Date: Fri, 5 Apr 2024 07:28:48 -0400 From: Jacob Schwann Subject: Pen&Cob #11 (bisexual incest) stories@nifty.org P&C #11 bisexual-incest PEN&COB Welcome to P&C #11. This revision of earlier Nifty bisexual incest et al. submissions is in the manner of Victorian erotica, being soft and slow as well as hard and fast - an original exercise in plagiaristic pornography. Herein are recounted the amorous misadventures of young Cobby, his sister Penny, and their family and friends. Authors' note: We'd love to hear from you. Please let us know what you think. Our email is always open at cobschwann@gmail.com. Support Nifty! (using link https://donate.nifty.org/). + + Letter #11: PART ONE: Chapter I -- VIII: "Starched Sheets" PART TWO: Chapter IX -- XII: "Loving Patches" Epistler: Jacob Cygnet Schwann Date: 1932 +/- Place: Parsonage, beyond Shallow Lake Letter #11: Chapter I Starched Sheets - 1 DEAR UNCLE DOCTOR ~~ PFHIEW ~~ !!! ...I was stinkier - sweatier and older -- more fit -- a `turned & tainted' twelve. Waking up hot from some real `Wowsa!' dream. Running around. Cycling everywhere. Racing from the cellar to the attic up four flights of stairs in our Victorian manse. Climbing up the rope to the block-and-tackle hay-hook in the barn-loft behind the Parsonage. Hot, sticky, heaving, huffing, wheezing I flopped on my back. Soggy undershirt draped dripping over my sweaty face -- breathing it - tasting it - savoring it. Drawing a finger through the waxy slime in my crotch line to suck on it. Ha! Fighting to lean over, way over belly and lap, with tongue tip out to flick, lick and taste that thickening drop right at the tippy prick top.... The teasing, tingly tickle - my cob being a bit bigger - my boy-balls too -- with more crinkly red hair down there. I stuck my nose and tongue deep into my own armpit. Ripe! I licked it. A lot. I liked it. ~~ PEE-YOO...! Penny held her nose as I went by, "Yuck - Billy goat!" Mom yelled, "Hmmm...? Yum...! But wash!" Dad twirled into a silly listing crouch, swinging in a lecherous, loping walk and licking his fingers: "Oooo...! 'The scent of young boy sweet-vanilla -- Angel axilla-musk. I like it..., I want it..., I lust it!" Laughing, he went on his way. And so, my boy-body was changing. I had a hardon -- forever, it seemed. That spongy little thing grew so rigid that I could not bend it. I could not pee in the toilet until the stiffy went down. What was a kid to do with a first-class erection? Well, we had gotten instructions that first year at Cainan Lake Camp when I turned eleven [Letter #8 ]. The Handsome Camper, my older cousin Steven Drake, enchanted a gaggle of us young kids with his `Do It Yourself' sessions. "Just go `Try It'. You're not going to hurt yourself. Here's what I suggest: Make sure you can't get caught. Get naked -- get on a bed, a chair, in a tub, up a tree, whatever suits you. Rub around your prick and balls -- gently, gently, gently - then the shaft and top. More. Harder, harder, harder. It wants you to. Keep on until it happens. You may `fire blanks', get a `dry-fire', with all the `goshwowboyoboy' good feelings, but nothing comes out in the end. Try it. And try it again, and again, and again. Maybe just a spot of good glop. Maybe a shot. Maybe a lot. Taste it. Learn to lick it. Do it again." Of course, we gave tries even as he spoke. Steven had us `drop trou', he called it. He circled around like a teacher supervising a pop quiz. With his doting satyr's smile, he watched each kid handle an itty-bitty hardon. Those of us who were a little older, or taller, or sleeker, or cuter earned Steven's direct, `hands-on' coaching. He had a way of standing or crouching so close. You felt his leg or his chest, and for certain his hand or even his lips at your ear. He whispered as he helped stroke you down there. He ever-so-soft-then-hard wrapped his fingers around it to show you how. He said to savor the feeling each time a hand surrounded the sensitive tip of the dick. I liked the being close and the touching. "Roses are red; violets are blue. I am using my hand; but I'm thinking of you!" That really good, tingly feeling of a slippery hand sliding along the length, another hand tugging at my small balls. Then I tried to mimic Cousin's Steven's fingers there, eliciting similar, tingly feelings. Dry-fires were what I got back then. Each felt good. No waiting - one right after the other. I would get them again and again and again. When Cainan Camp was over, I discovered the feel-good magic of humping my mattress. The method was to lie on my belly. Both hands flat beneath my crotch. Fingers working there and humping away. Hump-hump-hump.... Mmm.... My once-upon-a-time discovery turned into an every night event, becoming a `gotta-do' before falling asleep. I scrunched and scrunched, oblivious to all around me. I got stirred up by the coarseness of the wool blanket, or smooth sheet, or the puffy passionate pillow. Then I advanced to being under the covers flat on my back. My knees made a sheet-tent and I pushed my jammies down. I worked on my tight twig. The rising and scary feelings were hard to believe and alarming, but -- oh! - so amazing. It got to feel natural to stroke up and down. The pleasure was for sure going somewhere both strange and fine. I knew that these churnings were `sexual', and hence naughty -- and secret. Then came the day when I got my first clear-sap, white-goo sperming. That afternoon my sister and I gathered Dad's jive records. We cranked up the Victrola in the parlor of the Parsonage. We danced the Shimmy, Lindy-Hop, Swing-Shap and Texas-Tommy. We ended up tangling pretty rough, like always. We pushed each other, wrestling face to face and body to body. We grit-teeth, laughed and rolled around on the big red sofa and down to the old Persian rug. She fought hard, and me too. Then I made her cry. She ran out. Some part of me felt thrilled and driven, even if not proud. I might have moved muscle and got on my bike; or run woods with our black and white border-collie pup, Patches; or stacked wood, or carried out coal cinders, or taken a nap.... ...But not that day. + + + + + Letter #11: Chapter II Starched Sheets - 2 Charged up.... ...With that great 'need-to-pee' sensation of mine. This time I obeyed it. I went down to the cellar of the Parsonage. There by the coal furnace was the pile of Dad's hallowed -- if threadbare - Persian carpets where our pup Patches slept. My chest, my arms, my legs were primed and fresh and sweaty from tackling and tussling with little sister Penny. My mind relived the old excitements of being with Dad in the washtub and Mom in her bed, as well as rubbing against Steven and the naughty boys at camp. [Letters #3, 4, 8 ] No need to touch cock - these feelings were deep in my flesh and bones; I breathed hard and my peeny was hard -- real hard. I stood on the pile of rugs staring at the fire in the furnace grate. My clothes found themselves hauled down as by some determined force. Tossing aside shirt and kicking away pants and flicking underdrawers -- even lobbing socks. I stood naked. It felt good in the coal heat. The flames reflected red on my spindly legs and flat belly and bony ribs and freckly, flexing arms. Without thought, I was handling my unripe spike-rod -- more a pencil-dick in truth. Yet such good feelings were spreading over the stiffening flesh. I slid the foreskin sleeve down, then up, again and again. Wha...? Felt good, so very good. Wait...? Something happening? I kept on. The tickling butterfly feeling, fluttering and building ever so slow around the sticky head, and in and alongthe shaft. Spreading to my belly and groin, tingling and tangling in excitement deep, deeper, down even within my bottom.... I lost breath. I shivered and laughed. Incredible, wondrous things from lowest gut-center going all through up above. I went on. Something building crude and bestial and elegant and full-toned. My heart pounded. My mind blanked. Awareness of all gone around me.... HUH...? Prick-tip tingling, hot, swollen - that drop at the top. Scared, I quick stopped. Too scared to wiggle my weenie. And so the feelings subsided. Except I needed that goodness again. So again, finger-action brought on deep-rooted tinglings and shiverings in the depths of my groin and back along my spine. Again. And again. Some `rise' with a mind of its own -- An Ascension. My balls tightened to throb within. Cramps - thrills along my cock. WHA...?! Punched! Hard and harder. Crimped-up. Far inside.... Pulse, surge, then -- setting free. Again! Again! Not to stop. Hot pulses overwhelm prick and flood body. All let go...! Set free...I Arching backwards, to the rear, my neck stretched - I was levitated into some eminent, ethereal plane. Absolute loss of control.... Being driven back down.... `Over the Falls' I went - over and over and over.... Legs buckled, and like a fool I thought, `...Gotta be careful..., can't fall on somebody....' I lost breath. Then I fell crumpled onto the Persian carpets. Too much...! Words couldn't capture.... Flying or floating or suffocating.... Repeating tight hurting cramps under my balls deep in my butt. Ah..., ah..., ah.... So good, so terrifying. Then - - -. All done! Finished. No rising excitement. Just blasted -- spent - gutted. Flat on my back; arms and legs numb. Lightheaded. Shaking. Scared. Confused. Spent. Certain I had done something very, very, very wrong. Maybe even evil! And I liked it. A lot! Out of breath, I assumed it was but another `dry-fire'. But what a walloping one! Hence the grasping-grab; the hurting-ache, the twinging-twinge behind my balls. For all I knew, it might be dangerous. I looked down. HUH?! My bare belly sprinkled wet -- Wet! - with drops and gobs and streaks. "OOPS.... Holy cow.... Yecch.... What's this stuff...? Gotta clean up!" Was it piddle? Booger? Blood even? Slippery, slimy, sloppy wet stuff oozing from my prick hole. Not quite clear, more like runny snot - thready, cloudy. I dared to touch a finger to a damp patch. It was gummy. I rubbed it against my thumb. Shiny and sticky and stringy. It smelled tangy and salty as of the sea. Wait, sea-smell? From `sea-men'? SEMEN! My first spend! A monstrous wad of boy-cream had spewed from my dick and puddled on my belly. Wow! On impulse I took a bit between finger and thumb. I hesitated at first before sampling it. I licked it with my tongue. I was surprised and pleased that it tasted like Cousin Steven's from our night together at Camp Cainan. [Letter #8 ] Nice! I could not get over how great it all was. I was sexually mature! At last! Oh, did it ever feel good. And I had done nothing to achieve orgasm other than to rub myself. The tight, terrific feeling of that Very First Time was unforgettable. And powerful. The groin-clutch, the ball-spend, the prick-spit...! Can that moment of convergence of the unknown, the absolute adventure, the anxiousness, the utmost newness, the pure pleasure, and the shocking good feeling ever be repeated in one's long life? Ever? A dream come true. ...I shall never forget my first cum. + + + + + Letter #11: Chapter III Starched Sheets - 3 That night, per usual..., ...I humped my mattress. Darn it! Had I pissed my bed? It was wet alright. But also sticky and smelled of the sea. Hmm..., `sea-men'. So I knew. I checked down between me and my pillow. Whew! Wet! Such a lot of viscous boy-juice. I rolled to my side and turned on the light. Yuck! The stuff was everywhere. So much! Some clear and some cloudy. I sniffed my preferred left hand - still stinky with semen and sweat. Boy, my pillow was sure a mess. I wiped it and me with an undershirt. I flipped the pillow over -- dry side up. Bedwetter -- juicy-juicer -- tree-sapper. I went to sleep thinking that I had to try that again. But maybe with a towel tossed over the pillow. And so, I began to experiment. This led to all sorts of pleasures never before imagined. I rubbed the very tip of my stiff penis to and fro against the top bed sheet. The pleasure experienced got so intense that I had to stop. Better by far was to do it slow and methodical. And I imagined all sorts of illicit scenarios. I daydreamed about guys as much as or more than girls. Yet I daydreamed about sister Penny and dancing with no clothes on. I daydreamed about Cousin Steven, about lying on top of him and rubbing my dick in his butt-crack just as he had in mine. I stuffed my pillow under me and humped it, imagining it was someone's front or back end - anyone's. Each time I came, it was like I had never, ever cum before. Each time was the very `first', the very `swell time'. And the `equipment' never failed to stand up to my `abuse'. Such heavenly lights-out ejection ecstasies - each night, every night, again and again and again..... Within days I was about to face a bigger challenge: unwitting, reflexive Nocturnal Emissions. I had no idea what was happening. But gosh -- were they ever frequent and bewildering in their profusion. At night I woke up gooey and sticky from wondrous `wet dreams'. And I cursed them. Yet by morning I was yearning for the lost loves of those dreams -- sweet boys, handsome girls, friendly beasts, sporty women, beauteous men.... Copious, bounteous, streaks, drops, dribbles and dollops of boy-batter soaked and stiffened my blankets, pillows and pajamas several nights each week. So this was `starching the sheets'! Then there was that one time when, being brave and horny, I snuck outside my parent's bedroom door while they were `at it'. I listened and handled myself. I tried to keep my own ejaculation at bay until I heard that sudden wet squish~squish~squish when my father yelped Mom's name: "Magdalena. Magdalena. Ah..., Magdelena-Rose....," and my mother yipped and called out. The noises of the adults masked my own grunts and sighs as I unloaded and sopped up the gooey spend from my smooth, round balls. And so, as a family, we might `all cum together'. Who was the devil's-advocate thinker that wrote of: `The tribal oil that eases friction, the family cement that binds close together'? Sure as shootin' - we Schwann's were in the thick of it! At that age, staving off my cumming was nearly an impossible task. But the school gym teacher warned that doing `external genital manipulation' was bad. And the town reverends said that such `hysterical paroxysms' were wrong, and would keep you from high heaven and send you down below to Hell. On this wise, one morning I decided I must hold off from all illicit exercise. All of it. Forever and never again. Except maybe at night. Right away I got a hardon thinking about the hardon I would get that night. Then I thought that with `Divine Help' I must stop doing it altogether. So to save myself, like the church folk said, I picked up our old, illustrated family Bible in the Parsonage. Then, when everyone was gone, I opened to `God's Word' and prayed on my knees. I pleaded and promised and pledged that I would never do `it' again. Ever! My heartfelt testifying and swearing and prayer lasted a day or two. But then I got jism - six, eight, ten shiny, silvery, substantial splops -- on that page between First and Second Samuel. The one with the printed etching of David and Jonathan in each other's arms - "Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women" -- that one. Hence the needs of the moment trumped the promises of an `Eternal Future', however enticing the latter. And so..., ...I got myself back again. + + + + + Letter #11: Chapter IV Starched Sheets - 4 Ahh..., ... with teener glands kicking in I was growing up. So, dirty thoughts all the time. Not always involving other persons, or even myself, just the tremendous exciting fun and `Let Me Go To Heaven!' feeling from the act of solo `Joy-Fuck' masturbation. The whole-body tingle - heart rate becoming rapid - the groin crimping as balls tightened up. Ahh.... Not too fast now.... That anticipated beginning spasm.... Increase stroke; tighten grip.... The rush of touch - tense legs, arch back -- groin spasm beyond control.... The gasping breath, stifled moan.... Groin jerk -- pulse of heat along dick.... First sap then pulse with rapid stroking.... Whole body shiver, shudder, gasp, groan.... Spurts, splops.... Belly, chest, chin... Don't stop, never stop, yet blur of hand stops. Spasms die away - fall back, strain to still breathing and be quiet now.... The feel of slick cum on belly cooling.... Then - ever-new tense of whole body with tingling groin and instinctive thrust of stiff dick in stroking hand.... Ahh! The frequency of my hardons demanded attention several times each day. I might finish in seconds. But I got so I could last thirty to forty minutes or longer if I intended. And I could work the same hardon to bust full hefty loads over again. And in time even again, for three and four distinct and different bulky blows all on one bone. At least once in a great while. When I first started, I did not have a lot of jism to shoot. In just a few strokes I would sperm out solitary drops of nearly clear stuff onto my belly and that would be that. Yet in time I found I might spend-out showers of thin or thick white splooge - a lot! Old Aunt Elsa's medical books said that an average volume of a man's spermatic fluid was the equivalent of maybe a single teaspoon. I never measured, but I sure must have hucked up a couple of tablespoons - or so it seemed. I was proud to be known as a maker of massive muddles with my skinny, bulgy-topped prick. A couple of times in a row there could be stronger, messier pops - a sticky, dribbly mishmash. So much! There was that one morning when I dripped with serious sweat on a hot, early summer dawn. Some forgotten wetdream left me soggy and dribbling. I wrestled the nightshirt off and lay birthday-naked on the bottom of the bunkbed in the third floor Parsonage bedroom. Gotta pee.... Gotta pee.... No, gotta hold it! Twelve years old now, skinny but strong, my morning-wood's morning-need demanded its morning-glory: the first of the day. So I flipped belly-down, face-front on top of the cool, scratchy, homespun bedding. My wiry thighs, knees, right shoulder and arm lifted me off the rough linen sheet. Ever so familiar, my trusty-lefty abused my cob down under. I pumped and pumped and pumped into my fist. With the familiar reflex cascade, lots of things happened all at once. As I humped my hand, my bare skin stretched, went slack, strained again on my lean frame. My chest and belly tensed and released. I panted and groaned. There was something bubbling up inside; nice, jittery. Something getting stronger. Sweating more. Heart pounding. Legs spasming - wriggling feet and toes; panting; sighing in pleasure. Those nice tingly feelings building up, flooding through me. Then! There! Springing down deep betwixt my legs. Mounting.... Rising.... Sensing semen stodging my balls; penis ready to burst. Hold it in! Hold it in! Hold it in! Longer it's held - better it feels. Keep going; keep going. At the threshold.... Sensations climbing.... Climbing up the urethra to the very tip. There; there; getting close; almost THERE. (You never know where `there' is - until you get `there'!) This boy's penis stroked and squeezed by his frantic, loving hand. Each pump bringing waves of prickly pleasure. And then - as though from afar - came such strange, strangled yelps of heightened bliss. Orgasm taking over. The heaven-sent catch of cramping buried deep in the crotch - cluching, clamping, clasping, clenching - leaving me clinging and crying out. Ah! Ah! YES! At last -- such pleasurable agony. Ejaculations erupting, springing out groin-grinding waves of tingling pleasure. Letting loose. Shooting semen. Again. And again. "NGHAA! Nghaa! Nghaa...." Whirlpooling, fenny, quaggy, plunging, soaring, sodden release So much! My own cries and sighs and surprises mingled with the dayspring birdsong. It was good to be alive. It was good to be me. I rolled onto my side. I laughed at my morning spawn sinking into the venerable family quilted squares of the Parsonage bedding.... ...Ha! + + + + + Letter #11: Chapter V Mother Tiger - 1 My mother..., ...did the laundry. But she never said a word about the conspicuous cardboard-like crust -- the `starch' - coating my jammies and bedding. With no uncertainty this residua announced to the household my fruition into full-blown puberty. "You're getting tighter, Jacob," was all Mom said to me after supper one night -- just the two of us. She drew her hand over my shoulders. "Your arms and legs and butt are tighter. Your belly is tighter. Your chest is tighter. I can see that you are growing into it." Then she sat at the kitchen table. As though without thought, she pulled her soft dress up along the length of her thigh. The sultry odor of her own piquant feminine tang began to rise in the room. I was given a long look up between her legs. It was very dark and secret in there. My breath stopped. My eyes blurred. Had I played up there in the past? With her undies in the clothes hamper? (Letter #3 ) I lost focus. Then she stood and turned to the sink. She whispered over her shoulder, "I saw you on the porch in the heat this afternoon, Jacob. I watched. You just had those camp shorts on. You were sitting daydreaming and touching your body. Touching your bare belly and chest and arms. Then stroking with your fingers. And sniffing your hand. I've noticed that athletic teenage boys rub themselves a lot. The ones who're well-knit; who've got more `snap', maybe." I shrugged. I was not paying much attention. Her voice was so low and dreamy. She was facing away from me as she did the dishes. "I do see you checking yourself all the time now. Maybe making sure your muscles are budding. Or admiring that new sudden power and firmness swelling so fully under your skin. Your young body is magnificent, Jacob. It is filling out gorgeously. You are well-shaped and a glory to behold. No wonder you like to experience how things feel." As I sat there all scatty-brained, I fingered my chest through my shirt. Sleek, tight, with tickly nipples. My other hand stroked the flesh-bundle in my pants. It got thick and leaked a bit. I figured Mom just meant, with all my running and bicycling, me being a thin guy to begin with, that my belly muscles were easier to see. "Yeah," I said with pride. "And stronger. I'm getting gut-ridges and runner's crotch-creases like iron-bands. See!" I pulled up my undershirt and pushed my waistband down a bit so as to show her. She turned her intense, enticing eyes on me. Reaching out a hand, she enclosed my wrist with cool, supple, gripping fingers. I was jerked to my feet by a grasp like flexed steel. I got pulled tight against her. My arms found themselves wrapped about the warm, giving, receiving refuge of my mom. In an old familiar move, I buried my face down between her breasts - her large, soft, enveloping breasts. With an intake of breath, she slid strong fingers beneath my shirt. Hot hands felt of my ribs; around and up by my narrow shoulders. Mom held me close, sniffed, then licked the nape of my neck. "Hmm...," she murmured more than once. "There's nothing like the sweet smell and taste of Growing Boy. Ah, his sweat's musky, if not yet ripe.... So very full of promise." She smelled good to me, too. Her rose-petal bath powder. And a deeper, richer earthy scent. Sniff! Like mouldering autumn leaves, or the sea-scent in from the bay. I was later to learn that this woman-aroma of bodily readiness was the beckoning smell of a fecund, fertile female. Waiting to conceive perhaps. Pungent and heavy, in my mother's instance - it was always desirable and arousing. Later I was to associate my mother's fragrance with that of my own day-old sperm. Odd, huh? It was as if she might be hoarding some stud's gratis emission inside her most of the time. Just letting a little out in her bodily sweat - soliciting for more, perhaps. All I know is, I got aroused by my mother - her arms about me - drawing me in. She was a hellcat on the prowl. "Mom?" I asked, as though venturing on a perilous quest. "Yes, baby?" I paused, gaining the new courage of a man on the make, "Can I have another hug?" "So, my little strong man! Do you love me?" I teased her by staying silent. She pressed her cheek against mine, mingling her eyelashes with my own. "You DO love me...?", she clasped my shoulder. "Sure I love you. I told you yesterday and the day before. But you forget." I always gave her what she wanted. When I nodded `yes', I felt her melting embrace. She gave her most poignant, soulful little cry. She bit her lips. Her eyes grew wide, then narrowed. We shared breath and heartbeats and bodies. Our arms wrapped and squeezed tight; her fullness spreading about me, around me. I was pulled and pressed and sank heavy between the lush softness of her abundant rosy breasts - smothering, steamy, the lair of the bright-burning tiger. Gold glinted in the light. There. Below her neck. Between her breasts. The purest yellow nugget of her pendant xoanan icon amulet. "No larger than a castor bean seed, and just as deadly", our father Jesse always said. There! It swung on its fine-linked chain before my eyes. The clever-crafted auric she-tiger with the wee boy riding her behind. `Copulating', they said. Penny and I once had fiddled with it as we lay in bed with Mom. [Letter #4 ] We could see the tiny boy's wide-eyed little grin. There atop his fine-wrought balls, his long slender thread of a cob poked down, around, and between the she-tiger's legs into the minute golden pillows of her kitty-pen. His surprise and her satisfaction, as her gilt tail snugged around his itty butt. Just a weighty nugget of gold. I thought again of the crude rhyme that Dad would recite: ..."Recall the bonny young lad from Niger, -His broad smile as he rides the she-tiger; -They came back from the ride -With the young lad inside, -And the smile on the lips of the she-tiger." [Letter # 3 ] Hmm.... `And the smile on the lips....' My mother's grin! Then all was over. With a gulp I pushed away. Inside I was suffering. We two quick-stepped to opposite sides of the table, intent on chores. She turned away to resume her tiger-walk..., ...up and down the room. + + + + + Letter #11: Chapter VI Mother Tiger - 2 Late one night..., ...when I was still twelve, I left my room. I crept downstairs in the old Parsonage kitchen and opened the creaking door to the cellar. I felt my way down the wooden steps and through the familiar cramped basement. I was alone in a safe and secret hideaway. I ignored the string of the single dim bulb over the stairway. All was lit instead by the faint, flickering flames through the coal furnace grate. I chose the softest rug on Patch's pile of old Persian carpets. I lay down with a Montgomery-Ward catalog open to the men and boys underwear section. Not even doing anything, my breath was shorter. I got stirred up as I separated the stuck pages and stared at the pictures. I had not in fact intended to masturbate down in the basement. It seemed too dangerous. After all, my mother was just out of her bath and up in the kitchen. I was scared that Mom had heard me and could, any second, fling open the door to investigate. She might need to come down the cellar stairs. But..., one thing led to another. Before I knew it, I had lifted the soft flannel of my pj top to stroke my belly. Then I undid the buttons to rub my chest and nipples as well. Soon I untied the string of my pajama bottoms and snugged them down a bit. My thin rising cock flopped over my balls and few, bright red pubes. The pj bottoms got pushed way down my thighs. Then I stripped them away with my feet and flung my arms about to wrestle off the top. Now I was naked. I lay on my back on the rugs next to the warm furnace. I lifted my head and looked down at my new self. I remember doing that. I was in awe of my own budding boy-body. Freckled white, muscles you could see now, and there that rising center of my existence. My cob getting longer was one of those things that happened when I was not paying attention. Like getting my coiled and curled red pubes. You do not notice that things are on the move, then one day, `Oh Boy!' I began stroking away over the catalog pictures of some guys in underwear. Those familiar tingling feelings swelled outward. My prick, groin, and belly. Then delicious warmth to my thighs and chest and face. And to the very roots of my crazy red hair. I sighed. I moved a finger down to rub the area below the base of my cock and balls. Shivering at the sensation, I touched my butthole. A thrill coursed through my body. Spreading my legs apart, I raised my backside up and slid the tip-top of my finger just into my bum. The pricking-probing-impaling friction on the lips of my hole was breathtaking. The burning sensation felt strange -- a profound presence deepening within and all through me. I started a slow screwing action with my hips. I began to feel the slight stinging in my prick. I watched drips of clear fluid form at the slit in my nodding cockhead and string down onto my belly. I pulled my finger from my tailend. I enjoyed the freshening feeling as it slid out. I needlessly wiped the tip on the rug. I touched my slim wooden prick. Its smooth hood of loose skin slid up over the top and down again. That tickling chill of vibration bloomed forth. The familiar need-to-pee feelings started in my balls, groin and cock. I moved the one hand faster while feeling myself all over with the other. I caressed and teased my neck and chest and nipples and belly and balls and inner thighs and my butt and up my sides and over my face. I was quite absorbed. Yet even not handling my cob, I knew I was about to erupt. HUH...!? Wha the...? Creaks on the wooden cellar stairs! Flat on my back, I arched my head backwards to look wrong way up back across the basement. The far dim light bulb over the stairs had been pulled on. The treads creaked. OH NO! There! On the steps. Smallish feet, nails painted blood-red, beneath the swirling bathrobe of rainbow colors. There, as though within the iridescent eyes of a peacock's tail, was..., ...The Witch of Terrible Beauty. + + + + + Letter #11: Chapter VII Mother Tiger - 3 I was fucked...; ...because my mom had crept down the stairs. She now stood at the bottom. Her dark, glossy, intense gaze flared in the darkness. She leaned against the post - her long black hair tousled - watching me. Loosening her robe she exposed her breasts. I did not want to look at them - curved and full and flowing. But it was impossible not to. My breath clutched. I stared back unmoving, stretched out on my back, as I was, with my head back, looking `wrong-side-up' backwards at her. Caught red handed. Doing `it'. Transfixed. Naked. She sighed a husky purr like the grumbling drone of a great cat, "Do not stop, boy," Something in her voice was thrilling, magnificent and awful. She fiddled with the glinting gold chain about her neck. There was the tiny pendant amulet of the golden she-tiger with boy pressed tight behind. Mom moved her other hand down to separate her robe and release her breasts. She revealed her amazing, dark, bushy pudenda. She began blatantly stroking the curvy, glistening lips of that hungry red mouth of her vulva. She looked across the cellar direct into my eyes. Her unwavering gaze like a great cat's met my gawk. I took in our mother-son, frozen and silent tableau in mute fascination. It was perhaps but three or four moments - yet it seemed an age. "Slow, soft touches, Jacob baby," she murmured from across the room to me. "Slow and steady wins the race." With my head bent so far back, I stared upside down at her. I shivered in a fine tremor. But all on its own, my willful hand started to stroke my stiff, skinny prick once again. "Jacob..., I've wondered. I wondered when I noticed the crispy, night-dream stains on your sheets and in your underwear. I wondered if you were `ready'." I stroked faster. My mind was blown beyond the boundaries of our basement. Like a seizure. A hallucination of fertile wonders and horrors. I knew by then that our Mom was a fragile, lonesome woman. I had learned that my Dad had been very young, just a few years older than I was now, when he had fathered me and then sired Penny. And now our Mom no longer took Dad, a grown man, to her. I knew by instinct that my Mom was not able to do `it'. She could not `go over the falls', not do `real' lovemaking, except with adolescent boys. I learned later that when I was away at camp and Penny went to Old Aunt Elsa's, things changed at the Shallow Lake Parsonage. Mom would become smitten with one or another wayward high school boy. She would spend her earnings and Dad's on her young boyfriend. She would keep him as a play-toy on weekends at the Parsonage while Dad slept on the parlor sofa. She never failed to marvel at the supernatural number of erections and ejaculations enjoyed by fifteen or seventeen-year-old schoolboys. My mind flashed on one `once-upon-a-time' late afternoon in Shallow Lake town. I had taken a shortcut through the lumberyard. I spotted the dark parked sedan, a Model A Tudor. It rocked this way and that, bucking up and down. The movements inside the car were of a couple making love. Of course, I sneaked up to watch the performance. I raised myself alongside a door and peeked through the window. I was staggered. There were the long feet and skinny bare backside of a slight young guy -- a young sports ape I knew from school. He was worked-up alright, pumping his butt frantic to satisfy his partner beneath him. A large, frowsy, older woman lay on her back on the rear seat, clasping her quarry with arms and legs - a great cat playing with her prey like a ball of yarn. Or a spider enmeshing her mate for an after-copulatory meal. She lay back upon her multi-hued robe of many colors, spread beneath her like the mating show of an iridescent peacock. Desperate cries of delight were punched from her with each of the boy's jabs as she called out, "Slow and steady wins the race!" It was Mom! My own mother was being serviced by another of her fun-boys. Shocked and ashamed that day..., ...I had crept away. + + + + + Letter #11: Chapter VIII Mother Tiger - 4 The sound of my mother's murmuring..., ...brought me back to the Parsonage basement: ---"Jacob Cygnet, when I found you looking up my dress that time when we were by the kitchen table, I knew. I knew you were getting ready." Had she seen me do that? Her smooth, motherly speaking of my own name gave an unexpected warm tingle in the depths of my body. Stark naked, stretched flat on my back, I stared topsy-turvy up back at her. I wished to stop the shame of my orgasm, but I could not. I yanked in a driven fury. My butt arched up off the rugs. My every tendon, bone and muscle -- neck, arms, stomach, legs, feet - strained in expectation. I gasped. Looking upside-down at my own mother, I watched her finger herself. She failed to stifle her own flash-point moans. Those pushed me to the edge. She watched with her ravening feline eyes. My own mother.... Frenzy swept over me in waves. There arose a crestal steamy swamp, a tropical quagmire, stagnant, shadow-green, beneath a moist and heavy sky between creation and decay. And I was lost.... I screamed. A spray - so forceful - hit me on the chin and forehead. Jets of sticky white fluid shot all over creation, on and on and on. Each hit my torso or the floor with a distinct crisp `SPLAT!' Blasts weakening, subsiding driblets of cum, oozings from the slit. I believed I smelled banks of sweet, wild rose petals. I collapsed. "Magdalena," I kept repeating my Mom's first name. "Magdalena, Magdalena Rose...." Head backward, gazing upside down, my eyes frozen open - I watched my mother. Her hand at her privates, she brought on her own height of pleasure. Her fingers tightened, her lids clenched shut, she grimaced and bit her lip. Then once more she shuddered and cried aloud -- moaning vocalizations - low rising yowls of pained pleasure rising to breathy peaks and subsiding. Meanwhile, I kept stroking. Slick and slippery now, my body was to cum a second time. Yes.... Soon flooding again profuse out of me -- NGAH! ... NGAH!... NGAH! Mom rubbing herself through my eruptions. I could not believe it all was happening. She stood on the bottom step sighing and smiling at me. I gave way and succumbed. I yelled, the pleasure being so intense that my balls lifted inside their bag, as my cob exploded, spewing out rapid jets of my cum. When all was over, I lay there still and diminished, sucking air and shaking. I gasped, struggling to regain composure. Seconds or moments or hours later my mother turned her hardworking, always shifting, tumbling scrutiny on me. She and I enjoyed a perfect communication, or so she said. I was a man far more mature than the riffraff she was dating, she said. I was beautifully sensitive to the slightest shift in her moods, she said. "If you weren't my son," she laughed, "you'd be my best friend -- or you'd marry me." The depth of silence in the cellar heightened the gentle popping and crackling from the coal furnace. "I walked in on you," Mom said in a husky rumble. "And, welI.... I certainly needed that. And you too. Great Mother, I've rarely seen so much. Both `plenteous' and `plentiful'. I didn't think your `little friend' could do all that." She smiled. "Don't worry about it. When you're older you'll be `ready'. Ready to serve. To serve the Goddess, as had Zeus served when he was caused to release his shower of `White-Gold Rain' upon mythic Danae, the mother-to-be. So your `White-Gold Rain', Jacob - passive, plentiful yet powerful - shall be called forth by the Goddess into a willing, wide-open, receptive and pregnable vessel. White-Gold Rain. Strong and sure, easy does it, `slow and steady wins the race', then hard and fast. Hard! Hmm.... And so it shall concentrate within you and then within....." She gave a rumbling purr. "Shall we talk again in a year or so, you and I? There are always games, my baby. But the rules are ours to break. In the meantime, now and again you might wash your own sheets." The shame that suffused my body was strong. I was unable to think. I heard her hum an ancient tune as she gathered herself together. She mounted up the cellar stairs to the kitchen. My eyes clamped shut. I was too horrified to look up after her. It was easier for each of us this way, in any event. When at last I came-to I looked about. I cleanedup as best I could. I crept up to the empty kitchen and sprinted to my bedroom. My Mom and I were not to speak of this..., ...for some years. + + + + + Letter #11: PART TWO: LOVING PATCHES (Chapters IX - XII) + + + Letter #11: Chapter IX Patches - 1 There were secrets..., ...which I never could -- never would - share with any other person. Yet I had one friend who knew everything about me and still loved me. In addition to my flaming red hair, I had my `Mark of Cain' - my companion Patches. --- Even our original Cainan Community ancestor had a dog. Our scriptural progenitor Cain, one of the incestuous offspring of Adam and Eve, violated his beloved brother (and some say his sister Lilith, and also his mother Eve) before murdering Abel in a jealous rage. God cursed Cain to a life of toil and wandering -- just like all of our itinerant Cainan folk. And it is said that God gave red-haired Cain a dog as `The Mark': ..." Then the LORD put a mark on Cain; "To protect Cain a dog was given him." (Canticles of Cainnan: `Beginnings' 4: 1-16) --- Now, I liked to run as hard as I could through the woods along with Patches. She was our splotchy, black and white, mixed-breed border collie pup. And then we would race back to the Parsonage. After many, many times when I turned twelve, I got fast enough to beat her home. Sure, I looked scrawny. But my legs and wind were strong and I had endurance. I rode my bicycle everywhere in upper Grey County, trying to beat my own best times. Patches ran along with me. At least for the first few miles from the Parsonage. With my feet propped on the handle bars for the down slopes, my balls and dick hung out of a pant leg waving in the breeze. "Here's Sexy Slim!" I shouted at the top of my lungs to the passing pines. I skid to a stop at a high overlook where I could see far across streams, fields and forests. Tossing the bike, I dropped my shorts to flop all bare in the tall grass. I felt the soft moss and stiff timothy-grass spears along with the very undulations of the earth. Sinking into half-sleep in the dappled shade, hovering in consciousness, I fingered myself, ever so easy, steady and slow. New waves of pleasure built with every movement. Breathless, exhiliarating, irresistible urges consumed me in the adventure of self arousal, always craving more. Then the faraway cries of birds, the breeze in the leaves, the whirr of insects gathered force and came together in a song of joy. Joy! At last! JOY! My soul and body released ~ soaring off some celestial precipice into dipping, rising, pulsating flight from a height in my mind that I did not even know was there. The feeling was as if the whole universe had changed, being now charged in a rush of blissful joy. At last it had come -- that moment of joyful oneness with all. I but wished to be a conduit, a passageway for the nameless great universal forces thrusting through me. I tried to halt the clatter of my thoughts. I feared all might slip away. Then I dozed. I bolted alive to the world as Patches barked and nipped. She lapped the accumulated gummy, gluey cum off my belly -- so much! I grabbed shorts and retrieved my bike just as a great truck rumbled up the grade. And so I would go alone with my pooch to the woods or skinny dipping or down in the Parsonage basement on the rugs. I paraded around naked with my boy-bone pointing the way. Sometimes I straddled Patches' back as she stood quiet. I enjoyed the feeling of her living fur on my brash, bare, body parts. She let me snuggle upon her and get as much of me in contact with her furry body as possible. And rub and rub and then rub again until I would cum. How she loved to lick! I do not remember the way this was discovered. It seemed like an automatic reflex of hers that when my pants came off, Patches nuzzled her pointy snout right up in there. She licked farther and farther up my legs, until she was licking high on the insides of my thighs. It was as though she could not get enough of licking ass hole, nuts, prick, groin. It must have been that special hormonal-sweat-grease found on a guy's finger after sliding it in the crease between thigh and ball sack. And I was in heaven. It felt so good - her wet, warm, rough tongue lapping around and down onto the underside of my low hangers. I thought I was going to faint with the feelings from my dick, which was red and twitching all on its own. She never bit me, but her needley teeth could be pretty exciting. I lifted my legs up and used both hands to pull my ass cheeks apart. And Patches nosed in and went to work. I almost died when her tongue wormed into and massaged my tight hole. She stopped and poked her cold wet nose right in there. She sniffed a couple of times, and then started again licking like wild. Now and then she tired of this, but of a sudden something would click in her brain and she would lap like a maniac. She seemed addicted to it, and it made me crazy happy. I then put my legs down because I wanted her to lick my dick. I kept gasping each time she lapped at it. Her skittish doggy tongue brought me closer and closer with every wonderful slobber. I whimpered in pleasure, telling her how good she was. I could not stand it any longer. I needed to cum so bad. I grasped onto my rock-hard cock. Knees tight up to chest again. Patches rebounded to give my accessable and vulnerable ass hole the full-on doggy tongue treatment. My whole body twitched and convulsed like I was being electrocuted. My throbbing cock danced and shot cream onto my belly and the pile of rugs, making a new record for distance. I melted upon the floor. All the nerve endings in my young body tingled like crazy. Patches sniffed out my sperm and cleaned it off my body with scrupulous care. Then she went for the head of my dick where liquid was still seeping out drip by drip. The nips from her frenzied teeth made that a ticklish endeavor. But I went for it over and over again. I did not believe anything..., ...could ever feel so good. + + + + + Letter #11; Chapter X Patches - 2 I was ready..., ...for a new adventure. During my second year at our Consanguineous Clan's Cainan Lake Camp I turned twelve. Having been vouchsafed by my grown-up Cousin Steven, I got to be on the STONE CREW! [ Letter #8 ] The crew was made up of the older, fitter, sturdier boys who played at working on the stone walls and pens at camp. They fooled around together all the time. So, after lights out one night a bunch of us Stoners snuck over to a neighboring horse farm. As we passed near the hired man's shack, one of us gestured in silence at a lighted window. Like a stage set with a curtain, the roller-blind went up. We saw shades and shadows inside. The room was lit by an unseen candle or lantern giving flickering half-light. And in that room, in that strange lime-light, were actors. A boy and a girl stood in the shadows. Their bare bodies close and entwined. It was impossible to tell where one began and the other left off -- the hired farm boy and the farmer's daughter, it must have been. They spoke mysteries, mouthed wild things, laughed, sighed, and murmured whispers that we could not hear but guessed. We Stone Crew lads pressed close - neck and neck, shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm, hand in hand - tight together, excited in the extreme, staring at that window-theater - at that peculiar mise-en-scene. The boy and girl, all unknowing, flourished shirts up and off above their heads. They stripped trousers and skirts from off their legs, to let clothes fall from them. They stood raw and animal-crazy -- naked! Like shimmering colts, their hands reached out to each other, touching together in dance. What were they doing? We watched the dim-light of the window, saw hands reaching, touching, heard hints of laughter. Hearts pounding, cheeks hot, lips parted, we stared at the performance. Of a sudden the shade was drawn down, the curtain fell. End of scene. We crept away, not knowing what to think - thinking too much. After all, one of our Stone Crew Old-Hands noted, we deep-thinkers wanted `ideal beauty' from the human body, not `barnyard crudity'. HOWEVER.... Given the absence of the one and the desire for the other -- so juices flowing, we ran down to a side barn. We heard bunches of frisky young dogs, maybe just seven or more months old, hopping around outside. They were howling and pawing to get in, even while they happily licked and humped one another. An experienced Stone Crew member peeked through a knothole and gave the report. A very young, rough-collie pooch was in a big wire cage. She was in her first heat, circling, tail up, dripping even - you could almost smell it, he said. She was penned up inside the barn so the males - no doubt her young litter mates who all looked the same - could not get at her. The farmer had not wanted her bred yet -- that was obvious. But the frisky pups were desperate to do the business with their sister-bitch at any opportunity. And was she ever frantic for them to get to her. We Stoners sqeezed through the half-way latched door, as one of her sibling pups, the runtiest, randiest of them, snuck into the barn with us. He stood looking in her pen transfixed. Naturally, we let him go to her. And we watched the show. They circled whining and sniffing and tongue-slathering all about. The pups had been raised side by side after all, their close bond and appearance was clear, and now they shared all these amazing new smells and taste sensations. Yipping and yapping and frantic they fed off of one another's excitements. They sniffed and licked each other, kindling some fire-in-the-belly, no doubt - triggering arousal, whipping up the itch of lust into hot, frenzied, craving heat -- one to the other. Her runty brother ran around and around her in circles, `showing pink' with his dripping dick hanging out. He did not know what else to do. She kept hunkering down and presenting her wet little sister-cunt to him. She wanted it so bad. We cheered when the feisty guy mounted her by instinct, desperately clutching her back between his forepaws. The pup's cock slid from its sheath, a bolt of deep purple, going all humpety-crotchety in some blind search for her pale-pink doggy-minge. He clamped his forelegs at her hips -- she desperate for it now - but he plowed too far from her. Her butt wiggled - begging him on - while his puppy pre-cum dripped wasted in the wind. Undaunted, the two hot sibs worked at it. One of the guys gave the Romeo a shove with his boot, and at last the pup rammed his pink, boney prick to wedge deep inside the Juliet. Direct hit! Oh, how she bayed as he barked. With his tongue hanging out he looked so happy. We all cheered. The two of them yelped and panted and pumped with abandon. Then they staggered as he swelled and locked with her in orgasmic bliss. The two young sibs knotted delightedly together, ultimately standing end-to-end, in that happy butt-to-butt stage of dog mating. Such a long while of them gasping and giving and taking -- so satisfied in their successful tie. One experienced Stoner told how the pup could not just pull out. His dog-knot was swollen, and he was to wait many blissul minutes for it to subside. "It stays just as stiff as any young kid's bone after it shoots," he added. And so she bolted to drag the frightened first-timer around behind her. He got tugged backwards, yelping all about the pen. Hooting, we guys did a Stone Crew circle jerk onto their backs. At the end, the doggy-cunt squealed and let the puppy-runt go. We shooed him out as he heaved and gasped. She lay on her side with her hind leg up, licking and licking herself. We locked her in the pen so all would seem as though nothing had happened. We laughed, thinking of the farmer's astonishment when the little doggy bitch whelped her `gets' and his`produce' in a couple of months. Surprise! Immaculate conception! Those dogs humping got us Stone Crew guys jazzed up. `Who's next?', we joked to one another in turn. So we pulled off a naked `Night Walker' raid on the older girl's camp cabin after lights out. Then bulled all about it around the camp fire. And later there was beating-off and splooging from the top bunks. I was a generous contributor. Woe to the latrine bound Stoner who stepped in `Cob's Blobs' that night..., ...I tell you! + + + + + Letter #11; Chapter XI Patches - 3 That fall I was reunited..., ...with our happy, collie-mix Patches. I welcomed her pantings and slobberings about my crotch and cum. No surprise that I thought of Camp, and the neighbor's farm with the girl and the boy in the window, and that young bitch in heat at the barn. How she had done it with her puppy brother. And how it must have felt to him to get serviced in a dog's cooz. Hmm.... I started getting hard just picturing such a scene. Visions of a slim, buck-naked, randy twelve-year-old guy jerking off in truth, in fact, for real, 24-carat, deep within -- even inside - the body of his faithful, furry companion. Why I thought my pooch would ever welcome an ass-drilling I shall never know. Yet, on a certain warm, early fall evening -- with the bird song, the sun having set - I called Patches into the back yard. We scooted about a private, low dry ditch behind a hedge where we could not be seen from the Parsonage, though the house lights glowed upon us. I scratched her ears the way she liked and patted down her belly. I unbuttoned my shirt and dropped my shorts to my knees, then down. Near nude, sweaty, precum flowing - Patches lapped her tongue upon me with greed. I had her lick all over my cock and balls and belly and pretty much the rest of me as I kicked all away. Patches got excited since my being naked was her cue to slobber over my prick and asshole. While not as ready as me, she was agreeable to being snuggled and petted and patted. I coaxed her to lie down supine, flat on her back with her legs and doggy muzzle upmost. She looked up with those dark soulful eyes. I had some trouble getting her to lie still since I wanted her to stretch along to the utmost. I leaned close to her head and she became even more submissive. Patches drooled through her teeth, lying there facing me with her legs flopping out to the sides. Again and again, I rubbed her belly and down between her legs. Then I squatted naked at her hind end, pretending I was her mate, leaning over her a bit, face to face. I pressed my hardon between her wide-open legs. It felt sweet to rub my raw flesh against the soft furry belly of another being. I thought of wrestling all bare with Penny, and when I had tussled with Cousin Steven. I was so determined and wound up that I was quivering. I tickled her chest and massaged her belly while I sang to her. Her front paws were folded in prayer up in the air by her nose, and her rear legs splayed wide apart. And `it' was right before me as she lay there spread-eagle, on her back. I kneaded between her rear legs, rubbing around and around her butt with my finger tip. Just the way at camp they said to do with a girl. Her eyes were wide open and she was tense. My cock was its hardest ever. The bulgy tip poked long and stiff from the foreskin. I tried, but there was nowhere to go with her impossibly shriveled doggy pussy. I started exploring her poopy bottom -- which was totally clean, actually. And once I touched her ass hole, it was odd, she became strangely passive -- like an obliging hypnotized maiden about to be sawn in two by a masterful magician. Stripped, holding myself up on one elbow, I stretched out over her for real. There was no going back now. I worked my fingers in her butthole, just as I had once done with my own, to loosen up the muscles. I pushed my cock head at her ass. My cob was long but quite skinny, about the thinnest one I knew of. It was a stiff stick like a dog's boney one maybe, but still big for little Patches. Nothing was going anywhere. Yet then.... There was some sudden give at her pore. I leaned into it. She struggled and kicked without a sound and then lay limp and still - docile, vacant, in a kind of trance. Jeepers creepers, Patches! How I labored to get my teen-boy prick up and into her. Hmm-ah! Ooomph! The astonishing arousing feelings made me cry out in the night. I watched the head of it go in a bit. And then half way out as her ass worked to express me. And then the head eased all the way, totally, completely, solidly in.... ..."HOLY GREAT MOTHER!" + + + + + Letter #11; Chapter XII Patches - 4 I was thrilled..., ...to get this far. Going in was rough and dry and felt as if she had small scrapey ridges inside there - like rubbing against dry corrugated cardboard. But I tell you, it was all too much. For the first time in my life I was deep within an accepting living being. A loving being. Then bit by bit her frisky body opened its loving fullness to me -- made passable, without hindrance, thrown wide. Softer and slicker as I slid and shoved inside. I went further. I knocked even more inside her. I felt bliss at the center of my being. And I shoved. Lying face-to-face over my dog, holding my weight off her, I rocked back and forth. Thus sticking my narrow, stiff cock up into the slick, slithery, snug smoothness of her as far as possible. By the darkening night and distant window light, I went in and in and almost out of her and in again and yet again. All by some caveboy-cavedog indigene instinct as if lit in shadow by the flames of knotted firs. I thought of the Stone Crew and that delerious sire-pup in the neighbor's barn doing his vestial sister-bitch. I thought of Steven doing something like this with other Camp boys and girls, and doing his half-sister Susie. I thought of Mom in that Ford roadster doing one or another teener boys - and what it might be like for me to be `doing' my mom this way. And even Penny, my own sister. Whew! Patches was furry and lay inert on her back beneath me. Her head slipped to the side and her lips pulled away from her sharp little teeth the slightest bit. Was she even there as I slid my stiff penis back into her body, and back, and again, over and over? Had she gone somewhere safe? I panted and sweated with every bumping hump and moaned out loud with each warm, wet, soft poke. I tried hard to hold off going 'over the falls' and cumming, just as Immense Cousin Max and the knowledgeable kids at Camp advised. Yet in spite of intention, some force drove my body. No longer in control, my hips went harder and faster. Strong. Like a real man -- a fucking man. Gasping cries escaped my lungs as I drove and was driven onward into her. I felt her thin frame give and recoil beneath the fur, her heart beating like mad. I was fucking, fucking for real. My cock pulsed. My balls contracted. My crotch convulsed. Cum spasmed from me into her -- again -- again - again.... "Haunh? Ng-aah! Ng-aah! Yes," I said. "Yes I am! YES!" Sweet heavens! Cumming in her with my hips at her while I was over her and my weight on my elbows. It made me feel I was `DOING IT' right. `DOING IT' for real. `DOING IT' now. Softened -- melted -- petered out.... I slumped forward onto her. My body dropped into total depletion like I had never known. To fuck, to be in something like a cunt, to blow my load for the first time inside another living being who loved me.... Withdrawing all at once, my pole was dripping and feeling electric. I was astonished to find myself by some miracle free of filth -- as clean and shiny as from a virginal sheath. It took Patches a full moment to come to. She lay still, until at last shaking her legs and rolling on her side. She flipped her tongue about cleaning her dog juices first off of me, and then licking up every last drop of my own cum as it dripped from her. Of a sudden she ran in circles and then squatted to take a big milky shit. I watched her and panted with a ridiculous grin. I lay back laughing, smearing wet sweat and spunk on my dick and then jerked off until I came again. I spread boy cream and dog juice on my smooth belly and chest and still stiff prick, as if in an ancient rite of passage. I thought of how I had just corn-holed a fellow creature - and loved it. Later I cleaned up in the grand old Parsonage cast-iron claw-footed bathtub, but my horny rigid hardon had not gone down. Not for many hours. I feared it might never quit, ever again. I would have to hide it at school and in the gym and while skinny dipping. But bit by bit it sank. What made me at that instant..., ...think of my kid-sister Penny? Yours truly, JACOB SCHWANN +++++ + + + END OF PEN-COB LETTER #11 llllllllllllllllllllllll + + Thus, Letter #11 concludes "PEN&COB Act I: Foreplay: Letters #1 - 11" To be continued: "PEN&COB Act II: Consummation: Letters #12 - 26", and: "PEN&COB Act III: Afterglow: Letters #27 - 41" (subject to change)