Date: Mon, 24 Sep 2001 18:47:14 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Blissy's Song - 14

Blissy's Song -- 14
(m/f rom.)
by
Feather Touch

Nothing is implied by the use of media personalities.


Chapt. 14


       I'm getting wrong all the time here.  Now I've gone and pegged this
dude as a cabby in a suit, you know, the hard urban face that gets so
tiresome so fast in New York? and I was off the mark.  Oh, the face is
there, how else do you draw the Jews, but he turns out to be Andy Griffith.
A tube hack rather than a yellow hack.  My mistake.

       I had my tube off for several hours today.  Unprecedented.  First
the president panics, causing massive deep underlying damage by grounding
transportation and closing borders, then the television goes on such a Wolf
Blitzer wallow it out does anything any Arab could when it comes to simply
polluting the ebb and flow of daily existence.  I mean, how far can you get
with not even a trace of dignity?  And why, gentle jesus, would you want to
get there if the only obstacle was an empty four-lane freeway?

       It's a wound/infection equation.  Okay, the wound.  Now what?  Here
it might be useful to remember that these people I disparage as vermin led
you into this crisis.  They now become the infection.  It's not perfect
logic, but highly accurate.

       Hey, I have an idea!  How about preventing a second wound?

       One of my trailer notes for this chapter reads, Over the cliff of
wrack and into the ditch of ruin.

       Another note came to me on tiny buzzing wings.  An Arab.  Or, in
this case, a housefly.  It's half dark, you know how they get, sort of
bumbling and knocking around.  Exceedingly annoying, correct?  Of course
our well-screened and climate-controlled president wouldn't know about
that.  But most of us do.  Now we've got this huge bumbling half-torporous
house fly flitting about, and maybe flying in under our glasses, or even
into one's mouth.  Wherever they land, wherever they touch, they are
one-hundred percent annoying, and nothing else.  Harmless.  Do you get what
I'm driving at?  Just the overall hassle of dealing with nuisances, even if
relatively harmless, is overpoweringly stressful and demoralizing.
Ultimately, enervating.  Our leaders have been dealing with Semitic flies
for two generations, and they are numb sitting or standing.  Capeche?
Fuck-a-duck, they can't even lift a fly swatter.

       Speak of the devils, and there's a whole rostrum full.  Opulent
robes.  Mecca mushrooms.  New York camera praying.  Very ugly.  Very
wasteful of time.  Very Star of David.  Oprah is there, for you lady
readers. Can you handle the magic?  It does bring up a question.  How many
eye injuries from all da wittle fwags?

       Several times in my last book I wondered, in print, so to speak,
whether you guys could survive the blow, however delivered, that it was
going to take to wake you up.  To paraphrase Mr. Lincoln, now we are
engaged in a great civil bore in order to determine if government of the
Jew, by the Jew, and for the Jew isn't life without salt, and, doubly so,
life without sugar.

       A note I might scribble here is that when I talk about computers, it
is to wonder at the massive efficiency and sweetness of use of the modern
machine, in general.  The best way I can describe it is to draw a reference
to the ring.  You know, where you ride `round and `round on a horse because
you have something wrong with your mind?  My aunt had horse, not only
horses, but a Tennessee Walker.  Now the reason you ride round and round,
like the proverbial moron, is because if you time everything to about the
twentieth of a second, you can get your mount to change gates, trot to
canter, leads on the canter, without upsetting the queen's teacup.

       I suppose, when you do it right, the analogy would be the first
hydromantic transmission.  A fluid change from one state, to another.  The
Tennessee Walker my aunt let me ride did this, after an hour together, at a
thought.  I'm not kidding.  No matter how you, the rider, failed to signal
canter by any physical twitch or nudge, the horse understood, and cantered.

       This is to say, my word processor flicks to the vaguest thought.  Is
an intimate and engaged lover, so to speak.  But I'm sort of creative,
moody, you know the type.  So, okay, push button horse, let's check this
out.  It just takes a pint and a whip.  Don't tell the SPCA, but, you know,
boys will be boys, and, while with a real animal, I'd be more likely to do
harm with too many oats, than a whip, well, this isn't a real animal, it's,
well, you know, Bill.

       Point being, I've whipped the daylights out of this horse.  His big
head went down.  My big head went down.  That, not to put too fine point on
it, is what brings us together.  A yipping responsiveness.  An absolute
love of eating miles.  An ability to stumble, ass over teakettle, shake it
off for about two minutes, it's call re-booting, and then, again, the
climbing , rising, echoing thunder of the hooves, unstoppable.
       Exquisite.
       Ridiculously sensuous.  Mozart in charge of lightning.  And then,
after thirty hours, the walk-out, the clop of the hoofs across the boards
of the barn, the drink, the mash, the box stall.  The opening door, have to
oil it tomorrow, and those big horse lips on my left ear, at parting.
"Tomorrow, dude?"

       Weeping openly into huge brown eyes, I just palm a lump of sugar to
the lips, and leave to try to sleep, knowing, that even if a peasant, I
have ridden a god.

       Many geniuses and fabulous people have contributed to this
dirt-cheap miracle, and I apologize for singling out an absolute favorite.
I'm sure you know there is no commercial relationship, nor could there ever
be one that influenced one word I say or don't say.  Come on!  Look how I
whip my own mother.

       Yeah, television seems as good as gone.  In temple, rabbis read
exactly the same scroll every year.  How are we going to like that endless
professional drone from those who sit, sit and some of them sit even more
than Larry Braces?  What I'm saying is there is a lack of liveliness.  A
lack of contact with reality in almost every talking head that's talking.
One huge drab face after another.  Some of them almost make Gray Davis look
human.  Same plodding thoughts, too.  Evidence for the Jews.  Negotiations,
diplomacy, coalitions, rot, twaddle, muck, crud and caca.  (A stinking
brew, often fatal.)

       An essential reminder.  America is exactly like the passenger
pigeon.  When their number dropped below a certain point, they died out,
even though their residual habitat could have supported them indefinitely.
Again, we are exactly the same.  There is a certain fundamental dynamic
necessary to keep things functioning.  Drop one inch below it, and the
system collapses, entirely, not like Rome being knocked off, or that kind
of thing.  Entirely.  We are on the keen edge of that imaginary number,
now.  Following the same people in the same fretting, nervous, cowardly
direction can have but one outcome, mathematically speaking.  (And the
numbers are way beyond my math skills.)

       You know, I used to feature myself a pretty full-of-chops bucko when
I was driving up around the DMZ.  I was a little too tulies for one of them
Saigon photographers, so it was just me and a Ford Jeep with independent
rear suspension.  Yeah, man, I was often the northern-most Yank in the
whole country, at least running around loose.  Maybe stupid, but certainly
with the heart for the job.  And the Jeep.

       Sons, daughters I mercifully never had, I wouldn't follow the
quality of men and non-men I see trotted in front of the cameras into a
shallow sand trap.  You make your own decisions, but I'm here to tell you,
bad news G.I. Joe is an illusion.  War is a gravel pit for the tailings of
a slaughterhouse, plus, it is EXTREMELY NOISY.  No place for a white man.
And that malevolent-whispering-bullets show on HBO?  You just may have to
join up yourself to see how far those camera boys come from the mark.  They
have clean hair???  And places like they show are where soldiers go to be
buried, not where they die.  (Unless, of course, they are the first to die
to die on fresh ground, which they often are.)

       On the other hand, stayin' home an' rollin' with Wolf isn't going to
be a walk in the park, either.  You may be damned if you do, damned of you
don't.  All I can tell you is your horse needs a head, real bad.  And this
bring up the most extraordinary paradox in human history.  As you have let
Jews run the world, you have lessened any negative aspect of death.  Who
would want to live in such a world, cloying with its sticky rituals and
craven superstition, even if it could sustain itself, which it can't?  And
what a treat that is.  What an unexpected value.  To finish one's life,
with a fabulous corpse, at the end of civilization, especially so close to
an apex of civilization not vaguely dreamed of as little as thirty years
ago.  But, in any event, to go at the end, knowing nothing was going to
follow.  Totally cool.  So here's the paradox.  If I pull your sorry and
copious fat out of the fire, reinvent the country in my own image, I call
it Emersonia in the last book, in this one it seems to be New America, and
revitalize every life, soul and spirit, something, by the way, I am easily
capable of, then look what happens.  Now I have to croak leaving a
friendly, decent world.  Bummer.  Just thought I'd mention it since there
has been so much about heroes in the news.

       One of these days this sermon is going to come to an end.  Nobody
will be happier than I am.  Copy proofing takes far more time than writing,
and I still upload plenty of errors.  When the kids are fooling around, it
doesn't matter.  I mean, you tell me.  And speaking of preaching, three of
Ralph Waldo Emerson's ancestor were revered clergy of Boston and are buried
in the innermost church yards.  By rights, I should, since I can't conceive
of a god worthy of my respect (I'm one, myself, doesn't that tell you
something?), be writing charming stories about my five cats.  And not only
charming, either.  For example, it's the tropics here and one dresses,
well, minimally.  Now, a big, healthy house lion.  Then, see what happens
is a lizard runs across a wall and suddenly you are reminded why you call
them house lions.  While it's not Eat your heart out Stephen King, it does
leave blood.

       Speaking of Stephen King, I was reviewing in my mind the magnitude
of calamity that might be associated with setting off a semi-trailer load
of high explosives in the middle of a New York tunnel.  Would not the water
flow from either end of the tunnel with considerable force?  As brave as I
am about telling you to fly and travel as ever, I do think the tunnels
should be super-sized, safety wise, with a total hairy eyeball on anyone
who looks remotely Semitic.  Another way to drive them from out shores.
They represent a mortal danger with a McVeigh truck because he was dumb and
their leader went to Harvard.  New York has invited upon itself absolute
terror, and there is every sign it has only just begun, and every sign it
will never end until the program of savagery outlined in this book is
executed.  Period.  If you don't believe me, by all means invade the
Islamic moonscape snuggled right up there to Mother Russian.  Something to
keep in mind.  Bin Laden may be the moderate.  He may be restraining a pack
of hunting dogs by throwing them a bone or an embassy once in awhile.  Kill
or capture him, and deal with the pack.  To be tedious about it, again,
savage retaliation, savage warning shots, and deportation of Muslims.
Failure to comply will subject you to an unspeakable future, like some
horrendous industrial accident that just goes on and on.  CNN will love it,
on and on they'll glide,.  We can pray a lot, and cry a lot, but it's death
for Bonnie and Clyde.

       Another reference to Stephen King.  The zombies.  Now this is just
my take.  It started with a particular interview.  Streets of lower
Manhattan.  Maybe eight in the evening.  The fellow on camera was
particularly articulate.  He described the demeanor of those streaming
north, all day long.  He described them as absolute zombies.  Robots.
Androids.  Stunned.  Bovine.  Plodding.
       Okay, this is where the writer thing kicks in.  Why?  Why were they
that way?
       Let's draw two pictures.  Both are large auditoriums.  One comes
crashing to the ground.  Half the audience are crushed, mutilated and
killed.  The other half manages to escape.
       What would be the attitude of the lucky ones?  They would be
stunned, shocked, weeping, confused and disoriented.  But they would be
human.  They would hug, talk, tell gallows humor jokes.  In short, they
would be human.
       Okay, it's the same auditorium.  This time, instead of a physical
trauma, it's a voice on a loudspeaker telling the audience that the reason
they are there is they have a disease and will be dead in thirty days, all
of them, sorry, without any mistakes.
       What would be the demeanor of this group, once out on the street?
Would they not wander off, like zombies?
       Here's the point.  The zombies of the Eleventh - knew.  They knew
there are twelve thousand little enterprises in the twin towers and
surrounding buildings.  They know how complex the world of international
goods and services .  The layers, and layers, and layers, built up over
many decades, that allow the gigantic clockwork of modern life to function.
They knew how many wheels, cogs, gears, cams and springs had been bent or
burned or just plain lost.
       These were New Yorkers, as zombies.  Thousands and thousands of
them.  They know.

       Any little bubble of relief we experience during the fall of 2001 is
not the calm after the storm, but before the storm.  What we face, under
current policy, is exactly this.  Should we win the desert skirmish, it
will only be to rejoin the death march.  Remember, Arab Muslims torched
seven hundred gas well hoping to extinguish life on earth.  March into the
sandbox of hell, you mosh pit goovers, if that's what you want.  Me, I'd
send H-bombs to do the dirty work.

       When I say retaliate, deport, and eliminate pensions and parasitic
programs I say it because I know.  That's what writers do.  Live flat-out
in the shoes of others.  Even zombies.

       I don't like to speak disparagingly of my fellow monarchs back
through history.  Americans spend many billions every year flitting around
the globe to put an eyeball on our spectacular legacies.  But, still, I
have a bone to pick with Ramseys.  By taking the whip off the mud puppy,
you unleashed a plague upon mankind.  Just a heads up, eh, mummy?

       Too much from the pulpit?  Well, I empathize.  You've probably had
enough fire and brimstone to last you the rest of your life.  So let us
return now to that thrilling land of yesteryear, with heavy breathing and a
hearty hi-oh Silver, away! David might freak if I suddenly veered off into
a Western.  Easy to fix because I've been dealing with this pony for
awhile, now.


       "Remember that story about the milk bar?"

       They were back on their bench in a nook of the pool garden.  Gregg
Brady had fetched Kelly Drake's back pack and the boy had slipped into his
trunks.  So much for Looney Tune dreams and caviar wishes, for the moment.
No problem, it was good to be cool.

       "Sort of," Kelly said.
       "You know, when I got really embarrassed.?"
       "Oh, yeah.  I started it with the bulls in a line, then you made a
mistake about bulls and cows.  You were really embarrassed."

       How long had he been at it?  Much of the morning.  Trying to tell
what could be told in a minute or two, and always getting side tracked,
having to take yet another deep breath and start over again.  And again.

       "Have you heard of Freud?" Gregg asked.
       "Sure," replied the boy.  "Obsessive/compulsive writing disorder.
Worst case ever documented.  Everyone knows that.  Jewish, so no one tells
it that way.  Guess they need him real bad since Einstein was so
assimilate."
       "Well," Gregg hemmed, as in hemming and hawing, "he was also an
amateur psychiatrist.  And he wrote a lot about, you know.  Anyway, there
is something known as a Freudian slip.  It's when something slips out as a
joke or frivolous comment, which is essentially true"
       "And it has something to do with bulls and a milk bar?"

       "Lord," prayed Gregg in silence, "make this just a little bit easy
and I'll tithe my freaking teeth."  But it wasn't going to happen.  God, by
all appearances did not like whining, fretting, puling and scuttling.
Supplication brought sand flies, mosquitoes and house flies.  Greenheads
and deer flies.  And that was just the leads on the A-list.  No, prayer was
useless.  Ask any Jew.  So it really was up to him, a fourteen-year-old
Brady.

       "What it has something to do with," Gregg whispered, "is Kelly."
       "Kelly?  You mean..."
       "Kelly," Gregg whispered.  "Kelly and Sven.  The Freudian slip I
made about bulls and milk was because of what Sven did to Kelly.  I wanted
to tell you.  It's in your own best interest to know the truth because in
this case it really will set you free."

       Being set free under the present circumstances, to a young boy
supercharged on hormones, could only mean one thing.  Kelly was all ears.

       It was a few minutes later that Gregg scratched lightly on the
flimsy door of Room 273.  Peering through the peephole, thoughtfully
installed by Plunkett management in the reverse of the normal manner, he
saw Sven stand and approach the door.  As the strapping blond athlete
opened the portal Gregg sang out in old Brady style, "Kelly," he chirped,
"I don't care when your birthday is, I have a present today.  It's neither
an elephant nor a troll, but I think you'll like it."

       Sven had a friendly smile.  Warm and welcoming.  Strangers bearing
gifts at the Plunkett Tame Animal Farm were apparently nothing to be ware
of.  The pretty girl hopped from where she was reading on her bed and
joined her dad at the door.

       Gregg had wrapped Kelly in a sheet, dirty, but it wasn't Christmas
so a few lurid stains couldn't matter.  He guided his package into the
small room and made a to-do of seating the girl beside her father, and
positioning his ghost in from of them.  All ready, and anticipation ripe in
the air, he did his little flourish number, and there was Kelly, the boy.
The look in Kelly the girl's eyes was beyond price.  She must have been
badgered without mercy, every boy, every man, wanting a piece of anything
so long as it had anything to do with her.  Monotonous.  But here, he could
see it in the bright hot glow, was her equal.  Sure, one had Pillsbury, the
other General Mill.  They'd work it out.

       You know, you read the books, you see the movies, you buy the little
toys, but nothing, nothing can really get you there.  Take you plumb into
the heart of a beauty finding a beauty of her own.  Gregg was very proud.
His first day as a former Brady had started well, and now look at this
icing on the cake.  Why, it was just sentimental, that's all.

       Kelly, the boy, finally dragged his eyes from his female namesake
long enough to meet Gregg's happy face.  "You are totally, absolutely,
fantastically, forever awesome," the child whispered.  Gregg took the sweet
chin and turned it back to the girl now standing bashfully at her dad's
side.  He leaned down and whispered in the boy's ear, "It takes one to know
one."  Sven repeated his daughter's boyfriend's happy praise, in more adult
language, and just like that the Brady Bunch grew in quality and quantity.

       "Hmm," Gregg mused to himself, "now where are those Olsen twins."
He was just kidding.  Kelly, the girl, wasn't.  The tyke was now wearing a
dirty housecoat that offset her fluke beauty more savagely than could the
finest silk.  She came up close to Kelly and opened it, right down to her
little-girl panties.

       "See what my daddy did to me?" she whispered as if no one else was
there.

       Kelly stared down, transfixed.  The pretty baby tummy was partly
slick and partly crusted.  Partly licked clean, partly dried aux naturale.
All magnetic, mesmerizing, and hypnotizing to all three males.  Erotic,
too.  That didn't go unnoticed.

       "Do you want to touch me there," she whispered.  When nothing
happened.  How could it?  She glanced up at her father.  "Dad, I don't want
to lose this one, " she said, "help him."

       Well, as they say, a friend in need is a friend, indeed.  Sven went
to the boy, and, with a gentle hand on the slim flank of the lite cutie,
guided him close to his little mate.  He had to help with the
eleven-year-old hand, too.  Helpless.  Good to see he was human.  Sven
reviewed how he'd felt through that final minute as he lay hunched and
panting next to his doll.  Utterly helpless.  What had started as a donut
had ended up like a donut after it had watched the telethon.  And he'd been
helpless to do anything about it.  Grunting hadn't helped.  All the
sweating will power in the world had meant nothing.  Prayer?  He simply
hadn't had time.  And, in the end, yes, he'd just made a total, all over
everything mess.  Look at her, for heaven's sake.  It was two hours later
and she was still...

       Kelly, the boy, did use his fingers a little.  Plus he was panting.
Good signs.  Sven eased him closer, so he could fondle his daughter's slick
belly with both hands.  The girl looked up and it was easy to see in her
eyes her thanks for someone she could really be - with.  Who knew her sick
secret, and was happily sick, himself.  To an ignorant world, knowledge is
disease.  (To a knowledgeable world, ignorance is just boring.)

       "What's your name," Kelly asked.  Gregg groaned.  In for a repeat.
       "Kelly."
       "What?"
       "Kelly!"
       "What!"

       Sven looked confused.  Kelly didn't seem a fresh and gamy boy in the
teasing sense, and he knew his daughter wasn't.

       "Kelly," Gregg broke in.
       He'd let them get away with in, and it served as a reminder that
ignorance could be entirely a matter of circumstance.
       "What?"  In stereo.

       "Mr. Grunwald," Gregg said very, very clearly, "in the room with us
are two children.  They are both, I repeat, both, named `Kelly.'."

       Ahhh.

       "Your friend must really like you to bring you all the Toaster
Strudel," Kelly giggled.
       "And I always smile when I think how your dad must feel when he
finds the Cheerios in his pocket," Kelly responded.

       "Miss General Mills and Mr. Pillsbury.  It sounds all wrong.  This
will never work," the girl teased.
       "Yeah," Kelly, the boy, responded, "but look what you're dad did on
your tummy.  I mean is he a bull or a cow?  And I could, you know, do it
too.  Only it wouldn't have to be on your tummy."

       "Are you old enough to really do it, like my dad?" she whispered.
       "I'm not experienced," Kelly pointed out to the girl, "but it would
come out, you know, inside you if you wanted."
       "Is it okay of my dad stays and watches what you do?" Kelly asked.
       "Yes," the young boy half-grunted.
       "And your friend, he's dynamite.  Can he stay?"
       "He's Gregg Brady.  He's a musician.  He and his dad and his sister
have the next room.  That's how I found out about you.  He brought me here,
even though it may not be your birthday.  He found the really scummy sheet
to wrap me up in, so, you know, you'd know I wasn't a Jew or a fan."

       Gregg blushed to be the center of what amounted to adulation.  Then
again, it had been a very Brady morning, New Brady, and maybe he did
deserve a little credit.  He was made to feel welcome.  Kelly and Kelly sat
practically inside each other, holding hands very tightly.  Eleven and six?
Who knew?  Show biz.  Sven sidled slowly beside Gregg, pressured him gently
with his elbow as a sign, received a welcoming answer, and eased behind the
athletic, maturing dancer.

       At this point the relationships were put on hold.  Not only was
there a musk in the room, a sense of sound had intruded.  Subtlety
intruding on the nervous silence it grew, first verging to notable, then
obvious.  Squeaking springs.  From the room below.  In a minute it was all
that could be heard.  A frantic grinding squeak of hammering, deliberate
abuse.  Over two, then three long minutes it grew, sound turning to
vibration, shaking the walls and floor, probably of half the hotel.

       Now the rapid rise in tempo flattened into a powerful rhythmic
thunder.  Kelly the boy had just made up his mind to ask Kelly, the girl,
on a date.  You know, to spy down through the floor together, when the
crushing animal lunging froze in an instant.  For five second there was
silence, then a young female voice rent the air.  Uncle Chuck, it shrieked.
Uncle Chuck, Uncle Chuck, Uncle Chuck.  Six times, the unseen child howled,
then her voice dropped.  "You're just like Daddy," the girl below said with
a quiet giggle, and a sound of great discovery in her young, happy voice.

       Yeah, well what good is a pool if you're going to put holes in the
floor?  The question was unspoken, and came from Gregg.  Indeed, all those
little holes, and the thin planking to begin with, had worked their
intended magic.  The Kellies were staring into each other's eyes.  The raw
musk in the room rose to a sickly level.  Sven went to his half paralyzed
daughter.  The child balanced herself on Kelly so she could life her slim
hips from the bed and so assist her dad as he pulled her panties down.
Gregg performed the same service for his Kelly, pulling his trunks down and
off.

       Gently the men eased the children to the floor, and stood, a foot
apart, Sven behind his daughter and Gregg behind his mate.  After allowing
them to quench their visual thirst, Sven assisted his daughter back onto
the bed, lying her gently on her back.  At the slightest whisper of the man
into the little girl's ear, she spread her legs wide, wide apart.  Gregg
led his beautiful lad, with his enormous boner, to the girl, and helped the
youth on top of the waiting six year old.

       Quickly stripping each others' trunks, Sven and Gregg joined the
kids on the bed, hunching close to the couple from either side.  There was
whispering and tender jockeying and then there was the beginnings of a
subtle squeaking that refreshed recent memories.

       "Daddy," the girl whispered, "he's right against, you know, me."
       "It will sting, love," the dad whispered tenderly, wiping the
anxious brow.  "But he'll hold you very gently and kiss you until you're
ready for him to be a boy."

       Her look of trust was absolute.  Sven moved his right hand down
under his daughter's bottom, forming a jack with his palm.  He lifted her.
Gregg had his left arm around Kelly slim male chest.  He reached between
the children, and found the young stallion.  Fisting his incredibly hard --
o to be eleven again -- boner, he used the tip of Kelly distended penis to
masturbate the six year old.  She squealed and panted, lolled her head
wildly.  Her dad pushed her bottom up hard, and Gregg released his male.

       With a grunted "Kel..." the boy entered his tiny lover.  Her legs
gently kicked Gregg aside and flew around the boy.  Sven pinned his
daughter's arms high above her head.  Kelly passed out and fell to the
girl's flat chest, grunting savagely though her frothy brown hair and into
her tender, pink right ear.

       "This is a very good time to kiss," Sven whispered to the newly
engaged couple.

       They found each other immediately, and Sven released his daughter's
arms so they could become a true couple.  Not `at last,' by the way.
They've know each other, what, five minutes?

       With a look, Sven summoned Gregg.  The teen quickly eased from the
bed, and approached the tall, powerful athlete.  Both males were swollen
enormously and could hardly take their eyes off each other, couple on the
bed, or no couple on the bed.  They kissed with all the passion of the
mating children.  Then Sven pushed the handsome boy gently away.  Molesting
him openly and ardently, Sven maneuvered Gregg so his waist was at the head
of the dirty, cheap, noisy little bed.  Urging the teen's legs apart with
gentle nudges of his right knee, Sven worked gently from behind the boy to
bring Gregg/s long, hard penis close to the lips of the now gently kissing
children.  Fixing the boy in position, the man began slowly masturbating
the teen, often coaxing the tip of his swollen penis against the wet
wriggling lips.

       The old Gregg Brady would have lost it, then and there.  He would
have sold out.  Gone for the Mr. Popularity thing, done what everyone
wanted, and flooded the pretty kissing lips of the fabulously beautiful
eleven-year-old boy and six-year-old girl with all his hot sperm.  Splashed
it between their thrusting young bodies, sprayed it on Kelly's bubble
bottom, now gently surging as he became a male.
       That was the old Gregg Brady.  The new one had made a commitment,
nothing was going to come close to interfering with it, and so he quickly
wrestled Sven into his former position and began, by crouching at the
athlete's right hip, to masturbate him steadily onto his daughter's angel
mouth.

       As Kelly became a male, he had to leave the face of his beautiful
young wife and toss his head wildly back, eyes to the ceiling, so he could
complete fully.  He wanted to see her pretty face, he wanted to kiss her
pretty lips, he wanted to whisper into that sweet hair.  None of these were
anything -- all the wanting in the world, nothing -- as he eased himself a
little free, then came gently back.  Like a wolf, arms rigid, chest high
and pumping, shaking, sweating, panting, still moving like a lover, tender,
gently, teaching them both, exploring them both.  This couldn't last Gregg
was just thinking when it turned out he was right.

       Sven whimpered.  Gregg felt a frenzied spasm at the base of the
man's huge penis.  "Kelly." he hissed to his mate.  Using all the character
at his disposal, Kelly managed to look down for just a moment.  The sweet
face of her, sweat, panting, and lolling slack jaw notwithstanding.  And
immediately, he saw what the child's father was doing to her.  He was
cumming.  The boy thrust to his hilt and froze, dropped his sweating face
to stare, stared as two hot gushes smeared the girls face, then bent to
her, found her lips, and kissed her just with the tip, tip of his lips,
leaving the sides of both their mouths open for the gushing, salty
cum-off. For several moments the excited couple amplified the overwhelming
sensation by swishing the fresh, hot incest seed back and forth, pretty
mouth to pretty mouth.

       Then it was too, too much.  Kelly's head snapped back and he again
gazed blankly into space. His boy's body, triggered by copious salty semen,
totally galvanized.  At first he thrust slow, fully, and hard.  Then the
song of the springs began.  Sven and Gregg moved back from the bed, their
wedding present complete.  Sven put his left arm around Gregg's slim waist
and began masturbating the teen slowly and gently.
       "Tell me when to stop," he coaxed.

       And so the tableau was frozen for long minutes.  The powerful
plunging boy.  The gasping, sweating six year old, legs kicking and
pulling, arms crushing, fingers scratching. breath on fire, and the tall
Nordic male, tenderly masturbating the teen who had spread his legs wide
and was arching his back as if to cover the loving children with the hot
burn of his spill.

       It was over with a gently whispered, "Kel," from the young male.  He
froze, locked to the girl as to life.

       Imprinting is a strange thing.  LSD imprints can flash back after
days or weeks.  In this case imprinting was not only almost immediate, it
was obvious to everyone at the Plunkett.  "Uncle Chuck," the girls
screeched, "Uncle Chuck!  Uncle Chuck! - - - Uncle Fuck!"

       Gregg was far too far gone to think, much less say, "You don't know
Chuck."  He was awestruck at the ferocity of the child's orgasm.  Her
screaming, her bucking hips, her thighs, so open to her male, then ripped
tight as she grabbed the boy with her inner calves and rammed him home and
deep into to her.  Her face covered with sperm, her lips bubbling with
seed, on and on, until she fell.  Limp.  In all likelihood dead as a
doornail.  Gregg didn't care.  There was nothing else on the entire planet
that mattered one whit other than the pool, the pool, the pool.  Sven was
not taken aback by the boy's frantic retreat.  He'd been a teen, too.

       Now that, motherfuckers, Jew, gentile, seek and Eskimo, man and
woman, short and tall, old and young, fat and skinny, is how you write a
love scene.  If you can't cut it, don't even try.  Boring.  And the best
training, assuming you have a soul to work with, is, you guessed it, Nifty.
Hell, David's writers gave me a tune-up, and I became reigning god.  And
you know, when all is said and done, I still wish I was playing the bongos
for Boney when she sings of the lord's song,, in a strange land.
        See?
       I told you.
       You are speaking with god.

Posted by Thomas@btt.net

xxx