Date: Thu, 14 Dec 2023 06:38:17 -0500
From: Jacob Schwann <cobschwann@gmail.com>
Subject: PEN&&COB #3 bisexual-incest

PEN&COB #3     Welcome! 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.
Herein are recounted the amorous misadventures of young Cobby, his
sister Penny, and their family and friends.
All communications read; and in the main answered
Jacob Cygnet Schwann III (JCS)
cobschwann@gmail.com
Support Nifty!
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Letter #3:  FAMILY LIFE   -   brother Cobby - age 10;   sister Penny --
age going on 10;   Mom;   Dad
Epistler: Jacob Cygnet Schwann
Date: 1930's or so
Place:   The Parsonage, beyond Shallow Lake

Letter #3:  FAMILY LIFE  - Chapter I     Xoanan Pendant


Messy, chaotic, animalistic....

...That was our family life. My budding years were spent close by
Shallow Lake near Owen Sound in Grey County. This was at the
ramshackle Parsonage next to the burned-out chapel. The Parsonage,
once considered grand in the neighborhood, was an old, majestic,
Victorian-Gothic house. It had been unoccupied for some years until
our family moved in. Broken down, drafty and dirty, there was a
leaning tower, peaked gambrels, faux-stone quoins, characteristic
pointed arches at dormers and cross gables, with crumbling porches and
window trim. The old furniture told of times gone by. Stunned and
stuffed heads of long dead deer and moose could be found tucked in
closets and in the attic. Even a Newfoundland-Native elk-antler
headdress. Our family grandfather-wall-clock came to hang on the
landing of the staircase. It had a brass pendulum that swung back and
forth: tick-tock; tick-tock; tick-tock. We felt as though one might
meet some strange figure, some unexpected occupant, or a wafting ghost
at any turn of the dim passages in the near-empty house.

Our mom, in her mystic earth-mother guise, would say:
..."For me, this `empty' house is fully lived in. For me it is
`furnished' with Phantasma. Look beyond.... Take it in.... The Spirits are
here.... Phantoms, Revenants, Shades, Shadows, Specters ....  All here."

Laughing, Immense Cousin Max joked of our mom as, "A `True Lilith',
and hence like the biblical Magdalene, at once a consort of `The Seven
Princes of Hell', embodying `Lucifer's Pride', `Asmodeus' Lust', and
`Satan's Wrath'."

Ah, Mom....

Even so, our Parsonage was a rosy home of light to my younger sister
Penelope and me. I always wanted to return, to go back again and see
where we were raised. To stir up the old days which I had dreamed away
there. I wished to stop along the lane in June in search of a rosebud
- `Rosa acicularis'. There were those spiny banks of rugged wild rose
bushes ranging along the rutted drive. That reddish-pink flower with
its five spreading petals and mossy fragrance reminded me of our Mom.
To stroke the flower, as the petals dropped, it was soft and smelled
rosy sweet - just like she did. But to clutch it gave pointed pain as
I pricked my finger on a hidden thorn. Cursing, I held up my hand. The
bright blood was a red bead on my fingertip, a single crimson pearl. I
stuck my finger in my mouth and tasted salt. Those sharp thorns hurt,
with a lasting kick - just like she did.

Our mother's day-to-day love for us was full of unpredictable cruelty.
Her shifts in temper were sudden and severe -- from rose to thorn in a
heartbeat. She might be so full of frantic warmth one minute, yet
savage the next. There were hot slaps, growls, even objects pitched
across the room at me. Mom raised her hands to her ears so as not to
hear my wailing. In a thrice she could, in the literal sense, throw
one down to the depths of the despised and damned to be shunned as
`The Outcast'. And then in a flash, be wooed and won as `The One'. I
lived torn between my desperate need on one hand, and on the other,
pure terror.

Once when I was about ten, for some imagined transgression, she
twisted her lip and flushed a deep indignant red. She chased me
halfway up the grand switchback staircase at the Parsonage. I crouched
on the landing and in that instant, beneath the growl of her face, I
saw it. The fine, fine gold chain about her neck. With the small
gold-nugget xoanan icon pendant. A tiny golden jungle cat. A young
child crouched close behind. A she-tiger and a bare-boy -- cuddling and
coupling it seemed. This swung in the air before me. One of her hands
tightened in a choke-hold about my neck. With her other hand she
smacked my cheek - hard. Twice. The stars took my sight.

"YOU...!  YOU...!  YOU...!"

So she shouted, her arms flailing, hitting and shoving me - hard. I
tumbled and rolled head over heels down the stairs. Panic overwhelmed
me before I reached the bottom. I was hurt, terrified, too afraid to
cry. Then, in the blink of an eye, Mom rushed and opened her arms to
embrace me - hard. She flashed that crooked jungle-cat smile. She
nuzzled and stroked and smooched me without end on eyes, lips, ears,
mouth, neck, chest, belly, legs. I was sought after...;

...I was desired.
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Letter #3:  Chapter II     Goats On Fire

Might I be raised to the delicious height of being lusted for...-

...her chosen elect?  `THE ONE'!  Without a word I succumbed and
scrambled into my mother's arms. I climbed her like a tree. I melted
between her abundant breasts, loving the gift of bruises and kisses.
She rocked backward under my weight, laughing. I became hers in that
instant. The love I felt coming from her body into my body that day
was a feeling I could never get from anyone else. She made my body
feel so happy having her arms around me. Having her body so tight
against mine. Hearing her say she loved me.

Love you too, Mom!

Our mother was beautiful, with the long black hair and rich bronze
skin of our Newfoundland Native ancestors. Penny was like her that
way. I and my dad were both as pale as the belly of a Nordic plaice
fish -- an artless, freckly fish in my case, and a striking, golden
blonde fish in his. Our mother hankered after some combusting,
disruptive power which `bodily passion' might unleash. Hence Mom was
attracted to the fair yet fiery slip-of-a-youth sort of boy, such as I
was to become as an over-enthused, eager teener lad. Then again, I was
but one among many. She gave the `glad eye' and never said `no' to any
hot and itchy adolescent boy of the `quick-sex' sort. The ancient old
aunts of our Cainan Community cackled that our mom was a
`praedo-cunabula', given that she liked to do it with the very
youngest of men. I believe in truth that she loved them all.

"I like the handsome young lads, the ones with good body and bad
minds. They'll say to me, `What are you doing tonight?' And I answer,
`I could be free.' Being with them is like licking white chocolate....
Yumm! They always ask for more. Ah, all the boys I met and never saw
again.... Those young, firm bodies entwined over warm nights and loosed
in the early morning. Yes, eyes that caught mine and were lost as soon
as the pleasure came."

Our dad was used to the attention that I and other boys paid to our
alluring Mom. He was rather unperturbed by it, on the contrary, even
amused.

"Our Magdalena Rose has searchlight eyes that always roam here and
there," Dad laughed. "Her entire appearance suggests some symbology
out of the old Dionysic times -- honey in sunlight and bursting grapes;
the writhen bleeding of the crushed fecundated vine beneath the hard
rapacious trampling goat-hoof."

Dad snickered:
..."She is a tigress who sports with her own cubs, tests 'em out for
endurance, then eats 'em up:
..." `Recall the bonny young lad from Niger,
-His broad smile as he rides the she-tiger;
-They come back from the ride
-With the poor lad inside,
-And the smile on the lips of the she-tiger.' "

"Her sexuality isn't coy or cute," Dad said. "She isn't saucy -- she is
feral. Her very presence on earth stirs me. So what if she has a fancy
for young high school boys? Let her take `em. `Tis her nature which
drives her into the arms of the beardless youth. As Napoleon said:
`What is infidelity anyway? Only a brief transaction on a couch'."

Dad never treated Mom as a `wife'. Rather, he wooed her over and over
again as a precious young love, with flowers, presents, ever new
pleasures.


Immense Cousin Max laughed about our Mom and Dad:
..."Your oversexed parents are `Goats on Fire'! They regard turbulent,
embattled passion, however selfish and performative, as the ultimate
form of `love'. By their set of values, simply `to be discrete' is the
equivalent of `a personal morality'! They can resist everything...,

..."except temptation!"
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Letter #3:  Chapter III     Squeak-Squeak-Squeak

On her typical bad days...,

...our beautiful and sour Mom was cranky and short with us. She got the
meals on the table, but it was as though she was not there. Yet her
few good days were like lightning strikes. They were bright, garish
and hot, with lots of hugging and kissing and giggling. On those
mornings she and our dad might be found in their bedroom.

I knew to explore Mom's Victorian lowboy dressing table with its
mirror and stool. I was fascinated by the jars and bottles and the
alien female smell of perfume, rose-water and rose-petal bath powder.
Amidst the black mascara and blood-red lipstick was the diminishing
jar of ever-erotic petrolatum goo. Just sniffing it was enough to make
me shaky and stiff.

And there on the vanity table were the adorable little statues and
miniatures which Mom fondled and caressed and talked to. The alabaster
figurine of the ancient twins: sister Isis and brother Osiris. The
myth went that they incested in utero and became mother and father of
child Horus at birth. The ceramic Sieglinde and Siegmund -- sister and
brother lovers and begetters of a child of the wolf.  The jade mother
and son, Jocasta and Oedipus, with their daughter Antigone. The wooden
sculpture of Tamar together with Absalom and Amon, her sibling
paramours, who ended in death. And the little quartz and onyx carvings
of the cannibal black-widow spider and flesh-eating praying-mantis.
Those mothers who mangled, murdered, and munched their beloved male
partners after mating. Caveat emptor!

Decked about the walls of my parent's bedchamber were a dozen or more
pictures and photos and calendar prints that were overtly sexual.
Favorites of my mother, I was to learn that they all were variations
on one theme of Classic Greek Myth. This being the deflowering of
earthly young daughter Danaë as she received the Golden Rain within -
the Shower of White Gold, generative, seminal-milt loosed and expelled
from the celestial, heavenly loins of All-Father Zeus. The photographs
and imprints on this theme were of works by Chantron, Corregio,
Rembrandt, Tintoretto, Comerre and Titian, among others, including a
very large, beat-up poster by Gustav Klimt. There, even in her sleep,
princess Danaë appeared to be in flux with the ecstatic passion of
sex. To her had come Father Zeus in a golden rain. She was set adrift
by the Cloud-Gatherer into the protecting sphere of her own voluptuous
transport. Removed from all worldly concern, she had been enraptured
in that celestial shower of the First-Mover's sublime-sown spermatic
seed.  She lay curled in climactic carnal contentment, somewhat
wrapped in a flowing, diaphanous veil as of a peacock's iridescent
tailfeathers. Her auburn hair fell in luxurious tresses across her
face. Her arousing bare thigh stressed the overt lusting of the piece.
Some years later I was to be drawn in to a reluctant reenactment of
this erotic fantasy with my own mother. [Letter #34, #35 ]

I was about ten when I eavesdropped outside Mom and Dad's bedroom
door. I listened for the much-anticipated squeak-squeak-squeak of the
bed frame. I peeked through a door crack, since they would not let me
be with them anymore. I remember their bed, a big wide bed that sagged
in the middle. When they were together like that, giggling and
grunting, anointed with lubricant, the rusty, spiral bed-springs
counted the beats -- squeak-squeak-squeak. It pleased Mom that our dad
was so much younger -- a dozen years younger. This woman found she was
wedded to a man whom she loved sometimes, and therefore she saught him
sometimes.

Squeak-squeak-squeak.  Squeak-squeak-squeak.

And she called out, "Yes Jesse! Yes, my good boy. Oh, yes. Please,
please. Deep, deep, right up into me. Oh, Great Mother." I remember my
mom's laugh as she said these words to Dad, "Well, you're `in'. So
you'd better 'do' me. Slow and steady wins the race....!"

I watched, or did I imagine, as he stabbed at her, driving deep,
repeating, iron-hard and demanding. She sought the piercing pleasure
of his urgency, opening her legs wider, pushing her night clothes away
and wrapping her limbs about him. His rough thrusts pushed her into
the mattress. But she rose to meet every one. She clung to him at the
hip, grinding her own need to match his. Her fingers clawed at his
sculpted buttocks, gripping him into her, pushing herself against him,
devouring him.

I listened for that sudden wet squish~squish~squish when our boyish
blond Dad wailed and moaned and called out Mom's name, "...Magdalena.
Magdalena.  Ah..., Magdalena-Rose...."

Then I knew Dad was finished...,

...and I could take his place.
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Letter #3:  Chapter IV     Wild Rose Bush

On those bright days after he left...,

...my Mom welcomed me into her bed. It was still warm and a bit damp
from our well-knit father's being there. I smelled each of their agile
bodies on the bedclothes, her rosewater and his fresh sweat. And that
newer, musty-sticky, ripening smell that made me feel something I did
not understand. Then she swept her silken, shimmery bathrobe of many
colors about the two of us. We flashed every shade in the morning sun
-- aquamarine, tea-green and indigo. Like the opalescent, jewel-toned
ocellus `eyes' of a peacock's tail.

We kissed, and there was the crooked tiger-smile of my mother's. There
-- right there - in the twist of her left upper lip. Something there
which curved or twined like the tail of a wise, slippery, gliding
serpent. It was mysterious. It was not to be found in pure angels, nor
in mere devils - well, maybe in some devils. Over time I came to
understand that the facial expression was not evil. Rather it arose
from `knowledge'. Knowledge of Good and Evil. As if her smile had been
poisoned, or rather flavored, by tasting the Forbidden Fruit of a
once-upon-a-time Eden. I gazed at that paradisal expression on her
soft, full, rosy lips. I felt the cramp-like twitching in my groin.
Indeed, the convulsive yearning. To kiss those lips; to suck the honey
of her breath. That was the affinity between my mother and me. And so
she offered. And so I took. I took. I kissed her often.

We laughed as I shared Mom's lazy toast and tea in bed which Dad
brought in. He was annoyed to find this slight, red-headed lad
cavorting with her where moments before he had been.

"Great Mother, Magdalena. Can't you cover yourself up when you're
around Jacob? You're nearly naked."

"Oh, Jessie honey," said Mom, sipping tea from the faded floral cup
with a wild rose pattern. "Jacob is just about to help me get
dressed."

When Dad left, I leaned forward to put my puny, freckled arms around
her neck. She was warm and full under the covers. She drew me close to
her. Her hand worked around my back as if to cling to me. I thrust my
nose against her to smell her rosy bath powder. As we lay there, I
dreamed dreams for her. Mom held my face in her hands as though seeing
someone else there. Her long-lost boyish brother Josiah, perhaps? She
pushed my crazy scarlet curls back from my ears and kissed me.

"Mom?"

"Yes, baby?"

"Can I have another hug?"

"My little strong man!"

She would spread her legs wide and have me rub lotion on her skin
there and massage her feet. I often helped my mother get her clothing
on.

"It feels nice to have a young man dress me. And undress me."

I loved the bodily show of my mother. I craved the flesh appearing
through gaps in her apparel. The outline of her ample body as seen
against her dressing gown. In those years my Mom treated me like a
young admirer. She bent over me with her bosoms hanging within her
negligee, patting my cheeks. Even today I picture my Mom like I did
when I was just growing up. To me she was a woman larger than other
women -- vast, abundant. Her maternal curves spilled out of her loose
peignoir. If she was not plump to excess, then she was very well
padded.

I dumped over her clothes hamper so I could swim in her soiled under
things. I writhed naked among them, feeling the wrinkled cloth and
smelling her deep, forbidden scents. I sprinkled myself with her rose
water and clouds of her rose-petal bath powder. I dressed-up in her
under things and she laughed. When Mom laughed it was like the sky
lighting up with fireworks. She did not often laugh, nor did she often
touch me. Except for her bright times. For then she hugged me and
pulled me close, rubbing her hands up and down my narrow back.

"Mmm..., you're smooth, so smooth Jacob," she murmured in my ear.

She might sing our special nursery rhyme for hugging, kissing and rubbing:
"Here we go round the wild-rose bush,  wild-rose bush,  wild-rose bush;
-Here we go round the wild-rose bush...;

..."-So early in the morning."
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Letter #3:  Chapter V     Photos

In the family photographs...,

...our dad Jesse was seen as being a fine-looking young man. Engaging
and likeable, he was fair-haired, athletic and vigorous. Strong-boned
from our Nordic ancestors, with the long muscles of a sportsman. In
those nascent years, Dad worked days currying stallions and mares and
shoveling manure at a horse farm. At night our father `played parson'.
He sat in the Parsonage parlor with the parquet floor and the red
stained-glass windows. He had shelves and shelves of religious works.
Hidden behind these were the more or less genteel books of erotica. As
well as what were called illustrated `Works of Flagellation' or `Birch
Discipline'. Most of these were later confiscated by the constabulary
during a raid.

"A dirty book is rarely dusty," Dad giggled.

Our father supplied a lack of virtue with an overwhelming piety. As he
acted the role of part-time pastor, he penned rousing pontifical
homilies about fornication and aberrant biblical concupiscence. He
wrote of blood-wolves, murderers and malefactors, incest and
interbreeding, spirits and specters, adulterate vermin, Gadarene
swine, weeds of Satan and minions of Azazel and Buzrael, of Beelzebub
and Belial, generations of vipers and basilisks -- Hell alone would
serve for such as these!

It was no surprise that these exhortations were much in demand. He
sold them as ready sermons for other deacons to preach. Beneath his
parson's dignity there was something nebulous, elusive, shameful. He
did not have his own congregation. Instead, he wandered in episodic
fashion to the local little chapel and to the homes of the faithful.
And to the schools to lead the pubescent children's choir practices.
There were always flocks of middle and high school boy choristers and
girl parishioners patting him and fawning over him; choruses of them.
All those youths stared at him, brushed against him, wanted him
without shame after choir practice. He was a great lover of those
pretty adolescents.

"Oh my children," he would sigh, "savor your youthful years, which are
the best, clearest, most wonderful years of your life."

Our dad was forever snapping away with a Kodak Brownie, or some other
camera. The Parsonage basement was illumined by a red-filtered
lantern. The place was redolent with rank, nose-pinching trays of
photographic chemicals -- developers, stop baths and fixers. Rolls of
negatives were strung on clotheslines, along with drying prints.
Pictures, photos, snapshots, images and portraits were arrayed about
the room. Most extolled the striking beauty of one or more adorable
adolescents. They were at play or exercise in a minimum of clothing --
if any. All were posed -- hands-on - by our father. Close-ups of
youthful bums and buttocks and chests and breasts and genitalia
proliferated. Fall photos displayed almost un-clad teener lads and
lasses sparking among the imagined reds and yellows of fallen leaves.
Winter portraits revealed ripening youths sporting half unclothed,
`wild and woolly', on snow banks and iced ponds. Spring images showed
juveniles and sweet-sixteens lolling near-nude amidst daffodils and
tulips. Summer snapshots exposed fresh and athletic naked youths
skinny-dipping and diving and disappearing into the underbrush. There
was even one of young me. I was stripped and made manifest, standing
high on the rock about to jump into the old salmon hole, the deep-pool
swimming spot down from Old Aunt Elsa's farm.  [Letters #13, 18  ]


And for Dad, what remained behind were those ever-arousing images.
Rare was the photo that would not be condemned by any Decency League.
Hence our dad Jesse's tragic flaw was perversion, although one of
`pedophilia' rather than `pederasty'. He described his play with
juveniles as "a holy experience, a baptismal event, a sacred
adventure." Our father might pick out a teener pubescent youth who was
frightened from reading his horrific homilies, as I was. Dad would
crawl under a blanket with the lad, saying that he wanted to comfort
him. Dad stayed long beside his chosen ones. Admiring them and rubbing
them all over. And down their fronts and their behinds.

Not that our dad ever needed a blanket to hide under to fondle an
adolescent. He had alluring and blinding power; magic in his hands and
lips. I can attest that Dad's particular compulsion did not involve
sodomy or any penetration. It was the touching of the genitals, such
as burgeoning boys and girls engage in with each other as sex play.
His was a form of an uncontrollable addiction. Yet our dad always
tried to dismiss these happenings as `Incidents'. Things that just
`Happened' to him without any will of his own. Or, as any insurance
salesman might say...,

...mere `Acts of God'.
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Letter #3:  Chapter VI     Dad's Game

Mom went away...,

...with little Penelope to the Cainan Native motherland by Red Lake in
Newfoundland for the year that our parents separated. Hence it was
just Dad and me at the decaying Parsonage in Shallow Lake. Being with
our dad was a favorite of mine, always thrilling and even scary. One
summer, there was a galvanized tin watering tub in the overgrown
backyard where we washed up in the warm sun. Dad called it `Our Game'.
We did not have any clothes on of course. He was so tall and trim and
smelled of horses. Dad was maybe twenty-three then. Not much more than
a kid himself. But he was an enormous grownup to me. He was strong,
and he had hair on his legs and arms. It was fine blond hair that you
could see more when he was tanned and the hair was almost white. I
remember when I was ten, or so. I stood in the tub in the water warmed
by the sun, with lots of soap suds. I hugged his sturdy legs and arms
and he lifted me up. He pressed his lips against mine, kissing me as
if he were parched with thirst.

"Little one, stand in the warm water with me. Look - here are the suds
all over the smooth of your thigh and back and belly."

His soapy hand felt over and around the curves of my body. Scrubbing
and washing and tickling about my bum with my itty stiffy cob curving
up and getting hard. Daddy pulled back the tip-skin to wash it. I
laughed and jumped, flinging my arms around, then squatting all naked
until he lifted me up.

"Hmm..., my little man," he chuckled, lapping his tongue upon my chest
and belly. "Your body's not there yet, but surely going that way."

He washed my back and hair and rubbed my neck and shoulders and on
down. He pulled me against him all wet and slippery until it was hard
to breathe. I loved it when he threw me up in the air to catch me, all
so soapy on top of him. To slide down his front, sort of rubbing me
against him. It was like sliding on our wooden clothes pole in the
side yard. I would wrap my legs around the ash-wood rod and slick up
and down. It felt good and made me want to pee.

"Do thatt. Do that to me, Daddy."

And Daddy pulled me full weight against him, my back to his front,
crushing me against him. That first nudge of `it' terrified me. I
gasped, then all of me let go, to allow him, or to not deny him. `It'
came again, certain, hard, slick and sliding over mmy back, between my
thighs and rubbing below my bottom. I moved with the rubbing. We were
rubbing together. His lips pressed the back of my neck. His hands
worked my shoulders, clutching me tight and close, my back and bum
against his hard belly. Then from his guttural cry I knew it was over.
Down between my legs his white stuff clung to the head of his cock.
The foreskin covering his knob got frothy. Charged and craving, Daddy
was stunned.

" 'Daddy-milk' ," my father called it. "My creamy 'love-juice'. It
shows I love you, Jacob." He touched it and held his drippy fingertip
to his lips. I tasted a bit, too. Daddy said, "Like sweet, sour
cream."

And it was -- it tasted that way and felt that way -- like bitter-sweet
sour cream. I turned about to face him. My hands and arms and legs
sought him. Daddy lifted me high, his limbs so tight around my hips.
He held me up in the air and his mouth surrounded my twiggy-cob down
below there. Such a wet warmth, a 'delicious' ravenous sucking. It was
stronger, more violent than ever. I grit my teeth to not cry out, and
then fell back with dry release. I buried my head in his arms. My
knees drew up as the last tingling ripples of our frolic faded. By the
time we rinsed off, Dad had a hush-up talk with me. About how we `Big
Boys' must keep our secrets, just the two of us.

It was years before I understood that our Dad was the most desperate
of closeted, jackleg deviants. He forever argued for the
decriminalization of physical love between teeners and adults. He was
obsessed with his titillating fantasies of secret play with pubescent
boys and girls. And as obsessed with phobic fears of public disgrace.
For him, the undeniable anatomical evidence of an older man's active
or passive Uranian pederasty was being 'nib-cocked', that is having `a
very thin, dog-like penis', and also `a funnel-shaped anus'. He
believed he demonstrated both of those traits. He feared that others
could not help but notice - thereby giving him away. When Dad heard a
newsboy in the street yelling `Extra Extra Read All About It' he
shuddered with horror, imagining himself to have been recognized and
denounced in the evening edition. He lived with his terror right in
his mouth, naked to every stranger's glance, he thought. We never knew
if Dad kept getting sent off to the Hamilton Inebriate Insane-Asylum
because he was crazy, or he drank too much, or he had gotten caught...,

...or he was just scared.
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Letter #3:  Chapter VII     Do's and Don't's

Our Dad Jesse had been quite young...,

...perhaps fourteen or so, when my little sister Penelope was born.
`Penny-pea' was our father's name for her. The birth in the Parsonage
was attended by Old Aunt Elsa who had come up from the farm at Pike
Lake Crossroads. I was more than a year older. I imagined remembering
the baby's cheesy smell and squirmy legs. The photos show that
Penelope had a thick shock of black hair right at birth. Dad joked
that this tickled our Mom during the pregnancy and made her laugh. Old
Aunt Elsa had me help tie the traditional newborn's bracelet of
calamus root around Penny's tiny arm. It lasted until she was almost
two months old. Penny suckled at Mom's breasts for years. Even when my
sister and I were in middle school Mom might have us climb into bed
with her.

On those bright days she called:
..."Come Jacob. Come Penelope. Let's have a threesome".

I was nearly eleven and snuggled up close, tucking in naked behind
little Penny, then not yet ten. Mom must have been a curvy thirty-six
years old. Penny and I cuddled together. With my sister's back against
my chest, like two spoons nested together, her bare bottom rubbing
against my hips. I noticed Mom's breasts being large with dark areas
in the center. I ran my fingers around the outer edges. I watched them
swell and puff out. I sensed that Mom was getting stirred up. Every
time I touched her, she sighed and pushed her hips against me.

"Slow, soft touches, Jacob baby," she whispered to me. "It feels good,
sweetie, to be close to someone this way."

It was a bad time for my sister and me when our parents broke up. They
separated and lived apart, for over a year in fact. Mom left with
Penny to go back to the ancestral family grounds by high Red Lake in
Newfoundland. That was where our Cainan forebears - our Norse and
Native ancestors - lived for eons digging gold, it was said. My sister
and I did not see each other during that period. I was alone and
played alone on the tire swing. Alone, I closed my eyes and fantasized
that by magic Penny would see me there, eyes still closed. The
imagined-she would walk out there to the tire swing, saying nothing.
And she would give me a light kiss. I waited, but this never happened.

At last, our little family came back together in the Shallow Lake
Parsonage. Our being apart meant that Penny and I did not have time to
develop that usual icky response between sisters and brothers where
familiarity breeds contempt. So, it was love at first sight for us. It
was then that I began to realize that she was not like a boy, but was
a girl. Yet she was not the same as ordinary girls. Instead, she spoke
to frogs. And was the first to swim across the swimming hole. And
could climb trees and move from limb to limb like a squirrel. Penny
looked out for me as if she were the oldest. She spoke up for me when
I got into trouble. Which was a lot. Every time Mom went to look for
Penny, she always found me. And when she went to look for me, she
always found Penny. We could not stay away from each other. Both of us
tumbled down together in the autumn leaves, and crawled into one
another's beds for sleep.

There was a casual acceptance of nudity and pleasurable physical
functions in our family household. To be hugged, fondled and kissed
was second nature to us all. My sister and I always took baths
together, until the day Mom said I was getting `too big'. The real
challenges came at puberty, when sudden societal strictures introduced
us to certain `Don't's!' and `No-No's!' and 'Never-Nevers!' that were
off-limits...,

...and out-of-bounds.
+
+
+
+
+
Letter #3:  Chapter VIII     Burbling

One summer...,

...Dad got committed to the Hamilton Inebriate Asylum. And then the
local kids took up tthe taunt: "Your dad's a looney. Looney! Looney!
Looney!"

Mom used to train down and call on him during visiting hours. I was
ten or more and my sister was a year younger. She and I played in the
tall grass of the side yard at the Parsonage. The rainwater in the big
tin washtub there had been warmed by the sun. We stripped and splashed
in it. Afterwards Penny scampered about in nothing but her undies. Of
course, I was rushing around barefoot in just my boy underpants and
wild red hair. I pranced and leaped about in wild abandon, running
wider and narrower circles around Penny and the yard. She twirled and
skipped in smaller circles, already a true dancer.

Time after time I swung on the ash-wood clothes pole. With my legs
wrapped tight around, I slid up and down, excited, all trembling and
triumphant too. I kept telling Penny how it tickled me there and made
me want to pee. When was she going to try? She did stop running and
did shinny up and down the smooth wooden rod like I showed her. When
she felt like peeing, she said okay to our `change-the-baby' game.

She flopped face-down on the mossy grass, giggling, She held the tip
of her tongue between her teeth. I dropped to my knees. I pretended
she was a baby and I was changing her diapers. (Which I may have done
before she and Mom moved away.)  I pulled her undies clean off. I
remember looking at her lying all bare on her belly in the grass. Her
small bum was but two sweet mounds of rounded flesh. Anyone would have
sighed with desire. I did. She smiled when I touched her. Her skin was
cool and smooth, soft yet springy, smelling yummy. That made me want
to rub against her like on the clothes pole. My contrary red hair
tickled her and she flipped over, face-up, flat onto her back. She
might welcome huffs-and-puffs and burbles. I blew air from my lips
tight against Penny's giggling tummy. We collapsed in laughter as my
mouth made the blowing, farting noises on her.

"Burble me. Burble me again, Cobby," she squealed.

With nothing on, sucking hard on her thumb, Penny watched while I got
close. She laughed when I blew a puff of air over her belly. She threw
her legs far apart. I pressed my lips on her thigh and gave loud
burble after loud burble. In the excitement Penny clung to me. She
held my head down tight between her legs. Her mysterious secret
girl-crease opened like a flower, revealing a pink smooth space. By
soome instinct I pressed my mouth close. Then right against her gaping
little `kitty' place - her `pen' as we named it. Fresh and silky, it
was warm and moist and textured just inside. It had a somewhat salty
smell and a taste of pee and seashore. I puffed and blew. Again,
harder. And again, a stronger, longer burble. Penny let out a shriek
of joy. The unfamiliar sensations swept her away. My gentle playing
with her kitty had brought her to her pleasure, her `surprise' she
named it later. We did not know then that we kids could orgasm pretty
much from birth, and that it just got stronger and more defined as we
progressed in puberty. But that was what we were doing.

Then she pushed me away and sat up to squat in the grass. Her pee
welled up, it seemed, spraying from her pen out and onto the ground.
She looked up at me, so very pleased. My own need-to-pee sense, like
what I felt rubbing against the clothes-pole, about overwhelmed me
then. I got dizzy as though swimming in gauzy clouds and soaring
through thick water. I got my bullet-like penis out of my underpants,
my `cob' we named it. I let the pee go in a mighty spouting arc over
the grass. Penny was entranced. I was thrilled. And so my sister and I
learned a lot about my 'cob' and her 'pen'...

... - our `blessed jewels' as immense Cousin Max came to call them.

Yours Truly,
JACOB CYGNET SCHWANN

END OF PEN-COB LETTER #3