because her
breath was thinking for her.

       Anne Marie was an exceedingly well brought up child, dated mostly
ministers' sons through high school and college.  So she wasn't panting,
but, if I used my imagination, I thought I could detect in her a conscious
and perhaps a little stiff effort not to pant like a dog.

       Question on the table?  "Is that sick?"

       "Mary Jane gave me a couple of looks," my wife finally admitted.
"You know, girl stuff.  We do it with our eyes to kind of let another woman
know what a man does to us."

       "And you crab at me for not talking," I rejoined, delighted at the
quick giggle I got in response.  "Grooves," she whispered.  "Anne," I
whispered back.  Very rare.  She did exquisite pen and inks for greeting
cards and children, so her pet name Doodle wasn't as flat-out cornball as
it might otherwise have been..

       "Why do you ask?" she queried a few moments later.

       "That's the way left field part," I said.

       "Come on," she coaxed, her speaking interrupting the rushes of her
breath against my lip.

       "Well," I half-stammered, "it's like this.  I'm writing all day,
reading all day, and, dreg of dregs, glued to the tube all day.  He's
ram-rodding tanks, firing rockets, sunshine, fresh air, loads of P.T. and
marching.

       "I'm screwing it up, " I muttered to a stop.

       Again with the macho bit.  She said nothing, waiting, patiently.
Still not panting, but a very full volume to each of her sweet breaths.

       "Okay," I finally managed, "would you like to be with him."  In for
a penny, in for a pound.  "Underneath him."

       This time she responded, fully female, and very quickly.  Her voice
got soft, it got tender, is slid gently and warmly into complete intimacy,
and all in a single word, a single question.  "Tom?"

       I couldn't help groaning with the deepest pleasure, so beautifully
did she ask her permission.  She might have been a school girl whisper
"Mom:" for permission for her very first date.

       By now, guess what?  My breathing had changed a little, too.  I
breathed my permission on her pretty, friendly wifey mouth.  Oddly, we were
touch nowhere but very gently at our forheads.  It didn't seem a time for
touching each other.  Violating what was going to happen.

       For long minutes, literally, maybe almost a quarter hour we lay that
way, permission in each of my breaths, a sweet combination of gratitude and
excitement, in hers.

       "Do you want to be with Mary Jane?" she whispered.
       "This is the sick part," I said, "I don't.  Do you know what I
want?"
       "No," she whispered.  I couldn't see her eyes in the half dark of
our bedroom, but I suspected they were wide.  Another good reason I
couldn't see her eyes?  They were an inch from mine.
       "Darling," I whispered, trying to emulate the tone when she'd asked
me if another male could lie on her, "I want to be with you when you are
fresh from him."
       This time "Tom" was more a tiny little gasp.  We were church living
if not church going people, and all the decorum of her heritage was in the
muffled thrill of my name.

       Again we lay for minutes in silence, hardly touching, but now both
of us were panting gently, our warm breaths mingling almost completely.

       "Tom?" she said, again, making it a question.  Three times, my name.
Grooves was outta there.  No problem.  Anne finished her question.  "will
you be with me, while he is?"
       "He probably won't want that," I said.  "He didn't give me any
looks."
       Anne giggled nervously.
       "What I was going to do," I explained, "was go out to the shop and
make three tool boxes.  Let it be private for you for a few hours.  Then,
tomorrow, you can pick the one that equates to the way he was with you, you
know, small, medium, or large."  I built hand knocked-up boxes of planed
half inch pine, dovetailed, lots of steel wool, stain, and wax as finish.
Very amateurish, one might almost say, deliberately so.
       "If you do that," Anne whispered, "we won't be able to be together
the instant he's finished inside me.  That's what you want, isn't it?"

       We'd shared a few colds in our three years, and a little something
after a trip to Mexico, but we'd never shared a sickness like this.
       "There's more," I said.
       "What," she ask, her voice quite like mine as I'd groaned out More."
       "Anne, my beloved wife," I continued, just barely articulate, "I
want more than any weird pleasure from this.  I want him to cover you, as
they say in animal culture, or, in the same vernacular, freshen you.
Inseminate you.  Leave his child, when you release him from your thighs."

       We were using Delfin at the time.  The child issue had NOT come up,
except abstractly and vaguely.  Why?  My grandparents were first cousins.
My father has very crooked teeth, and is dyslexic, which means he writes
slanting to the left, with his left hand.  He's a fine man, but the signs
are there.  My I.Q. could not be measured because I would eat a MENSA test
in half the allotted time, and never miss a question.  Genes like these are
not something you pass to your pretty little wifey, with long brown hair
silky half way down her slim back.  Anne would want a rugged, normal male
child, or a level headed female.  If she'd come from great wealth, or there
had been any rhyme or reason to the great wealth I came from, it would have
been less an issue.  A so-called defective child can be the light and
delight of a large family.  Rich people could take such a chance, but we
couldn't Peter was the answer.  Mentally alert, physically, somehow so very
interesting, and just a full guy.  Watching Anne Marie swell with his child
would make me happy.  But hold the phone, I wasn't a fanatic on the
subject.  I intended to mount and fully service the lithe athlete who lay
panting on me, before we went back to our Delfin.  But I could tell just by
looking whose seed would find her egg, and if, per chance, mine won, well,
maybe the staggering family pile could be pillaged, after all.  Summary?  I
wanted a tough little meatball of an athlete, boy child or girl child, for
my athlete; then I'd be happy at my typewriter.  Yes, that dates the story,
but, god forbid, a typewriter it was.

       "I continued my little speech.  "I think that should be a very
private moment for the two of you.  He may never see the baby, so you
should take it from him with a special bond and your privacy."

       By now the most ethereal hour of my life was drawing to an end.
Anne's panting was steady and hot.  Lucky for her, as a kid, she'd spent
enough time in church to know what it looked like, so she didn't have to
think about it or the religion and strictures that went with the
superstitions called, by some, mostly who make money off it, religion.
That left her panting, and, yes, panting, now, wantonly.  Neither of us had
moved an iota since she'd turned to me about fifty minutes ago.  Search the
globe up and down and round and round and try to find a happier couple than
Tom and Anne.

       Could I have been yet happier?

       Let's find out.

       "You, my love," Anne said, and she was almost using a nurse/patient
tone,"are going to have to raise the issue of Peter's body and mine.  If
that doesn't scare you, it does scare me, and I want you WITH US, and
holding my hand for support, never letting go of me for an instant as long
as he's inside me."

       Hour up.  I was aching with total hardness.  Blue?  There's no shade
of the color I was, knowing what was going to happen with my wife of three
years.  If I'd really known, I would have died.  What psychics see in their
craft, I don't know.

       "How should we do it?" I asked.
       "I don't know," Anne replied.  "What do you think?"
       "Well," I said, "first, what if he doesn't want me to share what he
does with you?"
       "Tom," Anne said, "if he's adamant, after both of us have asked,
I'll take him on in private, even for four hours.  I think if you'd slip
out of your underwear and look at yourself in the mirror you would see a
teenage swimmer's body, not at all unattractive.  I doubt any man, doing
what we're going to be doing together, and under the circumstances we're
going to be doing it, would object to the company of my very, very
beautiful boyish husband."

       I've called her a sweetie, I've called her a dear.  Do you want to
add anything?

       Romance aside, we were back to square one.  How should we do it?

       "I'll suppose the only thing to do is to go into their room and try
to wake him up without disturbing Mary Jane," I suggested.
       "She pulled a double to get their flight, Peter got off duty a day
early.  With the traveling, she should be zonked, but he's probably awake
right now."

       Sounded logical.  We whispered intimate things for a few more
moments.

       I was actually stiff.  Being frozen in fear then lust did it.
Nonetheless I very gently broke the contact of our foreheads, and almost in
agony, left her sweet, feminine panting.  From the bed.  A wrapper.
Through the arch in our rambling adobe to the kitchen for a candle, thence
to the door of the guest room.  I listened for a moment, ear to the wood.
I tapped very lightly, and turned the doorknob.  "Psst," I whispered
through a crack, then entered.
       "Everything's okay," I said, "just want to talk."
       "I'm awake," Peter whispered.  "Come on in."

       The candle was a good thought in more ways than one.  Holding its
pottery holder at my waist probably looked pretty natural and hid me from
him.  Sure, the wrapper helped, but the candle in its holder were welcome
allies, and an excuse to keep things tidy.

       "Is Mary Jane awake?" I whispered.
       "No.  She took a pill," Peter said, his voice soft.
       "Can we talk?" I asked.
       "Sure," Peter said.

       There was room on the bed at his waist, and he hitched against his
wife to make more.  I settled gently onto the bed, holding the candle in my
lap.  Okay, think popular thoughts.  Two guys, right?  Will they ever say
anything?

       I've always prided my self on a richly developed feminine side, so I
prattled.

       "My wife and I were talking about you.  Not you-all, you know, as
our friends and house guests, but you, Peter Griggs."

       "She's super," Peter said.  "Both of you."
       "I'm only half," I said.  "Just polite and low key.  It's going to
take me twenty years to get the writer's tiger by the tail, or t-a-l-e."

       He was nice enough to smile.  Pretty gently, too.  He'd been awake
for a couple of minutes, must have realized why I was sitting on his bed in
a wrapper holding a pot with a candle. No leer at all; no even private
licking of chops.  Phew.  I mean, picture it.  He could have said, "What!
Hot meant in the house and the wife sound asleep; get lost, bucko, and let
a man take charge here."  He was, after all, a senior NCO, and I a scrawny
penman.

       No, nothing like that happened.  He just stopped breathing, his eyes
slowly widening in the light thrown off by the candle.  I could see his son
diving home, the catcher dodging prudently.  Nicer jaw than I remember;
stubble did him very well, as it does some males.  Unconsciously he was
accepting us by the simple act of unconsciously slowly lowering the bed
sheet from his chest.  Even though he wasn't breathing, it was an
impressive sight.  Call it very lightly pelted and abruptly curly, not
stringy strangy.  Feral.  We'd always been a childish and happy couple,
Anne and I, and this was going to CHANGE.

       See all the type below?  Okay, he breathed, or there wouldn't be
any.

       "You're sure?" he whispered, his voice absolutely ragged.

       I have a weak chin and a weak mouth, but, at just the right
distances, I have the most beautiful eyes in the world.  That distance is
about a foot.  We each moved this same distance toward each other, and even
looking a little goulash, and maybe that was appropriate under the
circumstances, we stared into each other, our beautiful little contract
being gently signed and sealed.

       "Is she waiting?" Peter asked.  You know, it really was just a nice,
thoughtful observation, as if it were for the pencil or something.  Christ,
good manners are nice.

       "She wants us to get to know each other, first," I replied, "and,
second, she wants me to come back to her, before you enter her bedroom, so
she will know how to be the way you want her to be. She suggested half an
hour, because she said she wanted to think about what you look like when
you're ready to be with a willing female, and what you might do while
you're with her."  That's what my beloved young wife had whispered in my
ear, in case you think I had an easy time of it getting to the kitchen and
in to be with Peter.

       "Wow," was his first comment, followed by nothing.  Well, duh'uh.
       "Do you work out?" I asked.  World's safest question.

       It took him awhile.  Train This!  "We do mountain stuff," he said
after an interval in which I resumed a full upright position.  Not that I
thought he needed to be made a man of, but I did want to see my bad chin in
profile, the better to master young female about thirty feet away.  Hey,
I'm that kind of guy.  You skate the absolute edge of sanity/insanity,
you'd better be.

       There was a pause, then Peter breathed, I'm sure it was for the
fourth or fifth time.  He pulled the bed covering further down.  "That's
Mary Jane," he said, looking at his belly.  "You know, even dancers at the
Moulin Rouge, you know, where they have to dance six hours a shift with
heavy costumes, even they get fat if they're around too much good cooking,
and Mary Jane and her freaking Won Ton.  Won Ton, for Christ's sake.  Won
Tons."

       It was my turn to grin.  Just looked big and powerful, to me.  Not
even a little too much to the pelt of tight, wiry curls that sheeted him.
He was bulging and obvious under his sheet, and removed the blanket so I
could see.  It was just a gentle, open gesture, no leer, no drool.  Using
his big hands discreetly he pinioned the sheet at his waist, not making an
exhibition of the fact that he was a very big male.  Who needs to hold a
candle all night, or even for half an hour?  As I moved to place it on the
bed between us, I creeped open my robe.  I wasn't like him, but I was good
and big average.  He looked.  It was nice sharing that.

       "Anne's only been with me," I said.
       It was fun watching his eyes.  They seemed to have, like the rest of
him, a languorousness that shocked.  Time on the mountains had not
diminished a lingering sensitivity; a sort of holding slightly back, always
an ounce in reserve, a second of thought before action.  It was a little
disconcerting, as I studied him, and like him, because apparently he'd
occupied that same slightly lingering second for thought before he'd
commented on my writing.  If he meant it, how cool was that?  What with my
wimpy performance at my craft, now an art, and my weak chin, still weak, he
was going to very much master the young female who was my wife.  As an
artist, I can really play with this, but even as a novice craftsman, the
game was coming to me.  That wondrous line between marvel and madness that
only literary gods skate hard and fast, like racers, not dancers.  I even
had that image at the time; powerful as he was, racing over Anne.

       "Tom," he finally whispered, "are you really sure?  I've been with
Mary Jane when she was asleep, and you can go into your wife."

       Did I think I had him hooked, rookie that I was?  I was pretty sure,
but why take chances?  Very slowly, very clearly, I told him, not only what
Anne wanted from him, but that I thought he should have privacy to share
their cums, and I added in no uncertain terms that I wanted the same thing
when he left my wife that she wanted.

       Again with the guy thing.  Whole minutes not exactly wasted as we
stared at each other.  That hid my profile, but not that much in life is
perfect.
       By now Peter's face was almost haunted looking, even without the
effect of te light coming from below.  Maybe more feral than haunted.  One
thing?  He was beginning to breathe better with each of our moments.. I
wasn't having any trouble in that department, either.

       "How do you want my wife?" I whispered.
       "First, can you answer something for me?" Peter returned.
       "I'll try," I said.
       "How does Anne Marie feel about being alone with me?"  It was neat
he'd used her middle name.  Combat kind of ear, and actually, an officer's
sensitivity.  I'd never used her full name, so he must have heard it from
Mary Jane, who wouldn't have used it often, and remembered it
       "Does it matter?" I asked.
       "No," he said.  "I want you to be with us, no matter what she wants,
but if she wants it to happen with you somewhere else, I would honor her."
       "One thing's for sure," I replied, stooping to a rare cliché,
"and that is that you are not only going to honor her, but bless her."
Well, the "Bless her" wasn't really a cliché, it just sort of popped on
at the end.  You know, it was how I felt.

       He didn't say okay, didn't nod, but his eyes told be I was going to
be there for our rugged little baby. Secretly, I was thrilled to death.
Flawless manners can hide a pretty wild heart, but my offer to leave them
alone together was sincere, honest.

       More guy moments, and I asked him again how he wanted her.

       "Can I tell you something that's a little freaky?" he asked.

       Was I having that all-over-again thing?  Hadn't Anne and I started
this with just the same kind of question?  And look where our curiosity had
gotten us.  Well, as I said once before, in for a penny, in for a pound."

       "Yes," I said.
       "Her name is Sheila.  She is eight years old.  She looks very much
like the girl who gives her dad the breakfast cereal for his heart, and
stuffs some in his pocket before he leaves for work.
       "First," Peter continued, " we belong, to make a long story short,
to a Sexual Church.  Mary Jane and I swing.  Not through the papers or
bars, but through out church.  And children are included.  Sheila is being
given to Mary Jane and I, more that she selected us, but, anyhow, she will
be our daughter in a month and three days.  She's lived with us several
times while we get used to each other.  When she's with us, we have a
ritual to prepare her for the things I'm going to be doing with her when
she's a little older.  She wears a white blouse and plaid skirt to school.
Mary Jane and I both works shifts so we'll be home in the afternoon.  When
she comes in, we have cookies and milk, and talk about her day.  When she's
done, she uses the bathroom.  Then she comes up to her bedroom, and Mary
Jane and I enter it with her.

       "I stand tall and strip, while Mary Jane tends to our future
daughter.  She unbuttons her blouse all the way down to her skirt belt,
then she pulls the skirt up and takes Sheila's panties off.  She maneuver
the child up to the pillows, spreads her blouse wide, and adjusters her
little skirt to its hem is very high on my girl's thighs.  Then she gives
me a hand onto the bed, and positions me between the child's long, slim
legs.  She guides our little girl's hands behind her neck, and my hands
behind my neck.  Sheila and I both arch to display ourselves to each other.
While we're displaying, Mary Jane gets naked, then crawls up to my right
side.  She puts her left arm around my chest and cups me with her right
hand.  She's very slow and steady in what she does with me, so it takes
about five minutes.  When it's over, the little girl is wet from me with
some in her hair and on her face, but most on her chest.  Mary Jane rubs my
semen over Sheila's nipples while I lean over and kiss her on the forehead,
then I dress and leave them together so Mary Jane can tell her about the
things she used to do with her father when she reached the age of eight and
a half."

       He could even tell a story, and he wasn't finished.

       "I want your wife in a plaid skirt and white blouse, and I want you
to take Mary Jane's place.  Anne can wear a bra over her breasts, or not,
as she chooses."

       I could imagine him liking it either way.  I was going to question
him on whether he wanted to wet my wife as a male can wet a female, when he
sort of answered it for me.

       "Sheila wasn't with us last week," he said, "and we, Mary Jane and
I, are only sexually active at Church functions on the weekends, it's a
rule we all abide by for several reasons, so..."

       God, it was Friday.  Six days.  Two thoughts hammered against each
other in my embryonic writer's mind.  Six days worth of him, inside my
girl, or it sprayed on her, as with Sheila.  Wouldn't that cause a
reaction, in a ripe woman, that would lead to conception even if only a
single sperm was released in her belly for the two weeks left in her
current menstrual cycle?  If I was going to be a real writer, I should come
up with hard questions as a sign of respect for the intelligence of the
reader.

       How long was I going to live?  That would do.

       We reached for each other and, it was pretty cool, high fived (only
they didn't call it that, then, at least in Anglo circles) each other in a
gentle way that led to our fingers alternating on each others palms.  Again
Peter demonstrated that wonderful erotic slight lack of nervousness; sort
of lingering with decided deliberation, as in, this is beautiful, but what
is next will be, too.  I had a feeling it might even be more.  Little did I
know.

       I went to Anne, entered slowly, and carefully resumed my position in
bed with my bride.  "Guess whose coming to sinners," I whispered.
       "You?" she asked.
       "Truly," I answered.

       "Yes," she said like the kids say it today.

       You might think it was all cakes and ale, at this point.  Watch out
for Mr. Weird.  Again, I had to beard the dude in his den.  I had to tell
my wife about Sheila.  I looked at the bright side; as a Fairchild, yes,
she had a plaid skirt, and watching her launder her almost child-like
blouses had always been a little secret thrill for me, though it wasn't the
kind of thing a wimpy writer would let on to.

       Then I changed horses in the middle of the stream.  Off Wimpy and on
to some beast named Renaldo, don't ask me why.  Even much to close to the
female to see her face, to gauge her reactions to what I needed to tell
her, I knew it was wrong.  Sex with children is every bit as wondrous as
for devoted and adoring newlyweds.  As an ideal.  Anything approaching an
ideal would involve lots of talking, husband and wife, not a sudden
appearance.  I almost had to grin out loud at the stupidity of the thought,
but I did think it.  "I'll be saving her some laundry."

       "What he wants to do," I said to Anne, "is lie for him with your
head up firmly against the backboard.  He wants you with your panties off
and your legs spread very wide apart.  He hasn't ejaculated since Sunday,
so he wants to spill on your torso.  You can cover your breasts with a bra,
if you want."  Well, it was hardly poetic, but I was a rookie, and the half
of my mind that hadn't melted, outright, wasn't working worth a damn.  I'd
chosen to skate at that edge, I was skating very fast, on well under half a
brain.  At the same time, I was easing from my marriage bed to return to
Peter.

       I explained.  His understanding eyes were pools of simpatico.
"Tom," he said when I'd finished telling him how I was going to arrange my
wife for his business with her, "the reason I don't cum-off on Sheila's
naked body is symbolic.  It says that sex is not that much.  For a child,
or your wife, it is not a commitment.  It's nice like a chocolate bar, no
more.  When Sheila has matured, it may be more for us; if I was to spend
time with your wife, it might be more, but if either female is half
dressed, it's so much less, and finally reduced to becoming what it is."

       "Why aren't you in the O Corps?" I asked.  I hadn't heard a common
soldier speak in awhile.  Instead of slugger were he and Anne going to
spawn a Bill Gates?  Whatever, I sure was going to love that tummy when it
began its swell.  Hot soapy showers, best place to find the first of the
magic she would have from Peter.  Me?  I liked my new horse, Renaldo, and
"high-five" the powerful stallion again as I left to bear the new tidings
to by beloved.
       "It's a military secret," he said with a trace of a smile.  "As an
E-7 I get to be with the new recruits, physically, and a lot.  I've found,
over the years, a fit, if you want to call it that, with one or maybe two
boys a year; slender, less developed boys, who need extra attention,
anyways.  Odd thing is, the boys that Fit, I get out of the service on
honorable grounds.  They're just to valuable to risk even training
accidents."
       "What do you do with them?" I asked.  I'd never tried my hand at
voyeurism before, and, for about the fifty time over an hour an a half, the
fear of Mr. Weird whispered somewhere in me.
       "The same thing you're going to do when you take Mary Jane's place,"
Peter replied.  "If they're tall, I take them from their left side, with my
left arm under their left arm and across their belly, with my right hand
free for masturbation.  I they're short, I use the pedophile's stance,
standing behind them, my face over the young male's right shoulder, my left
arm around his torso, and my right hand for milking.  With small boy, my
penis is against their back, with tall boys, against their right outer
thigh."

       "If I ever have to follow someone into combat, I hope it's someone
who describes things clearly," I thought to myself.

       I liked asking him a weird question; sick, tawdry, salacious, you
name it, exciting is what it really was.  The fact Peter's voice got husky
and raspy when he told his secret did not hurt.  "Are you naked when you do
it with the?" I probed.  "The boys are, except for their dog tags.  I don't
strip, I just open my shirt a few buttons above my waist."  Sounded kind of
cool.  "What happens at the end," I quizzed, my voice suddenly tightly
synched to his.  It was mating, nothing less; using our voices, very
sexually,
       "They tell me when they're about to flow.  I continue to masturbate
them, and move in front.  When they lose control I have them inside my
shirt and hard against my belly.  We both look down to watch.  Most boys
lap me clean and kiss my with their spermy mouths, but some just mop me
clean with a towel.  Not like with Sheila.  What I leave on her body, Mary
Jane wipes up with a special silk scarf the little girl wears around her
waist when she wants to.  "Which is?" I ask, to his silent mile in
response, saying, more eloquently than I could, Always
       "How many times do you share with a recruit?" I ask.
       "Many, many times.  Seventy or eighty over the three months; almost
every day, and, occasionally, several times a day.  I don't keep count."  I
could understand that.
       Something pretty big had slipped through our sick quizzing.  "What
about you?" I asked.
       "When a boy gibes his body to me," Peter replied, "I ask him lots of
questions and let him ask me questions.  I tell them about Sheila and how
Mary Jane and I are getting her ready.  It's the truth.  Before she came
into our lives, I used to save for Mary Jane.  You noticed we have a pretty
happy marriage.
       "Not as happy as ours is going to be," I replied, feeling pretty
good about the speed of my response.
       "Do you want to look at me?" Peter asked.  We had a minute left.
Why not.  Are you kidding?  I don't have a gay bone in my body, generally
speaking, but I somehow didn't categorize looking at Peter as being very
gay, at all. .


       I knew her eyes were glowing, hell, from an inch, I could feel their
heat.  "Like a little schoolgirl?" she whispered barely keeping an open
pant from her utterance.  Now see how clever I am?  Fought a dragon wholly
of my own making..  Guess novelists we are.

       "Anne," I said, "how do you feel about that?  Little girl."
       "It has to be awfully right," she said very slowly.  "Affection,
continuity.  And without expectations."  That was it.  She would be his
School Girl.  I love Anne. I told her about the bra, and she kissed me like
I was a child and pushed be gently out of bed with the understanding I
would return to the male in the house.  She wanted still a few more minutes
to picture what was going to happen.  Man, so did I.
       Peter was thrilled.  I could see it all through him.  I told him my
wife wanted to bathe awhile longer in the mists of her coming baby.  He sat
glowing in the half-spent candle.  What a kid Anne Marie was dreaming
of. `Expecting' is the nice old world for it and at the time I flushed with
pleasure at the thought of my beloved using the word for her parents,
careful to get them both on the line, soon.  Sigh.  It was like writing,
itself.  Dram all you want, but, unless a cat runs across your keyboard not
a single word appears on the screen.  I could dream of showering with my
love until the cows came home, but she wasn't going to swell until that of
the barnyard actually occurred inside her young, athletic body.

       I could be crass here, in fact, I think I will.  I took the bull by
the horns, or rather the bull in the guest bedroom gently by his big penis.
I guess, to run the stupid thing to death, the devil, get it, `horns,' me
do it.  My right hand eased behind the candle and bound his bulge.  I had
not touched a male that way since summer camp, at the age of eight.
Removing the candle with my left hand, I became more aggressive, leaving
Peter's penis, and pulling the sheet down on him.

       With a little shifting, the bedding was off, and I folded the excess
back over the sleeping Mary Jane.  Peter was now just in boxers.  So
beautiful he didn't wear showboat undies.  For this reason, I let my
wrapper fall from my shoulder, and skinned out of my briefs. In a few
seconds standing beside the bed at his waist, naked, my big standard
maleness hard up against my lower belly.  We didn't say anything, just
stared at each other while I bent slowly, not to his waist to reach inside
his underpants, but for the candle.

       Slowly I rose to my feet, loving the fact he was really staring at
what was jutting from the loins of my hairless boy-swimmer's body.  Eyes
and body, they make up for the mouth and chin.  Peter also looked at me
directly and we nodded imperceptibly to each other.

       Back on my feet, well, about like a toddler, I went for my young
woman.  "Knock, knock, I whispered at the entrance to out bedroom.  Anne
whispered back with a greeting and I appeared in the doorway to show myself
to there.  She was a little girl; could have been as young as twelve years
old.  Her hair was in to pert pony tails, like a three year olds and
somewhere she'd unearthed a pair of silly plastic daisy's and pinned them
just in front of her cute `tails."  Her green and black plaid even had one
of those big pins in it.  Her blouse was lily white and opened one extra
button over how she would normally wear it.  Not enough to see whether or
not she'd covered herself with one of her bras, and that made me pant.
Completing the wardrobe she had chosen for Peter was a pair of school-girl
knew socks.

       There was nothing to say.  How convenient I'm a writer, eh?

       Anne passed me, the wool of her skirt almost making me ejaculate as
she gently hipped my in the doorway.  As she reached I bopped a kiss
between her braids and she giggled in a low throaty way that included me.
Pretty lucky, I'd say.

       I followed her to Peter.  As she approached the door, I handed her
the candle so she could light her way with gold in the moon-shot adobe.  My
wife's movements became almost those of a stunned person.  Had she not been
a champ fencer, my guess is she would have fallen on the floor.  She
slowed, the door three feet away.  I didn't want to take advantage of the
situation, but I did sneak close enough to feel her wool against me.  I hid
my tawdry play by kissing her again on the back of her head, left pony
tail, right pony tail.  "Be a big girl," I whispered, as those last feet
melted away a thousandth of an inch at a time.
       "It's the little girl that scares me," she quaked.
       "Amen," was all I could think of to say.  I think it works, even
written down.

       But god, a girl child.

       "Peter?" she whispered.
       "Anne?" he replied.

       My wife walked several feet into the guest room.  Peter stood.  I
slipped from behind Anne and crossed the floor to her big lion.  For a few
moments we two males stood side by side, lighted by a shaking candle.  Then
I lowered to my knees at Peter's left side, and, for the first time since I
was eight, very gently touched and adult male.  My fingers found Peter at
his waist, his thirty nine inches of power.  I reached behind him, and he
stepped from the bed and a little toward my wife.  I pulled his boxers down
slowly, actually looking at the sleeping Mary Jane so my wife could have a
moment of privacy with him.  To the floor, and he stepped, one foot at a
time, until he was naked.

       Had I done the right thing?  Peter had stopped breathing, once
again.

       We held our tableau, Anne and Peter staring at each other, me,
kneeling and looking at Mary Jane for lack of anything to do, for three
full minutes.  I've done a lot of work in the darkroom, so I know no one
move or spoke for at least that interval.  Obviously Peter began breathing
again, or this would be The End.  And all lighted by a shaking candle doing
its beauty against any hardness the half moon spared out little nest.
       "Take charge of her," Peter whispered gently down to me.  Even now,
even so, he was not demanding.  I had the feeling I could have regained my
mate, we could have closed the door as we left, we could have been noisy
together right outside the closed door of the guest room, and he would have
lain back, Sheila on his mind, his hands still as he drifted to sleep.  I
wouldn't have bet on dry sheets in the morning, but he was still that kind
of guy.

       Now it had to happen.  I rose beside Peter again, giving Anne
another look.  She stared at all of us, but mostly at HIM.  I passed her,
no, not copping a rub, you dirty-minded reader, and took the candle to
lead.  She followed.  Without touching her bare skin, I lay her flat on her
back, head on the pillow, and her hands clasped together behind her neck.

       I did touch Peter's bare skin as I guided him onto the bed and to a
kneeling position at her feet.  I let my wife and her lover drink of each
other for some long minutes, kneeling at the left of the female's waist and
shifting my gaze like at a drugged tennis match, her to him, him to her,
eyes to waists and groins back to blazing hot eyes.  This was going to
work.  Privately, I thanked god for Delfin.  It had been one night short of
a week ago she'd disappeared into the bathroom for her moments of privacy.
She could not have been more fertile if she had planned it.  That brought a
savage jolt of delicious suspicion, but then, I had started this ball
rolling.  Maybe was just about to become an innocent victim.  Innocent.
Nice word to use, when babies are at hand.

       I became dutiful.  Again, without touching her skin, I unbuttoned
the next button on Anne's school-girl blouse.  Slowly I spread the
expensive silk.  I looked at Peter.  Peter the furnace.  I looked down on
HIM.  At her child.

       Peter groaned out loud for the first time.  The next button, and the
gentle spreading I did after, showed her man that she was wearing a bra.
How had she known?  Instinctively, as the mother of his child?
       There was now a gentle power to Peter's panting.  I found another
button on her, then the last two.  I spread the silk like the wings of a
butterfly, pulling the silken tails from her skirt, and arranging the
garment as free of her young torso as I could without raising her shoulders
from the bed to take it completely off.
       Once again, we established a tableau; Peter massive at her feet, my
female looking like a child, her breasts nearly flat as she arched with her
display to Peter, just her nipples, now strawberries, bulging and showing
she had the maturity for Peter's needs.

       I took this moment to look at Peter as a man.  The fine pelt of his
tight curls thickened.  He stood eight inches from the thicket mound, bent
strongly to his left.  My penis was flat against my belly, Peter's stood
pole-like away, jutting horizontally.  If the question ever arises in the
future as to why an officer would marry a sergeant, I will always have the
answer.  (But I'll never tell.)

       Now wickedness overtook me.  I'd never run, hard and naked, through
our adobe before, but I did this warm June evening.  I was after a blade,
so I crossed the dining room to the kitchen.  I opened a drawer, and found
what I needed.  It did not have a serrated blade, they are actually not as
fast as a honed straight-edge when a job needs to be done instantly.  The
wicked, now really flowing in me, I wondered what Peter's last thought
would be as he saw the glint of the four inch blade.  I palmed the paring
knife, best I could, and returned to the doorway of our bedroom.  It was
nice dashing around at night with a huge boner; a fresh feeling for a
wicked man.

       Peter and Anne were staring into each other's eyes.  They hadn't
moved an inch since I left.  Their eyes never left their hot entanglement a
thousand feet deep as I approached.  I was now approaching the bed from
Anne's left side, Peter's right side.  As I reached the mattress, I
stooped, letting the knife fall, unheard, to the wool rug.

       Now on Anne's left, it was just slightly awkward, but I had mounted
the bed this way to be in the right position for Peter.  Yeah, everything
for Peter.  Using my left hand, again, not touching the hot girlish skin of
my now openly panting wife, I gathered her wool skirt as high on her thighs
as I could manage.  She did not lift her hips to aid me, nor when I engaged
in an awkward struggle to peel down her school-girl pink panties.  She
would lift herself to only one male tonight, and I loved her for her
loyalty and what we now call focus.

       The instant her underwear was free of her, and my hands, with it,
she spread slowly for Peter, her eyes hot into his.  I dodged her, left the
bed, then returned when she was fully spread, finding just room to be with
Peter and not have my skin touch my wife's.  As her legs reached their
ultimate, maybe even frantic, spread, her bottom came high off the
mattress.  I helped Peter to be closer to her.  When he'd shuffled between
her widely splayed knees he stopped, arched his back, and laced his fingers
in back of his powerful neck.  If I'd of been a wit, I would have said,
"You can leave now, you have performed admirably," knowing my wife would be
pregnant just from the sight of the lion kneeling so close.  But why take
chances?  Plus, I hadn't seen a mature male cum off since Jon at Camp
Timberlake.

       My left arm went around Peter's chest, keep this up, and I'll end up
a little bit preggers, my own self.  He did feel big and hot and wonderful.
It took all my willpower to forget the blade, two feet away.

       Anne stared at him.  I could have blown my head off, and she
wouldn't have noticed.  I did not blame her.

       Peter was uncircumcised (I am).  Jon had been circumcised.  Wonder.
That's what it was.  I nuzzled my bare boy chest against the stallions
lightly hairy hulk and was thrilled to feel a slight movement of him to me.
I was in the Army, had no desire to re-up unless a certain person might
ask.  Face it, he could train me on Everest, itself, for years, and I
wouldn't make half of him.  Think knife, Emerson.

       Amazing that such a force of nature could be cradled so delicately.
That such heat didn't sear the tender, white skin of him.  We pushed
slightly harder against each other, and my left arm was thrilling to the
slow roar of his mountain man chest.  I made him stop breathing.  Hey,
maybe I wouldn't even have use for that gleaming, razor-sharp blade.
Suddenly, I wanted him to look like Jon.  I found him with my finger tips,
cradled and massaged for a few seconds, the freed him back three inches.
Peter did exactly the same thing Jon did.  He ejaculated.  Instantly,
without time to inhale, much less grunt.

       I'd been the one to call him spermy, now my young wife was finding
out.  I held him low to puddle on her tummy, beautifully symbolic of the
fertility he would leave with her all through the our beautiful night.  I
saw her mouth opened, and guided his spray to her.  She was quickly
rewarded, and her eyes blazed down at her silky bra.

       Peter's semen was like a boy's.  Thin, watery, and hot.  It was
richly veined with white for our urgent needs, but is splashed and sprayed,
rather than cuming in big ropes, as Joh's had.  There was so much just
fling everywhere I got excited, and drew my clamped fingers to the base of
him.  That got him excited and I felt him grunt all through is six-two,
two-hundred-eighty pound frame.

       Our lion was much more than Jon.  It went on, what he was showing my
wife about his readiness to father in her belly.  Back arched, chest
beautiful, hair, out toward Anne's big glowing eyes, spurting all over the
three of us.  Jon had never cum on my body, just gushed to the earth, and I
found myself wishing he hadn't been so selfish (or maybe he was just trying
not to get me turned on to sexual play at my tender age).  Peter's hot
semen felt beautiful, and I was able to catch a glimpse of myself in a
mirror, so I knew it looked beautiful, too.  Bad Jon.  But bad me, too.  My
Peter could not go on forever.  Soon he must shake to the last of his wild
spray.  I didn't want him to, at least until he'd glistened me as he had
Anne.  Her face, all over her frilly bra, and massively on her belly,
puddled and pooled, flowing freely to the sheets of our marriage bed.  Then
I felt him heave from his loins.

       I'm not a romantic but I write romantic stories.  I'm wicked.  The
devil rides Renaldo.  Yes, I felt that tremendous shaking begging, and I
moved.  Rolled, as our president says.  I released Peter's dripping penis,
it head still wild and purple, and in less then a second, had my blade.

       I rose and slashed.  The blade glinted so brightly in the candle
light, it bounced from the mirror on to Peter's heaving chest.  First my
wife at the top of her body.  At her pretty school-girl breasts.  Not done,
panting now, not done.  The big job now.  Her belly.  Her womb.  Her.  He
just have her.  All of her.  In two seconds it was over, my deviltry
complete.  Anne's breasts were bare.  The wool of her skirt had been the
reason for the non-serrated choice in cutlery, and the four inches of sharp
tungsten parted it like a rubber band.  With a toss, the knife landed free,
and I took just a final second with Anne before returning to Peter.  But
for the silk at her boyish shoulders, Anne was naked, her bra off to both
sides, her plaid completely away because her hips were so high for Peter I
was able to rip from under her in the last instant before I returned to
Peter.

       They were more beautiful than ever.  Peter so proud over her, she so
widely and wildly spread for his will.  If Peter wasn't still fully
cumming-off, he was still flowing.  I brought them together.  Ha his first
touch to her, Anne's left hand grabbed my right hand.  What a lesson in
loyalty.  In this, the total moment of her life, if she lived to be a
hundred, she remember her husband.  As soon as she had me, she had him.
Her arms went around him, and her long legs grabbed and pulled his
powerful, hairy buttocks.

       He took her like a bull.  Once, beautifully and fully, to his hilt.
The shock hit Anne like high voltage.  He eyes popped wide and she
screamed.  "O O MR. STUCKY!!"  If there's been a Stuckey's in Santa Fe,
they would have her wailing cry.  They may have heard it up in Taos.

       Peter fell to her like a great tree.  Anne's slim, strong arms,
wrapped him and her fingers raked the light pelting of his rigid back.  My
finger were trapped between my wife and her mount.  It was sensual, I'll
admit it, but not right.  I stuck to my guns.  I wanted it to be private,
for him to feel her slick from him, ready for him, alone with him.  It was
a fight, and I was deeply flattered and honored, but I persisted and her
fingers were so sweaty I won my release.

       I left them, closing the door.

       Mary Jane was still soundly asleep.  I pulled her warm body gently
from under the bed covers, and lay her on her back.

       I didn't know her status.  Was she on the pill?  Wanting a child?
It just hadn't come up.  That made it interesting.

       I did not strip Mary Jane, just gently covered her with my tall,
lean body, and fingered her nightie so I could find her.  I entered by
thrusting gently, and inch or two, until her sleeping body made her ready.
In a minute I was deep in her, and I lay with my arms out to bear my
weight.  Was I finally, at long last, doing something perverted?

       But other thoughts came to me.  Sadder thoughts.  Anne and I would
split, probably in about a year.  She needed a man like Peter, and not just
for her babies.  I needed to tame a ferocious talent, and was bright enough
to realize it was going to take decades, massive time spent reading and
watching television, and in all likelihood, without a single greenback at
the end.  She wanted house and home, I wanted literary immortality.  Both
our ways were good, from her loins, forever, from my dancing fingers,
forever.

       My flow with Mary Jane started almost immediately.  It was very
gentle.  Oddly, I knew as a certainty, Peter was being the same with his
beautiful Anne.  Probably stoking inside so they barely shared the feeling,
concentrating on the sacred business of their being united.  My flow into
Mary Jane continued for some minutes.  Small jolts of passage every thirty
or forty seconds.  I left her re-wrapped in blankets.  I went to the
kitchen and got a wine glass.  I returned to the closed door of my wife's
bedroom.  I sat quite comfortably in the thick adobe doorway, and eased the
glass against the wood.

       Their sound together was heavy.  The bed creaked slowly and
tenderly.  The rhythm of Peter with Anne did not change for fifteen
minutes.  Then there was a very slight, almost imperceptible increase in
their cadence, then several seconds of silently as Peter's latent `as if'
quality held him from her for a gathering few moments that sounded through
the wall as if he were telling Anne if she waited for him, just another
second, he'd get her pregnant.  But for their breathing which I could just
hear now that they were frozen to each other.  In a half a hundred
heartbeats the near silence of the bedroom was broken by Anne's mew of
acceptance..

       I was very impressed.  In only two minutes, the rhythm began again,
exactly the same.  They were simply mating.  They were young and very
strong, and they had all night for their will.

       This time, the slight increase in tempo came after half an hour.
Their next time it was an hour.  Their last time, things changed.  Through
the door I could sense he was more urgent with her, and she, with him.
After their ten seconds of silence, her moan was, "Babe" then I could just
sense they were whispering.  I hope making a future date.  With that I
began to sleep, and nodded off against the adobe wall wondering what my
wife would feel like fresh from Peter's needs.  Mary Jane and her husband
were staying for two weeks.  I would find out.  But for now, Privacy.  My
last thought was of Mr. Stuckey.  Anne's cootie-age neighbor boyfriend
carried that name.  I'd ask her.


       So many graphic artists use live models, including all the
Impressionists, I have chosen to do so.  To those who recognize themselves
I can only say I hope you enjoy your own beauty.  As a social note, I'm
glad to play a small part in society's delicious fight with bad apples.

Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx