Date: Tue, 16 Apr 2002 02:43:50 -0500 From: Tom Emerson Subject: ENDLESS KISS ENDLESS KISS by R. Forbes Emerson (M/F, m'f, m/M, inc., rom., true) It was three seconds out of a marriage of four years, the last three seconds. I met Anne Fairchild at the Art Institute of Boston in the early summer of 1975. We really had no second date, as it seemed to both of us we were pretty well married-up on our first date; a nice combination of love and delight that rolled smoothly through a dizzying first time for her, the morning of our third date, and on to actual marriage during the first game of the epic '75 World Series. That was down in Tenafly, New Jersey. We bonded on Santa Fe, and that took about five minutes on our first date, because we'd both been there. She'd worked at Ghost Ranch in Abaqui, also spent her first years as a nurse in Albuquerque, working at Presbyterian. I'd visited while living in Colorado Springs back in '68. So, Santa Fe it was, and not just because the East Coast was going through the social nightmare of polyester, leisure suits, bell-bottoms and enough hair per head to fill any bag you could produce. It was an ugly time with ugly music, and a twenty-nine-year old and twenty-six-year-old did well to move west. Our first home was one of Jay Leno's beloved double-wide trailers, and no, Tonya Harding was not a neighbor. In fact, the trailer, after a little engineering, was spotted in a beautiful rustic lot looking smack-dab at the Sangre De Cristo. There were three flukes that make the spot a little surreal. First was the silver moon rising behind the mountains on a winter nigh; a huge silver pre-show, like a night birth, perhaps even a trifle spoiled as the orb rose above the peaks. The second almost unique aspect of the place was watching the Tesuque dump burn. It was located in a draw, so just its glow was visible, painting the night snow a wonderous and mysterious dull red glow. Santa Fe is nice, but the air is high-country sterile; lacking humus, except after a thunderstorm; lacking any scent or substance. Strange how one could be amid suck overpowering grandeur, yet, with each breath, miss something. As the saying went, If Santa Fe had an ocean, it would be perfect. I don't want to paint some vast mural here, so suffice it to say we were a sister and brother couple, happy as happy could be. In two years I'd started "Friendly Jungle," an outrageously successful gallery based on tropical house plants, a few suitable animals like green iguanas, and scads of local crafts. Anne worked with the visiting nurses and had plenty of time to pursue her artwork, which, at that time, amounted to greeting cards which she sold to a smaller national company as fast as she could turn them out of hand. Friendly Jungle failed because the building was sold, and that put us in the Bandalier House at 352 East DeVargas Street, a fact not incidental to this story, but interesting because it's the oldest street in America, and has a school house dating back to the Thirteen Hundreds, the oldest building in America. For awhile I worked for the Chevrolet dealer, and dabbled in photography, always a minor interest. Anne left the visiting nurses and began work on her master's degree. Two things about me. I'm a writer, and I love the Caribbean. No secrets, nor did I dwell on either aspect of my life, but I did suggest, while we were young, we might try two years in the tropics as writer and artist, just to sort of see what happened. (I really did have to get out of that thin air, pretty as the countryside is.) Now this was a tough position. What could possibly be more noble than teaching nursing, which was the reason Anne wanted her Masters; what could be more frustrating than being a writer with damn-all to write? Money wasn't a particular object, as I got checks for six or eight thousand dollars form time to time. Guess I should mention that the Naushon Forbses are part of the Concord Emersons, so money was never any particular issue, though we were far, far from rich. (Anne made about $14,000 a year, and selling out Friendly Jungle put ten or fifteen thousand in cash in our account.) As this story is both polemic and dire warning to married men, I should be able to delineate the beginning of the spiral more closely, you know, sort of as a warning, but there was no pivotal or memorable event, you know, like one day we're happy as clams, and suddenly we're not. No, it was more an insidious becoming a child on my part, lost business, rejected first serious piece of fiction, any-one-could-do-it job, wife who became more adamant as time went on about nursing over art and who sent chills down my spine with talk of 'a piece of land.' Reminder:We met in art school. I told her I was a writer, and had totally zero interest in doing anything else, except as it might count toward a one-day novel. Belize came our way in 1978 - and I may be a year off in this chronology; it was the seventies, the most vapid time in human history, so one year was pretty much like another. Anyway, Belize came up in party talk, twice in a single week, as I remember. I'd never heard of it, nor had anyone in those days. Maybe one person in a thousand would have known it was the former colony of British Honduras, situated at the western verge of the Caribbean, south of Mexico's Yucatan. Yes, the Caribbean brings out the child in me. As a boy I'd lived with my family on a boat, and we'd spent the winter of '58 - '59 in the Bahamas. I wanted to go back. Anne wanted to study. I went. She stayed in Santa Fe. That should have been it, and would have been, except for that three-second kiss. I'd sinned twice in our marriage, I use the term because she came from a church-going family, while I was as agnostic in the extreme. I pinched Suzy, Anne's nine year old cousin, and I had a brief affair, with a definite ending, with Laura Facey, a Jamaican beauty whose interest to me was far more geographical than sexual, though the sex did happen four times. That was it, and, since I was slim, boyish, and pretty nice; often surrounded by pretty girls as both photographer and entrepreneur, I was prouder of the dozens of potential situations I ignored rather than the one I was ashamed of the brief one I succumbed to. Other than these two missteps, in four years, I was a sober, home-every-night husband and friend. We lived in a beautiful adobe, entirely painted and decorated by myself, had two cars, a wonderful group of friends, and that was about that, skin out. Skin in, it was very different. Anne's gift was sure and strong. While living in Tesuque, she'd once copied a small black and white picture of a boy sitting in front of a closet as a small oil. I looked at it for ten minutes, before saying words to the effect of wow, kid, and almost shocked with pride that such a woman wanted me. Now she wanted to teach nursing. I like to be a swell fellow, actually work at it, but sick old people should be allowed to die, and fussing with them is an abomination. I didn't say anything like this, and, if Anne had been fresh out of school I would have worked as a mule in a mine to get her post graduate credits. This was not the case. Anne graduated from Cornell; did her residency at Bellevue, and had not only top professional experience, but would also earn highest marks for personality. Nicer the don't come. Anyway, she was well up there in the top one percent of her profession; sure, a master's would be nice, but you are an artist, you should make at least one extended, all-out effort, before you lock into a final thirty year stretch, leading to a good pension and top social security. Her age was now twenty-nine; a slim, girlish, twenty-nine. I don't know if it was deliberate sabotage; don't quite know what it was. I wanted to go to Belize, ostensibly to use a 4X5 camera for reef photography, but certainly to write, if not at the keyboard, at least in the sense of living it before you have much business writing about it. She would not come. I mean she came, we drove down to Chetumal together, but she would not stay. Then there was a minor car accident, so I had to stay; she called my father, and the two of them ragged me about into the dust. After six months, I did leave having, as I had at Friendly Jungle, an exquisitely close call with establishing a paying enterprise (with friends I hold dear to this very day, twenty-three years later.) I ended up going back to Cape Cod, where my gran has a surreal summer house between Big Bay and Little Bay, on Pleasant Bay, in South Orleans. (I mention it because thousands of boaters know the place.) I'd written Anne, called two or three times, yet I was being divorced on grounds of abandonment. Hmm. It would have ended there; no story, except for the kiss. I've read about these a time or two in novels (I'd read some 3,000 books by the time I was 40), and know, in retrospect, these can be troublesome; bittersweet written as failure and regret. Anne did two things that shocked me, and I'll take them in order. One day, between the bathroom and bedroom doors of our Santa Fe adobe, we were hugging tenderly; she had her ear close against my chest, and she whispered "You Emersons sure have strong hearts." I didn't flinch, and, though I'd taken a world of hurt from her over Laura, I didn't so much os flinch. Why was I shocked? Because my dynamically tall and swimmer's-body brother, David Emerson, had spent a month with us earlier in the year. That she was intimately acquainted with the condition of his heart seemed to have made not the least difference in our happy, full marriage. I lived with it. What I've found I cannot live with is the second shock, and it was that final kiss; a classic, even to the Greyhound bus terminal background; one staying, one leaving. Tom Cruise, known to me as an attorney in Los Alamos, was on the scene. Anne had told him not to expect her to feel anything. I don't know either Tom Cruise, the actor, or the lawyer who took my place. If it hadn't been for that kiss, I wouldn't want to know him. John said his apartment looked like a Marriott room, and that he was likeable. Anne said he came from a family of seven, from Long Island, was a conservative, and didn't like Rita. As far as her conversation went, it seemed being the same age was important. This occurred on a one day visit, after she'd served me with her dissolution papers, maybe a month later, and I was riding the bus, heartsick and lost, broke, but you know what, becoming a writer to the tips of my ten toes. Might as well do a short chronology, leading up to the kiss. I honestly don't remember the time of year, other than it was not winter. I love to ride the Greyhound, and so had been riding as an alternative to suicide, wondering what I'd done wrong; why she hadn't jumped at the chance to pursue her gifts so much stronger and more evident than my own. Finally I bit the bullet, and boarded a bus for Santa Fe, arriving after an absence of six or seven months. The house was empty, but for Joseph Daniels, my standard poodle, who lay panting, his nose in my crotch, whining with pleasure. She later told me Tom Cruse loved the dog, too. The telephone rang, but I didn't answer. I was standing in the kitchen when Anne came through the door; she gave me a big smile, and ran for a long hug. We puttered around, went out for pizza, and talked until late into the evening. I begged her at least to let me stay overnight, there was a spare room, but she "needed the space" Amazing, but those are the exact words. "The relationship" was also mentioned, just to be sure I was left with no shred of anything. By pure luck, John's place was available, so I stayed there for the night. I was exhausted by four or five days on the bus, so I slept until nine, then went into East DeVargas Street. Anne greeted me cordially, but left me knowing if I'd shown up at seven in the morning, I would have had her back. Hmm. We passed a few hours killing it off, and, sadder but wiser, I would have left it at that. The last measure of enthusiasm came when she offered to drive me the few blocks back to the bus station. I accepted and became her passenger. She obviously had moved on, didn't want to linger, so I was expecting a parting bus on the cheek or forehead as I leaned down to her window as she put the Colt in first gear. I might have survived even a sweet-goodbye on the lips. No. Three seconds of her lips and tongue. Now it could have been teasing, if it was going somewhere. Encouraging, 'look what I have in store for you, babe,' that kind of thing. Instead, in context, it was taunting. Without words that lewd, soft, warm, sucking kiss said, "look what I'm going to be doing to Tom Cruise." She had never taken me in her mouth, never felt my sperm on her tongue; so it looked like the lawyer was getting more than my beloved French poodle. Because of that taunting kiss, I avenge myself withthisfantasy about whatAnne was up to as my bus rolled away from Santa Fe and toward Denver. to keep things moving, we'll pretend she had a cell phone. "Hi darling, is he gone?" "Well, I didn't feel like following the bus to be sure, but yes, he won't be back." "Did anything happen last night?" "He wanted to; get drunk, yell and scream, and have sex." "You didn't do that when you were married, did you?" "No. I don't think he got drunk moe than three or four times, and we never yelled about anything." "And nothing happened last night?" "I told you, no, it didn't. I lent him my car and he went out to John's; didn't get back to ten this morning. "Tom, let's not talk. I want to be with you." "Oh, darling, I'm with a client." "Tom, I'll never interrupt you again at work, ever, but this time, yes. I'll park on your side of the Rio Grand, down south. I've got a blanket in the car. See you." "I hope it wasn't the client of a lifetime." "Just something routine; I'm glad you called." "Let's walk at least a little, though I half wouldn't care if we did get caught." "Okay." "Here?" "It's beautiful." "Lean back against that ledge. Is it comfortable?" "Yes." "Hang your clothes on that bush, I'll use one over there." "Hi." "Ni" "You're beautiful." "You are, too." "What do you want to do?" "I want to kneel in front of you with my hands on your hips so you can cum-off in my mouth." "Can we talk a little, first?" "If you want." "Did he ever cum in your mouth?" "No. I never even kissed him there." "Did you ever touch him?" "Just once, when I won't in the mood to have him inside me." "Was he good in bed?" "That's private." "If you never kissed him or touched him, I guess that says it all." "Or, it could be, he was with me for half and hour to an hour on Saturday night, and it lasted a full week." "Serves me right for asking." "That's okay. Do you have any other questions?" "Were you a virgin the first time with him?" "No. I made him think I was, but something happened when I was ten, and I never told him about it; just pretended." "Can you tell me what happened?" "I'll think about it; ask me something else." "Why did you divorce him?" "That's private." "Come on, Anne, from where I stand, I mean not here leaning against this ledge, but in the general sense, you spent four years with him and divorced for no reason I can see." "I had my reasons." "Was he a pervert?" "How did you know?" "first, I'm a lawyer, and, even if not at the pinnacle of success, I've handled my share of divorces, and that's often a hidden factor. "What did he do?" "He pinched my cousin, Suzy." "How old was she?" "Nine." "How long did he pinch her?" "About one second." "Why did he pinch her?" "She needed help with her camera, so she came over to the bed; I'd just left for work. While he was looking at the camera he reached out and pinched her and said, 'You're the bees knees.' "What was Suzy wearing?" "A teddy." "What did she look like?" "Very pretty." "What did he do after he pinched her?" "He apologized for upsetting her, and turned his back to her so she'd know he wasn't after anything." "I forgot to ask where he pinched her." "On her stomach." "High or low." "High." "What happened next?" "It happened while we were living at Friendly Jungle, so she put on a robe and went to another gallery and called me at work." "Then what?" "I went home and we talked in the bathroom." "What did he say." "He wanted to turn himself into the police; he sounded like he was about half dead." "Did you have any kind words for him?" "No. I was hurt, confused; angry. You name it." "Tom is an artist, right?" "He's a writer." "Is he any good?" "No." "Is he smart, you know, in a general sense?" "I've called him a genius to his face. He's absolutely brilliant." "And he didn't graduate from college, is that what you said?" "Only two years." "I don't know, Anne, if you have a brilliant guy, who's wanted to be a writer since he was two, as you told me on our first date, andwho didn't get his mind fucked up at college, you might end up with a real writer." "He masturbated a lot." "I thought that was private." "I'm sorry, you're right." "So let's review; you divorced Tom Emerson, brilliant, absolutely devoted to both his craft, and you, by the sound of things, because he pinched your pretty little cousin who came up to the bed wearing a teddy." "You don't understand." "Anne, it's you who do not understand. You don't have a nice word to say about a man you met, fell in love with immediately, and slept with every night for four years; he had a tiny affair with a Jamaican beauty, who came after him, by your own admission, and pinched a little girl without fondling her, making lewd comments, or doing anything abnormal, and almost went to the pen for it. Think of it this way: if you were dumb enough to marry him, and to love him for years, how, scant months after he tried to get you to go to Belize, can you be smart enough to marry me? Isn't your self confidence pretty remarkable?" "Who said I want to marry you; I've only known you a month." "Anne, I'm twenty nine, single, and a member of the bar. When you heard the title matched to the name at Mary's party, there was a look I've seen many times. When you showed me the beautiful adobe, and the surreal decor, I decided I wanted to marry you, too." "That was all Tom's purchases for the shop." "The drawings weren't his." "Okay, I decided when I saw your mouse tree." "And it's automatic?" "Yes. You are not, I repeat, not, going to dump a lawyer. Some things in life are pretty simple." "And you're not going to dump me?" "I'm not, every; you're slim and you'll stay that way; nice guitar, nice singing, beautiful artist. I'll never spend a night away from you as long as I live; and please know this, I'll live in terror of you each and every night. That you will dump me. That I will make a mistake; pinch somebody, linger with a distraught client past the point of no return; and you'll be off, lawyer or no lawyer, and, since we tend to flock together, probably with a bigger lawyer than I am or ever will be." "He used to take mysterious drives?" "Who?" "Tom Emerson." "What do you mean." "He'd leave at ten on a Saturday or Sunday morning, not get back until six in the evening. There'd be about 150 miles on the car." "That's going to be two things. First, the do call this The Land of Enchantment, and US 295 runs through the heart of it. Second, didn't you want time alone? Most wives would love six hours of peace and freedom on a Saturday or Sunday, assuming their husband was present and attentive during the rest of the week. Third, he was probably cruising the gay scene in Albuquerque; there's two or three XXX arcades and a couple of gay bars." "I found a match book that said "Rear Entry." "There's your proof." "Creep." "Anne, when you met Tom, was he a banker, a doctor; what?" "An artist; a writer." "If you remove a writer, at any stage of his development, from an urban environment, he is going to have to range to find the life experiences that are the prerequisite to writing a freaking thing. If he frequented arcades and gay bars, it would be research that I'd characterize as so crucial, since you said he writes on contemporary issues, that he would be very negligent if he didn't do it; just as, as a developing painter, you'd be negligent to skip life drawing." "That's original." "Why don't we try not being antagonistic; it's more than a little weird to be having a long conversation with a woman whose nipples are the size of strawberries." "I want to talk more. We've got hours. We can work on our tans." "Do you want me to ask you more questions?" "I don't know." "Anne?" "Yes?" "Are you still in love with him?" "You want the truth?" "Yes." "I never was. If we're going to have a let's-make-a-deal marriage, it probably would be better to cut the crap. Tom Emerson took me out to his paternal grandfather's house in Concord on our first date. It was beautiful; a rangy old farmhouse painted red and black, with crystal clean windows, sitting on two hundred acres of lawn. They had a bigger place on Cape Cod, the Elizabeth Islands. Then we went to his maternal grandmother's house. More formal, sitting on over a hundred acres; both, five minutes from Concord center. She, also, had a larger place on Cape Cod, a Frank Lloyd Wright house sitting on it's own point of land, amost completely surrounded by water. So, I guess I played along." "You never loved him?" "I pretended I thought I did, but, no; women that love their men wait years for them, even if they think they're almost surely dead; women who love their men stand at prison walls and try to throw notes through the window; women that love their men share poverty, loss of children; almost anything conceivable, and, as long as the man doesn't beat the woman, or act out in a bad way, the woman stays until he's dead and buried; often for years after." "Is that how you feel about me?" "That's how I felt about Bobby Stuckey." "And he was?" "The cootie boy next door. They moved when I was fourteen." "Did you tell Tom you loved him?" "Yes." "When was the last time?" "We didn't want to wait for the ferry at Tampico, so we tried to loop around by land. We got caught in a terrible downpour while we were in the mountains. Some of the landsides were so fresh, there was still mud on top of the boulders. I said, 'I love you.'" "What did he say?" "Nothing." "He didn't do anything?" "I had my right hand under his left thigh as he drove, and he shifted his leg hard on my fingers." "And you didn't interpret that as meaning, 'I love you too?'" "I don't know." "Did you always ride with your left hand under his thigh?" "Yes." "And you didn't love him. How many trips did you take, with your hand against him?" "Dozens; we'd go to Mexico, Arizona, or Denver all the time; when we had the gallery, three times a month, sometimes. We drove from Santa Fe to Guaymez, rode horses on the set of "Catch 22",anddrove back in a single weekend. Another weekend, we left Friday evening and drive to Chihuahua, and back by Sunday night We didn't have time to see anything, because the city traffic threw us off schedule so we just stayed outside of town, and left the next morning." "And your hand was always against him." "I guess so; maybe if I napped it wasn't. I don't remember. "I don't thin you should get uptight about it..." "He's a writer; try to imagine a novelist not able or willing to probe the vagaries and byways of love and romance. My guess is you taught him plenty." "So? He went to gay bars, you said so." "And what? Talked to some guys; maybe engaged in mutual masturbation a few times. He did other things too, didn't he?" "He'd chase thunderstorms and take pictures of the lightning." "So he did other things when he was off on his own, rather than going to Albuquerque." "I guess so." "Well, is there any evidence, beside that match book?" "He took lots of photos." "Of what?" "He like small clumps of Aspen in the arroyos, catching them in the light." "How many photos were there, and how many matchbooks." "Hundred of photos, maybe a thousand. One match book." "What was he when you repeated your vows to him?" "An artist. "You haven't gotten any smaller." "Your nipples haven't, either." "Are you ready?" "No. Let's sit with our backs to the ledge. "There, that's better." "Can I touch you?" "Not yet, Anne. I'll bet you gigged him for not talking to you. Right?" "Sometimes." "I don't want to hear it, so we're going to talk.I've changed my feelings about you in the last few minutes; my feelings about the relationship. You've come across, for weeks, as the dumure school teacher, modest in manner and dress. Now I'm learning you married for money, never kissed his penis, drove hundreds of thousands of miles cuddled up beside him, and divorced him rather than move to Belize and work on your painting. Since that's confusing, I want everything else straight forward; I don't want tohear the word'privacy' from your lips I want you to tell me everything that's ever happened to you, unvarnished and shadow free. Don't twist, don't turn, just talk." "We just never cracked the ice, I guess. I told him I'd been to reform school, but he thoughtI was kidding. I hinted that Carla, Mark, Dan, Mary, Juan and Sharonliked to party, but he didn't take the bait." "He'd be scared; you're so prim and proper; if you hinted at something, he'd be afraid he misunderstood, and you'd call him a pervert ifhe responded positively." "I don't know." "What else?" "His brother." "Tom's?" "Yes. David. He visited us for a couple of months on East DeVargas Street." "Something happened?" "Yes." "Tell me." "It's pr...." "Don't." "Tome went to climb Padernal, that's the Georgia O'Keeffe mountain in Abique. It was a Saturday. David didn't want to go." "What does he look like?" "Dishwater blond, blue eyes, kind of craggy, I'd guess you'd call it; six five; swimmers build." "Do you think Tom left you together deliberately?" "According to you, writers do everything deliberately." "Don't be evasive or I'll go jerk off behind a pinion and drive home." "I don't know. Maybe he just trusted me." "What happened?" "It's... "I came home from shopping about ten-thirty in the morning. David was working at the dining room table on a model ship." "How old was David?". "Twenty-four.It happened two years ago, so I was twenty seven." "What happened?" "I put away the groceries, then watched him carving on the model for awhile." "Did you get a shower?" I asked. He was carving at the tip of the bow, so he didn't say anything for a moment, then he murmured 'No.'" "I didn't either. We don't have much hot water here, and, well, you're kind of my brother, so maybe we could take one together." "Are you sure Tom won't be back?" "He has to come in the drive; we'll se the car through the window in plenty of time; I don't expect him 'till dark, anyway." David didn't say anything more, but he got up and went into his bedroom. I slipped out of my blouse and skirt; took off my shoes and panty hose, got something I needed from the bottom of my lingerie drawer, and went in to brush my hair in the bathroom mirror. "I saw him in the mirror. He was naked, and really huge. I felt like a ten year old child when he came up behind me." "Did he touch you," Tom choked, his penis vastly swollen and purple. "On my waist, between my bra and panties." "Did he say anything?" the lawyer rasped. "No," Anne replied, "but I did." "What did you say?" Tom Cruise asked. "That I wanted to show him something," Anne whispered, her voice matching the husk and rasp of her naked fiancée. "What was it," Tom asked. "My training bra from when I was ten year old," Anne murmured into the ear of her new lover. "Why did you have that?" the lawyer asked. "I guess you'd say it was a trophy or memento; souvenir doesn't quite sound right." "Memento of what?" Tom asked. "My first time with a male," Anne whispered. "It's got candle wax on it; a little, and lots of dried semen." "Wow," Tom groaned. "I like being honest with you," Anne said. "I never was with him; maybe if I had been, we'd have stayed together." "No you wouldn't," Tom said. "Your Tom was - is - an artist; you're not. He'd leave you every day of the week to reach his goals." "Why don't you track him down and marry him?" and asked, piqued. "Don't get tricky with me, babe, or I might. I admire him. His gift is probably ten percent of yours, so he'll have to work ten times as hard, and he'll work twenty times as hard, just to be on the safe side, that is if he doesn't kill himself after being ditched at the bus station." "He deserved it. He went over to Laura's twice." "John told me Laura was the most beautiful girl anybody anybody ever knew had ever seen." "And then some, I suppose," Anne acknowledged. "You know," Tom Cruise said, "there's a new actor out there; in a film called "The Outsider." It stinks, but there's a new actor in it, name, guess what?" "Why are you changing the subject," Anne asked. "I'm not," the lawyer replied, "just guess what his name is." "I don't know," Anne replied, her voice edged with frustration. "Tom Cruise," Tom said, "and he's and absolute male doll, check it out; okay, so the question I want to ask is if you went off for a night or two with this new movie star, how do you think Tom Emerson would have felt? "Is it possible, once he had you safely back, he might have been very proud that such an attractive person was intrigued with his wife?" "You mean I should condone it?" "If it was of short duration, yes," the male said to his fiancée. "If you'd just once in awhile remember that you met in art school. He never pretended to be a clerk or a wage earner; he apparently contributed plenty of money to the marriage, and, guess what, when you left of your frank tale of what really happened his buff six-five brother had you by the waist, I take it, gently." "David was very gentle," Anne replied. "Laura probably was too," the lawyer pointed out, just as a reminder. "Did he talk, or just do it?" Tom Cruise went on, his voice back to a husking rasp. "I showed him my training bra, and told him what had happened, and we talked a little." "He was still standing behind you in the bathroom mirror?" "No," Anne whispered, "I'd turned to show him my old training bra. To hold it up to his nose." "What did he say?" Tom asked. "He asked my if I wanted him to rape me," and whispered. "What did you say?" "That I wanted him to be gentle." "Was he?" the by-now shaking young lawyer asked the naked young woman beside him. "Very." "Where did it happen." "We went into the guest bedroom," Anne said. "Who led?" Tom quizzed. "I did," Anne whispered. "What happened?" rasped the male voice. "He got on the bed with his back on the pillows, as if he was reading, and I cuddled in on his right side with my head on his shoulder, and handed him the bra to smell again." "Were you touching him?" "No, Tom," the girl whispered, "I was just watching while I held the bra to his nose." "Did anything happen?" Tom Cruise asked. "He got a lot bigger, and sort of groaned." "Did he say anything," the man asked. "He just asked, 'Who is it?'" Anne replied. "Did you tell him?" "Yes," Anne whispered. "Who was it?" Tom asked, his voice very shaken. "Mr. Stuckey," Anne whispered, "his son, Bobby, ten, just like me, was my boyfriend." "Where did it happen?" Tom asked. "On a camping trrp in Pennsylvania." "Did he rape you?" the boyfriend asked. "No," Anne whispered. "Did you tell David all about it?" Tom asked. "Yes," Anne replied. "Did you masturbate him while you were telling him what happened to you when you were camping?" "Yes," Anne said. "Do you want to share that while I tell you what." "You want to jerk me off or suck me off? "I want to watch you like I did with Mr. Stuckey and David," Anne whispered. "And never did with Tom?" "Never mind him," Anne whined. "He brought us together, you know," Tom Cruise reminded his fiancée, "and my guess is if he hadn't overslept out at John's, and come through you door at six this morning, you'd be back together again, and I'd be your dish on the side, if I was anything at all." "I don't know," Anne said, "he didn't show up until ten." "I'll say one thing for Tom Emerson," Cruise said, "he does seem to receive the utter maximum in punishment for his every little screw up." "His choice," the girl replied. "This is going to be an interesting marriage," the lawyer said; "I think you're a traitor of the heart, at the very least; that your loyalty may be a mile wide, but it's only an inch deep. That's okay, as long as I know. You're like a machine with a defect; if one knows about it, perhaps one can work around it." "He cheated," Anne persisted. "He bent your vows, very little, I would say, seeing as Laura pursued him, and he was done with her in a few weeks, and you smashed them by running off to have your children with another man. You cheated him out of his children and a lifetime of you as loving companion. If he'd beaten you to death, he'd pay a lesser price." "That happens to millions of guys," Anne observed. "How old were you when you figured that out?" Tom said. "So how can it be such a big deal?" Anne responded, half ignoring him. "Women are protected," Tom said, replying obliquely, "but a lost-child mantel. Men are not. A woman is given the psychological strength, probably through natural selection, to allow her to cope with the child of her womb, dying, because she has to go on with the nurture of her other children. Men don't have this protection. A man is almost always fundamentally loyal to the first love of his life, and especially, his first wife. She can do almost anything, with almost anybody, and he'll take her back. If he cheats himself, he'll invariably return to his number one and only. Woman are the opposite. If Tom hadn't been able to stay at John's, you would have put the man you slept with over a thousand nights out on the step to sleep in a filed. He would never do that to you, if you came with red blood on your hands from killing his freaking children." "Why are you staying with me?" Anne asked, her voice now angry. "Because you're a nurse, hotshot, because you lave long legs and a slim body, and will likely be a beauty when you're sixty; the perennial teenager, and, most of all, because you're being honest " "And not because you love me?" "Tom's the only one that loved you. Whatever you guys said, or didn't say, when it came to action, he let you free. He did not insist you live with him in the Caribbean and work in oil paints; if the vows still included 'obey', he would have; he never objected to your spending time with Mary Blake; most men wouldn't have let you near that cup of poison; he hasn't shown up or interfered with you and me in any way, and when he finally does drop by to say good-bye, your turn him out. He comes back and you oblige him with a ride to the bus depot; and off he goes, mild and in love with you." "Well," Anne replied, "if he ever needs a lawyer, I sure know who he can call." "This is personal," Tom Cruise said. "if I was as good at seeing the truth in my clients as I am in seeing the truth in a man I never met, I'd be keeping score with a couple of hundred grand a year." "You're doing well," Anne soothed. "I'm getting by," he said, "probably always will. Don't expect me to do more. You missed your train. Somehow, Blake dimmed his star for you, so you're stuck with a mediocrity whose only claim to fame will be that he was unusual enough to try practicing in Los Alamos, and, if luck should favor your true love, that I'm married to the ex of a great novelist. And that brings up a point. Anne, what the hell are you going to tell our kids when Tom flowers, when people around the world are reading every word he writes? When he's rich and famous, as he surely will be, allowing for luck, though it might take him twenty years; huh, what are you going to tell our daughter when she asks, 'Why did you dump him, Mommy?" How am I going to look, even if I make it half-way out here in this pointless postcard." "He's too lazy," Anne retorted. "There's kind of a secret of great writers," the lawyer replied, "they are all lazy, just like a good soldier never stands when he can sit; industrious writers - professionals - throw everything they have into the pot, so to speak; lazy artists only bother with the very best." "He'd lie around all day." "And he let you free when you got tired of it. "Besides, what's a writer meant to do? If I had any special talent, I'd read from dawn to dusk, then light a candle; I'd watch all the documentary television I could find, and, once in awhile, a little theatrical television. See a dozen films a year. "How else would you do it, Anne? You read, you live, perhaps you write - and it's hard to top a few years in the Caribbean if one wants to live a little. Everyone knows that, especially the travel agents." "Why don't you find one and go join him?" Anne growled. "And leave you dead here by the Rio Grand? Not going to happen. You're his, and I'm his representative. His lawyer as you so aptly put it, okay? When you feel me throbbing in your belly, its his sperm splashing against your cervix, and you'd damn well better cum off a few seconds after I tell you to." "Do you want our children to call you Daddy, Esquire?" Anne asked. "You could be frivolous with him," Tom growled, "and I'm sure he was light hearted with you, if you think back carefully you might find he was light-hearted more than twice. It won't work with you, with me, with us. If you shared jokes with him, if you kidded and teased, if he was every silly or boyish, that's what's private between the two of you. What you talked about when you awoke together, every morning for four years, that's private. That's Anne Fairchild and Tom Emerson, so keep the funny stuff, private." "I think we should go," Anne said. "Open you eyes," Tom said, "look at me." "What?" she replied, "they are opened." "Look at me." "I see you," she said, frustrated. "We've been talking for half an hour, you're not even touching me, and I'm bigger and harder than I have ever been in my life, times about two. I've been saving up for a week, so it would be special if it happened with us tonight. "You know how I wanted to do it?" "No, " Anne whispered, apparently having lost interest in going home. "In the shower," Tom whispered, as their naked bodies sidled gently together, the slim athletic girl fiery against his right shoulder. "I wanted to turn the water off, then grab the towel from the shower-curtain rod, so I could dry you between your knees and your belly, then I was going to position you against the back wall, and stand facing you in the tup. Then I was going to squat down a little, so we'd come together with your hand guiding me as you once guided him. Then I was going to lean into you, pinning you gently against the wall, and brace my feet on the towel to keep from slipping. Since you were going to be getting rid of your old man, and taking your new man, I felt this position would be symbolic. Even if you're lying, and Tom came back at seven this morning, and you accepted him, my sperm will wash the last of his away. That's why I was going to dry you off, so after I ejaculated in you, you could feel my cum flowing down your legs, to the water, to the drain, with any of him that is left." "So I take it our marriage is going to be based on sex?" Anne intoned. "If we based on respect, where would we be?" Tom asked. "Sex and children; careers: no trust, no respect; you blew it, now blow me! Do what you never did with him; show me your new stuff." "You're a pig," Anne rasped. "The last time I was really listening," Tom replied, "you were cuddled up on the guest room bed, David's six-five torso warm against your left shoulder. You had your left arm in back of him, or so I draw the picture, and you were holding your training bra for him to smell while you masturbated him." "He was holding the little bra," Anne whispered. She'd been so disappointed in her first Tom, he just hadn't seemed to get it, and she was loving this aggressive and carnal new male. As he'd pointed out, his five-inch penis was purple at the tip from a state of extreme arousal which had not diminished an iota during the riptide of their conversation. "And you were going to tell him about Mr. Stuckey..." "He quizzed me," Anne whispered. Tom Emerson had never been as hard as Tom Cruse. She loved talking with him; bringing closure to any guilt before she felt any. Nice guy. And, god, he was so swollen and hard. "Did you answer his questions?" Tom said, his voice back to an unsteady whisper, lying against her as she was lying against him, watching mesmerized as her delicate artist's hand moved hesitantly to him. "I did this on my tenth birthday," she said, touching him for the first time, stimulating his seminal fluid by stroking the base of his glans with her right index finger. "With Mr. Stuckey," Tom whispered, hoarsely. "Yes," the girl whispered back. "And," she went on, "since our marriage is going to be based on doing this kind of thing with each other, I better tell you the whole truth." "Please, darling," Tom whispered to his bride to be. "Win and Stuart were there," she said without preamble. They were both thirteen years old." "What did your brother look like?" Tom asked. "Kind of skinny I guess; we had a special smile for each other which made him really beautiful." "How about Stuart?" Tom asked. "He was tall. Gangly. Big knobby knees, big feet; I always thought he looked a little dorky, before my birthday." :"What did you look like," was the next question. "I guess I was cute. Kind of skinny. I wore my hair long and straight with bangs." "And Mr. Stuckey?" "Bobby's dad was about six-four, in his thirties, he was an amateur boxer, so he looked a little Bronson, but he was nice. I remember he had really long, thick legs." "Did he have hair on his chest?" the panting lawyer asked. "Some, but it was light ginger colored and really curly.: "Did you feel it against your chest, darling?" "Yes, Tom," Anne whispered, soothing and gentle. "Tell me, darling," the man coaxed as Anne became slightly more aggressive in fondling the purple tip of his oak hard penis. "Bobby tripped on a rake at the last minute, so he couldn't go. Win called Stuart, and he came instead. Mr. Stuckey, Phil, but I never called him that, had done a lot of hunting, so he took us to a remote spot where the bears had been killed out by hunters. "We had one big tent, and a folding table, two iceboxes, so it was pretty comfortable for camping. "After we set up camp, Mr. Stuckey told us to each get a towel so we could swat flies, if we came on any, and then we took a walk." "Did you know anything was going to happen?" Tom quizzed. "David asked me the same question," Anne said. "It must be the way I tell the story." "Well, you did live with a writer for almost five years," Tom said, then asked if she'd been masturbating David when he asked. She said she had, and went on with what happened on the walk. "I did feel tense, yes," she answered, "being alone in the middle of nowhere with three tall, athletic males may have had something to do with it." "Leave your number one man and husband out of it," Tom growled. "What you mean is I'm incapable of any wit or charm on my own?" Anne hissed. "Look at it from my point of view," the lawyer said, "if you were too much a dummy to appreciate his, and want to live with it until one of you died, then it's unlikely you'd be capable of anything especially droll on your own. "Just do me a favor, and leave him out." "You're going to flush him from me in the shower when we get home," Anne said, "meantime, let me kill him in my own way." "Go for it." Tom choked, knowing, in his heart, that the feeling of her artist's delicate hands on his hard, throbbing boner was making him say things he didn't really mean. "But you're right," Anne went on, "I was tense, so, before we went hiking, I put on a red halter top, one I'd never dare wear around my brother before, and red short shorts. Mr. Stuckey went into the tent to get something, then we left." "Did the males react to seeing your bare tummy?" Tom whispered. "Yes," the female whispered to her lover as she continued her gentle, girlish experimentalfondling, loving her new man's power-steering response to the slightest shift or pulse of her playing fingers. "They made a tight circle around me. Win tried not to look, but he'd bump me with his forearm while he was studying stiff beside the trail." "A nature lover," Tom said to Anne's immediate scowl. "Don't you do it either," she said. "If you don't want funny from me, you've got to keep your wisecracks to yourself, too, understand?" "I'm not sure I do," Tom said. "You were married to one in a freaking million, and dumbed him like an awkward second date. Maybe the only chance we have, both of us, is to make light of it. After all, he'll have to if he's to survive." "His penis is two inches longer than yours," Anne observed, "so at least it will be survival of the fittest." "Now I really want to be his lawyer," Tom replied. They did laugh. There was no help for it. Life was like a book, always next pages. Memories faded, passions dulled, lessons and loves dimmed and became hazy and vague. One book was shelved, another begun, just like that. "Mr. Stuckey was walking behind Win and Stuart and me, and he saw what my brother was doing. "Kids," Phil said, even the single word gaining the immediate attention of the three children preceding him across the side of a wooded hill, "you know it's really private out here, don't you?" "Yes," the three agreed. The man hadn't made a big point of it when they'd scanned the maps back in Tenafly, but, yes, it was remote, one road in, so privacy they had. "I asked because kids your age sometimes like to do mature things together, if they know they won't be interrupted or discovered. "Do you guys know what I mean?" They walked in silence for a minute. "Anne," Phil finally said, "the boys are going to be a little embarrassed, because puberty can really mess with your head; so how do you feel about having a special talk." "I want to," the girl answered promptly, her pretty face shining under her bangs. Phil stopped and whispered: "Boys." He wouldn't have done better with a battleship anchor. Win and Stuart froze. "We've got the whole weekend to hunt mushrooms," he said, "so lets find a comfortable place where we can sit on an old log for an hour or two. No doors, no locks, no one to ever know if you don't want them to. "Won't it make us perverts?" Stuart asked. Anne looked up from under her bangs, questioningly. "No more than food will make you fat, or, when you're of age, booze will make you an alcoholic. You have to engage what is known as character to get out of bed in the morning, and then do everything you don't want to do, all day long, and, at your age, you're usually not exactly thrilled at the thought of going to bed, either. Same thing here. You can go off the deep end with Doritos, with pot, with sex, with Budweiser, with tattoos, with half a dozen things I'm too old to even know about. That's why the venue. First, for privacy, second, so you can go out safely and hunt as individuals. See? We're in a valley, impossible to get lost because it's always down to the stream, and down the stream, to camp. Clever, eh?" All three laughed and grinned happily. "So, are we going to spend some time together with the birthday girl, or..." No 'or' was needed. Phil stood behind the boy and sister, and gently placed Win's right arm around the pixie's waist, teaching him to fondle the little girl on her lithe naked tummy. Then he shifted behind Stuart, the tall gangling teen. Instinctively the boy raised his hands high in the air, and Phil pulled his jersey up and off, leaving him bare chested for the brother and sister to stare at while they stood, transfixed at the sight of the tall, powerful athlete close behind their youthful friend. "Have any of you been molested before?" he asked, moving forward, his hands lightly on Stuart's slim, pale waist, to lead them to a comfortable spot. "Something happened with me," Phil's young partner whispered. "Do you want to share it with us, or is it private," the man asked, softly. "It was pretty messy," the boy replied, "it might scare Anne." "She's a fencer," Win said. "I forgot," Stuart said, with a look of apology at the cutie in her red halter, her brother's right hand caressing her childish belly as he was being caressed and fondled by the man behind him. They weren't in a mood to be fussy, but nonetheless found an idyllic retreat, a fallen birch in an almost silvery, dancing-light grove. Phil took Anne gently from her brother, seating the boys on the tree as he did so." "I'll be back in a minute, and Stuart can tell us what happened," he said, guiding the ten year old off into the trees. When he had her out of sight of the boys, he pulled a small bundle from a pocket in his cargo shorts. "I wanted to give you this," he said, his voice even more with that exciting duskiness that could shake a word to pieces. Anne moved close to take the offering, staring down at the huge bulge that seemed to almost zoom off to Mr. Stuckey's left side. Her hands came up automatically, and she fingered the tissue-wrapped bundle. "What is it," she whispered. "It's for your brother," Phil whispered back. "Can I open it?" Anne asked. "Yes," the man said. Her tiny fingers tore away the ribbon and tissue, revealing an exquisite silk pouch with a pearl clasp. "Wow," Anne said, "it's beautiful, but I don't know if Win will like it; he'd probably prefer a dissecting kit." "It's not a purse," Phil said, "look inside." Anne undid the little pouch, and reached in. "Whatever it is, it sure feels nice," she sighed. "It's silk," the man said. She tugged gently and her eyes went big and round. "Mr. Stuckey," she whispered up to him , "it's a bra." "Do you like it," Phil asked. "Yes, it's amazing. But I knew Win wouldn't like it; he wouldn't be caught dead in it." "Darling," he said, "it's not for him to wear. "You love your brother, don't you?" "Yes," the girl said without hesitation. "And he's in love with you, too. So, while we're out here, you'll probably want to be together in a very special way. You want that; don't you?" "Yes," Anne whispered, again immediately. "That's called incest," Phil said. "And it's the best thing in the whole world, under the right circumstances, but it has one drawback." "What?" the pixie asked, looking up at the giant towering over her from under her long, mouse-brown bangs. "It's natures way of keeping brother and sister apart. It's not something, it's a lack of something; a lack of smell, of scent. Win won't smell the same way, even if you're sweating from what you're doing together, as a strange boy or man would smell. The answer is simple, though probably not something you'd discover in Sunday School." "What is it?" Anne asked, intensely curious. "It's what the bra is for," Phil explained. "When we go back to the boys, you're going to do a special thing with Stuart and me. That will make us get your bra wet with us, and that will leave a strong musk, even after it dries, so, when you're with win, you wear the bra, and it will satisfy both of you with pheromones, so you can pretend it's natural for you to be together." "I don't like to say anything against Bobby," Anne said, "and I hope he's not hurt, but I'm glad he didn't come with us, or you wouldn't want to teach us, you know, with your own son here." "You're right," Phil acknowledged, "but he's not hurt at all. Jane went to visit my brother, Clark, for the weekend, and so we left Bobby home alone with Jill. She was meant to wait until she was eight, but who can resist an adamant seven year old, so here we are." "Bobby will be eleven tomorrow," Anne said. "Yes," the boy's father said, "and he's very mature for his age. He can't wait for you to get back." "I think this is more exciting for both of us," Anne said. "You won't have any secrets from each other, and you will have something to talk about," Phil observed. "Do you want me to put the bra on in front of you?" the pixie asked. "I've never worn one before, you might have to help me." "I'd like to watch you," the man said, little left of his voice, as far as the child could hear. "Can I see you before I show you my nipples?" the girl whispered, her voice also a little thick. "Yes," Paul said. He unbuttoned his safari shirt and let it dropped, slipped his bare feet out of his sandals , and stripped down his shorts and briefs. When he was naked, he spread his legs slightly, and arched his back, lacing his fingers behind his neck. Anne looked up at the powerful, athletic body, the light matting of ginger on the rugged chest, and her eyes wandered slowly down to the huge penis, jutting high and bent slightly to the left. "No wonder there are so many babies in the world," she whispered, bending forward so her forehead almost touched Paul's huge erection as she stripped her tube top over her head and dropped it with Paul's discarded clothes. The man immediately dropped to his knees, looking at her chest intently. Anne's nipples were in the first blush of coming maturity, swollen just enough to distinguish her from a male child. Silently Phil took the wisp of a silk covering, and fit it to the child. "Aren't you going to touch me?" the girl asked, a little plaintively. "No sweetheart," Paul whispered gently as he covered her, and worked the straps in place on her slim back. "Tonight in the tent we can be together if you want, but now you've got to help Stuart and me get your bra wet." "How?" Anne asked. "We'll do it together, than I'll just have to teach both of you once, okay?" "Is it hard to learn?" Anne asked. "One more look through those baby-doll bangs," Phil groaned to himself, "and the lesson will be over." He maintained control of his feverish body, rose to his feet, turned the sprite so he could fasten the snaps, held her left hand in his right, and the couple walked back to the lying birch tree. Win and Stuart were standing with their heads bowed, apparently in embarrassment, as both were blushing. They looked like men. Their six and seven inch evections were both bent slightly to the left, like Phil's, a fact which almost made Anne giggle out loud. But she didn't. They formed a circle almost, but not quite touching. "Have you boys started masturbating - jerking off? - he ached. "No," the two thirteen year olds whispered together. "Do you know how?" The two boys, now standing straighter, repeated, "No." "Then that's how we can start, if you want," the man said, softly. The young males nodded their heads in synch. "Okay," Phil responded. "Now remember, you can leave any time you feel uncomfortable. If any one of you wants us all to stop, just say so and we'll go on to something else, okay?" Both nodded again. "No psychic scars, promise?" Win, his sister, and Stuart nodded. They didn't quite grin, but their eyes were alight with excitement and health; extinguishing them out would appear to be difficult, though nothing was beyond the power of the committed rapist. According to Free Spirit lore, no defense in this respect wasequal toa good offence - many rapes were a byproduct of curiosity, and, by the time the weekend was over, these kids would have nothing to be curious about and would be very unlikely to engage in experimenting that could get out of hand or leave them diseased. Pedophiles had a short list of reasons for their activities with children, all good. Phil turned the page. "Let's get comfortable," the man said to his victims. He seated himself on a towel, and brought Anne in to his right side, settling her beside him as he leaned back against the fallen birch. Win and Stuart placed their towels side by side, and knelt at Phil's left hip. "Put your left arm around my waist," he whispered to the girl, and she shuffled herself into position, immediately, her left arm around the man's powerful waist, her right experimenting with the tight curls of hair leading down to the mass of his swollen penis, which almost seemed to hiss with the energy and power of a full adult male. "This is how you do it if you're alone," he said, wriggling his arm between his flank and the ten year old girl cuddled at his side. "You boys do it with me," he whispered, and touched the tip of his swollen erection. "Win and Stuart seemed to rise higher on their knees, and instinctively, they spread their legs a little as they imitated the man. Phil led slowly, fondling himself, waiting for the boys to share the feeling, then slowly raising and lowering his hand, until he was masturbating as if he were alone. The boys edged closer to him, and to each other, now also masturbating like boys in a shower. "Stop," the man hissed, releasing himself. The children did the same, and all remained motionless for some moments, panting heavily. "Do you like watching us?" Phil whispered to Anne. "It's beautiful," the girl whispered back. "But why do you do it." "Let your brother take your bra and shorts and panties off," Phil suggested, "and then I won't have to tell you." "I let Mr. Stuckey see my nipples, Win, but he didn't touch me," the girl said, looking hotly across at the thirteen year old. She lay away a little from Phil, lifting her hips off the ground. Win quickly moved to her, positioning himself between her long, childish les, and bent to work at the snap of her red denim shorts. She retrieved her right arm from behind Phil, and tenderly stroked her brother's hair and face with her left hand as he panted over herwaist. With shaking hands, the boy finally released the catch. As she felt the tension ease, the girl thrust her hips high, and her brother grunted, and slipped her shorts and panties down over her tiny feet, and tossed the garments on the fallen tree. "Spread your legs for him," Phil coached. Anne did it immediately, as wide as she could. Win moved closer to Phil, kneeling at the right of his little sister's waist. Stuart stared down across Phil's legs and over his erection, still huge, still hot, still wet and purple at the tip. Phil took Win's hand and guided him between the little girl's legs. She hissed at his touch, and panted openly as Phil helped his experimenting. Stuart strained to look, and Anne rolled her hips slightly, so he could have a perfect view of what the males were sharing with her. "To masturbate her," Phil whispered, "use your fingers up high on her, like this." Anne's left hand gripped her brother's short, brown hair as she arched to his molesting fingers. Her right arm came across the boy slim back, and she ran her fingers up and down his spine, finally almost stopping at the base of his spine, where she used her touch to stimulate his touch of her. With a little shifting of position against the tree, all four were soon comfortable, and Win fell into a steady rhythm with his sister. Over her pants and light moans Phil whispered to Stuart. "What were you going to tell us before I have Anne her new bra?" he asked. "My babysitter..." the boy began, when Anne interrupted with a question. "Is Bobby doing this with Jill?" she asked Phil. "Sweetheart," Phil answered softly, "that probably happened on Jill's bed this morning, just after their mother left. He's probably inside his sister now." "I hope he remembers everything," the girl replied. "You'll definitely have some stories for the nursing home," Phil observed, and the children giggled, Anne thrilled that Phil apparently assumed they'd marry. Boy, o-boy, o-boy, what a father-in-law. At age ten, the sprite was not deeply versed in either philosophy or geography, she simply knew where the happiest girl in the world was. "Something's happening, Win," she suddenly gasped. "Darling, you're going to cum from what your bother's sharing with you," Phil whispered. Anne didn't hear the last half, because, taking full advantage of their remote location, she was crying out, and, finally, screaming and crying out as her brother's electric fingers slammed her through the goal posts, leaving her shuddering, panting, and weeping. None of the males uttered a sound, aside from their hot, heavy breathing, for a minute or more as they watched the girl pant herself back to life, giving rise to the theory that expressions like 'tubular', 'radical','off the hook'and the tired old standard,'awesome, dude' are meaningless. "Do boys cum?" Anne asked, warming three hearts with her first conscious thought in over two minutes. "Yes," Phil said, "only it's a little more dramatic." "Get out of town," the girl said, rolling her eyes under her drowned-rat, sweat-soaked bangs. Win eased his sister back against Phil, she wiggled her left arm behind him, and the boy guided her tiny hand to the adult's long, thick shaft. "Masturbate me, just like we were doing it to ourselves," the tall athlete coached. Stuart, you teach her. The tall, gangly boy on his knees arched his back, thrust his hips forward over Phil, and dropped his right hand to his waist. "Get him wet like this," he whispered, using his index finger to spread his seminal fluid on the base of his glans. "Is that what you did with your baby-sitter?" Phil asked. "Yes," the boy whispered. "He got in the tub with me and taught me. I just never knew I could do it to myself." "Dis something special happen when you were in the tub?" Phil quizzed. "Yes." Stuart said. "Tell Anne," Phil coached. "It will really shock you," the boy said, "but, no matter what, don't stop until he tells you." "Why will it shock me?" the curious tyke asked. "Because you probably think a few drops of pee will come out, or some fairy dust. It's not. It's totally messy." "But it's exciting isn't it?" the girl queried. Having rendered her male companions apparently speechless, Anne decided she'd hit the nail on the head, and, emulating Stuart, began masturbating her first lover in long strokes, cupping her right palm over the purple tip to keep it wet and slippery. Paul spread his legs wide, and the female child rolled onto his trunk of a right thigh, her brother steadying her, so she could stoked Phil up and down fast and hard. "Do you guys know about sperm?" the adult managed in a torn whisper. "They have it in biology," the future professor groaned. "Have either of you ever sprayed while you were asleep?" the man whispered, his voice lolling like his head. Win and Stuart reddened beautifully, caught each other's eye for a second, then blushed deeply. "What happened to them?" Anne asked, amazingly conscious of her surroundings considering her avid devotion to the thick, eight inch penis in her right hand. "It's called nocturnal emission," Phil explained, whispering hoarsely and amazed he could speak at all. "When a boy hasn't ejaculated for awhile, the semen builds up in his prostate gland, then the boy has an exciting dream, and the semen spills while he's asleep." "Doesn't it make him wake up?" the pixie asked. The toy boys again reddened in embarrassment, giving the girl a positive answer. "What's it look like?" the girl asked. "I'm getting very close," Phil grunted, "you'll see in a few seconds if you keep..." They squealed and flinched as if he'd caught fire. The first spurt from Phil's powerful loins jetted in a long, syrupy tendril three feet in the air, splashing back on the man's hairy chest with an extended slurping noise. Anne, remembering her brother, took the next long hard spurt on her chest. Win reached to her, lowering the right half of her bra, exposing the swollen nipple just in time to see it covered with a heavy gush of spurting semen. Stuart whispered "I'm cumming," and a hard jet of his clear child's fluid splashed aggressively, creating a small clear lake in the rich, white sperm of the adult. Both males soaked the girl's chest and silk training bra, with the final final pulses of their emissions coming almost two minutes after Phil's first loss of control. "David started cumming all over me, at this point," Anne whispered to Tom. Thepanting, sweating,trembling lawyer would have said, "Duh'uh," if hed been able to speak. His new girlfriend concluded her story. "Win," Phil whispered urgently. Anne's brother instinctively understood the tone in the man's voice, andbegan to rollhis sister on her back on the man's chest. "Just a second," she said, and rolled herself over, lying with her one exposed breast against the lightly pelted and still heaving chest. "I just want to see what it will feel like when we're in the tent," she explained, then tolled on her back. Phil held her lightly by her slim legs, while the thirteen year old boy positioned himself between the man's legs, and lowered himself to the little girl. Stuart move behind his friend, stroking him, and reaching in with his right hand to guide the brother to his sister. Phil also reached between the straining children, and, with Stuart, guided the couple, then restricted the wild boy taking much of his roaring energy in their cupped hands, and protecting the cute little fencer. "He's inside me," Anne whispered, her voice a concerto of awe and passion. "It may sting," Phil said, releasing the young buck and nodding to Stuart so he'd also free the boy. "Oh, sis," he groaned, and his athletic young hips began a gentle and tender motion, each tenth little thrust lingering and extending before yielding back to the short, careful stabs with which he tried to maintain control. Phil wrapped boy the children in his powerful arms, and Stuart positioned himself directly behind his friend and began to masturbate over the boy's surging bottom. "I'm ready," Anne whispered. "Are you sure," the boy grunted. "Yes, love," she hissed, and the slim hips lunged, backed, and lunged hard again. Phil gripped them hard, holding the boy to the girl as both shuddered with what they'd just shared. As their reeling senses washed again and again over the incestuous couple, Phil signaled Stuart, and the kneeling boy shifted his position so the man could reach him. He slicked his hand with semen, and palmed the thirteen year old, wetting his boner thoroughly, then, with gentle touches on Stuart's flank, guided the gangly athlete to a position over Win, and against his friend's rectum. Stuart's eyes glazed in prayerful thanks and his slick, slippery shaft easily entered Win, causing the latter to grunt and his eyes to bug out in surprise and with pleasure. Gently, emulating the tender short thrusts Win had used to enter the ten year old girl, he fulfilled himself inside his friend, finally mounting to his hilt, and lying flat against the young stallion's sweating back. Phil gently worked his penis between Win and Anne, thankful for the copious wetness that allowed him to share the slightest movement of the mating couple. For several minutes they lay getting used to being in this kind of love. Then Win, who'd been staring into Anne's eyes, as she stared back into his, began to respond to a new sensation. Sniffing, he lowered his head to his sister's face, kissing her forehead, then bent under, hunching his back in the process. Again he sniffed, now finding strong scent. "Oh, sis," he whispered softly as the musk of her bra washed over him. Stuart renewed his grip, as did Phil. The boy took his sister as if she were his tender bride. He rose, letting her experiment with rising to him, then came back to her, sliding fully against her, with a hard male jab of his hips. He was so big and she was so small, Phil knew he was just feeling her cervix with the tip of his penis, and was trying to plunge into that most intimate female sphincter. Anne could feel his need all through her groin, and helped by wrapping her legs tightly around Stuart, who, in turn, helped her beautiful brother. It took several panting, sweating, whispering minutes, but it happened. With a second tender whisper to his darling the young teen entered Anne's womb. "I'm cumming, darling," he managed to whisper, as his body started shaking like a leaf. Phil could feel the same bone deep shuddering in Stuart's body, and he held the three for two minutes until they were again calm and warm in his arms." Anne leaned softly against Tom, letting her head loll to his waist. The found him with the tip of her tongue, then with her soft lips.She kissed him as she'd never kissed her husband, and gurgled with pleasure at the hot salty semen that gushed immediately over the tip of her lively tongue and her taunting lips. Notes and comments: There is a mystery in this story, one I'll never understand, and that's how I endured those first years of betrayal. Even if Tom Cruse, whom I've never met, was a hairball tubby hubby, he was still cumming off in Anne, getting her pregnant, and I was not. Is this a cautionary tale? Yes. First wives are sacred. Possibly one man in fifty is happier with number two, and it's probably more like half that. Women have two characteristics. One, their ability to completely dismiss and forget, is has been covered. The second is their instinctive capacity to judge a man by the worst thing he ever does. Think of it this way. Say there's a village and a snake. It is the woman's job to remember where that snake is, so she can protect her children. It's the man's duty to hunt the snake down, kill it, and bring it home to feed the children. How did I survive, to slip back into the First Person? Only in ways that would not be applicable to most readers if they manage to screw up their marriages. First, was talent; I knew I'd make it as a writer, given enough time. For the last some months, downloads of my various stories have run at thirty thousand files a week, so I was right. Second, is family income; the good old trust fund. If I'd had to grind along without it, knowing I'd never have the time to write, I would have hunted this couple, not to do them violence, it's not in my nature, but to try to pay back just a little of the pain, any way I could. The third and fourth reason I survived were two young males. I met Jose Armando de Lira Varella in 1982, he was fourteen, and we were friends and lovers for five years. It was simply the most perfect and heavenly relationship in the history of the world, from first day, to first sex weeks later, to the final minute of the final day at Senior Frog's in Mazatlan. Steven Rollings was only eleven, an urchin who drifted into my bookstore. Our first shower together took place about a month after our first meeting. I don't want to pass comments or dispersions on anyone's lifestyle, but I feel obliged to say this: until you have lain on your left side facing a boy lying on his right side, and positioned yourself so he can reach you comfortably, and let him masturbate you with his avid right hand, until you cum off on the tip ofhis four inch boner, then throw him over the arm of the sofa, so, with his left leg on the sofa back, and his right heel shuddering against the floor, you masturbate him, slick with you fresh sperm, until he cums-off, spraying his sperm all over both of your chests, you haven't lived. Where are they now? David, my brother, teaches at George Mason. Likewise Win, Anne's brother, teaches at West Chester. Off Anne and Tom Cruise, I know little. He's not listed, 2002, as an attorney in New Mexico, and that can hardly be good news. Mary Blake is from Maine and is probably and RN working in the Boston area. Whether or not she ends up in the Relationship of the Month Hall of Fame or not is unknown to me. I would figure her to break up two or three marriages a year until she dies, or until a perfect product of the male of the species reaches the mass market. Laura Facey is from Jamaica, and, as she's the only person in this story whom I wish well, I hope she's married to Gordon, and they've managed to live happily ever after. Bobby Stuckey is real, but probably left Tenafly in the early Sixties. Undoubtedly this would be a happier story for Anne if corporate hijinks had not taken away her truest true love. Me, now? I stuck with my keyboard and dictionary (long since discarded) and after twenty years, ten thousand pages of sketches and drafts, and fifty thousand hours on the computer, I was published in 2001, posting three novels and five novellas under the pseudonym 'Feather Touch.' This year, I'm using the name on this manuscript, and have published five short stories, this will be the sixth. I'm well through a Mainstream novel, and you should see that puppy. Lovers? I have five young teen males; very casual, low-key and nice. Nicer yet is Samantha, fourteen, daughter of Bev, whom I've known for 23 years, and whom I molested when she was nine. Samantha and I are outgrowing the hand-holding and footsies stage, though I suppose it would be accurate to say we haven't really made out, kissing-wise, yet. No hurry; she's a charmer and delight under any circumstances. (By the way, for any moral person who might review this story, if Samantha does not end up in my bed, there's probably a seventy percent chance she'll contractAIDS or some other STD. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. In the interest of objectivity and perspective I should add two notes here. First, I never engaged in oral sex with Anne, so it's unfair to make an issue of it. This is embarrassing to write, but people are downloading my stories at the rate of thirty thousand a week, so, embarrassing or not, I owe it in response to such reader loyalty. This is it: Pubic hair. Girls, dear, dear girls, I have something intimate and private to tell you. Please trim yourselves. It's like this. After your lover cums inside you, the tip of his penis gets a little sore and sting-y. If he leaves you slowly, as men are wont to do, the sensation of a woman's pubic hair dragging across the tip of his penis, erect or flaccid, is most very intensely unpleasant. Not to put too fine a point on it, and you know me, I won't, it feels like cold spaghetti, wet, cold and sloppy with your sperm heightening the discomfort. A small thing you say? I beg your pardon, Anne's last kiss lasted three seconds. Good. There it is. Don't shave yourself, necessarily, that can be pretty weird, but do trim, especially lower down on your vaginal opening. Please. My second defect not noted in the story is smoking pot. I like my two joints a day, and that's a fact. I refuse even the mildest coke, pills, or anything, though, I'll admit, the time I left David alone with Anne to go and climb Padernal Carl's sister had given me a tab of acid, the only one I ever took. Anne was a Sunday toker, and by smoking every day, I made it an issue and spoiled that for her, and us, and for that I'm sorry. Would I take her back? If she were as trim as I am, non-drinker, as I am, and had grown up enough to work at her gift, as I do, I'd consider it. Guess I'd have to ask Samantha, first, though she's a friendly child and would probably be tickled pink. Finally, what did Anne miss by divorcing me. First, twenty two years of mild prosperity, enough extra to raise and educate three kids. Second, watching her husband evolve from man, to writer, to artist, to virtuoso. Third. She cut herself and her family off from a tremendous fortune, both extent and potential. Think how mad her kids will be when they find out. Fourth. Her immortality in any significant sense. She was a great artist. I know sick people need help, but anyone can do that, and many who do, can do nothing much else. There's a legend that Steve McQueen offered Ali McGraw a million dollars to come back to him. Twenty-two years after the events that occurred in Santa Fe, I find myself wondering if Anne would have me back for a million, or if Mary Blake's injunctions were permanent and irreversible. An you know what the parting thought is going to be. Sure you do. I love women, so it's for them. Mothers don't let your daughters grow up to marry writers. Posted by Thomas@btl.net xxx