Blissy's Song -- 10 (M/f, inc., rom.) by Feather Touch
Chapt. 10
Wouldn't that have made a dramatic ending?
Sorry, too many lawyers in the world. It's this way. Writers giveth and writers taketh, away. But they need chapters to do it. Thus is born another chapter, to taketh away. See, in passing, in the heat of the moment, so to speak, I relinquished by copyrights. Oops. If I don't own first serial rights, no one does, so no one will be motivated to publish. It's not a money thing, to me; just common sense for once jibing with the laws in the books. So I reclaim all rights, while giving you to understand that there are no restrictions on distribution, but if someone does want to try a print edition, their interests will be protected. This goes for all manuscripts and all material that could be considered intellectual property. I hope you'll see this my way. The writer giveth much, and taketh little.
Microsoft has announced a patch so the Manhattan skyline cane be deleted from "Flight Simulator." Next thing you know, I'll have to be issuing a patch for Brenda. And speaking of big M, it has been authoritively reported that the government is remaining diligent in its prosecution of Bill and company. If there is any question of national sanity it my be useful to judge the issue on the fact that the man and company who added over a decade to American life is and are being subjected to the full torment of the legal system, while the Muslims who smashed things up are under the threat of a president who will hold his breath until he turns blue if Afghanistan doesn't do what he wants. You are a massively fucked up country.
I was a hideously abused child. Others gloated at my torment. Thanks, Mom, because now I get to enjoy the torment of others. The thing is, I was a nice child. No reason to be tormented. You fat slobs are horrific, so it's kind of a justice thing, again, coming full circle. What they call closure. And there is a faith issue involved. I was abused by my mother, by the school system, and by the military. It helped in making me the finest writer in the world. That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger, so the saying goes. Hold the thought.
There's a list of notes at the bottom of this document. I keep them until I use them, then delete them from the column. One I haven't used is "Slap to the Future." There, I can remove it so I don't have to keep looking at it at the bottom of the page.
National telethon tonight. Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks is actually retarded. That movie called "That Thing You Do," is the work of an imbecile. He plays in a poorly written D-Day flick, and suddenly he's czar of lumps and statuary. Nothing is more cloying nor Jewish than some cruddy chops of stone, a ritual memory space, for such a war as WW II. The arrogance of the project is the only thing to it. Of course, if you invented god, in the first place, how can anything be tacky after that? And that Hanks, presumably not a kike, would play along is emblematic of the greatest danger of the yid, and that is the degree to which he infests dumb people. Dumb down the schools through a scheme of dental plans and teacher solidarity, and infest the goy trash while it's cheap and easy. It worked so well they needn't have linked up with Laden at Harvard to rid the world of whitey, they had victory an inch away, all by themselves. (Again, this is about a seven percenter. Harvard is the ultimate Jew school; the senior camel driver bought a chair, and camelito patrolled his beard around the yaad. Draw your own conclusions.)
The small T texan had a Muslim cleric at the Washington tear fest; has been to a building where Mecca bobbin' goes on. This same cowpoke grounded even crop dusters and fire fighting aircraft in his first panic, his damage far exceeding the damage done by the wayward jets, short term and long term.
Now it is known that dozens of other allah pilots and pilot type, close to the profile, are, in the words of one reliable looking official, almost certainly planning their next foray. The very yellow rose from down longhorn way is derelict in his oath to protect because he's conferencing and holding photo opportunities, even with French trash. We should be hitting and hitting and hitting again. The biggest bomb we've got in Baghdad. Fifty megaton bombs for Kabul, the principal city of Afghanistan , and, sorry to say it, but symbolism is symbolism, the grand mosque in Istanbul. Not sorry to say it, the golden mosque in Mecca. Tripoli. Jerusalem. Jakarta, so the hoards on the islands of Indonesia aren't left with doubts about the will of allah. Belfast. Sri Lanka, so their terrorists are acknowledged and served with a dignity respectful of their actions. That would be the first round. It should have been completed by September 12, 2001. This ain't no space odyssey , folks. If we're going to send Woody Allen into an alley after Charles Manson and little Squeaky, Woody's going to bleed to death, while Chuck and the chick fuck in front of the Jew's glazing eyes and slacking jaw. Try scuttling out of that.
Talking with a friend on the phone this morning, and we reminded each other of the favor Jews have done us by allowing us to die at a time when nothing is to follow. And to die young; to never have to experience the hopeless seventies, worse eighties, and unspeakable years beyond, knowing you were just going to die, anyway, and meantime you were wasting resources that should go to the kids. And with such pictures we get to go with, already. What a ripping piece of showmanship in the penultimate act. Of course, I'd commandeer all the Imax equipment in the world, and film our response with the best technicians available. How many of you can guess the title of my film? Would you believe, "Ground Zero, Zero, Zero"?
You get Colin Powell. His head looks like a meatball that wasn't dropped far enough to flatten it. Is it a court martial offense to fart while you salute?
I guess flooding the subways can't be helped, just like the basement of the Pentagon. The wreckage is still smoking, and I presume steaming, with great vigor. By the time they get collateral rubble removed, it may still be too hot to erect a pyramid structure, but, if there is any chance, such a structure would obviously start at ground level, and the builder might have less intense heat and vapor issues over the year or two of construction. At present they are sifting for evidence and wish to tag every piece of human remains for DNA identification. Five hundred thousand tons. Craziest thing I've ever seen, and I'm probably old enough to be your grandfather. Closure. An ounce of rotted flesh, perhaps some teeth, for closure. Guess there will be closure to go around if we waste enough time and resources, to say nothing of the human spirit, sentimentalizing over burnt charnel. I think I feel a little like a father with a hideously ill son, cystic fibroses will do for the metaphor. At a certain time, you wish for his death with all your heart. You are suffering, not from disease of the lungs, but from a mindless, butt-headedness. A lashing of yourselves to tawdry ritual little different than lashing the old bod to a log headed toward the bark flail at a sawmill. May your suffering cease, however you deserve it.
The History Channel had a good program on quarries last night. We used to laugh at the Russians with their movies of the local tractor factory. I love tractor factories. They always seem to make more sense than Oprah. I wish C-SPAN and that moron, Brian Lamb, would change their ways. Pre or post September, the road to socialism was plenty bleak enough without C-SPAN and its bubble-voiced callers. They should go tractor factory. They actually did, for a minute there, when they filmed their bio of Upton Sinclair. Part of it was taken in a modern meat processing plant with a wonderful manager who described the business today, with footage of the various procedures and processes used to handle meat products.
And a note here, because it brought up a memory. It's this way. Upton Sinclair wrote a socialistic novel with thirteen pages devoted to non-furtive descriptions of a packing plant. Teddy Roosevelt's said to have thrown his sausages out the window the morning after he read it. FDA, and all that stuff.
Here is the reality of Socialist Sinclair's victory. It's the meat packing company just mentioned. They spend an entire shift, eight hours, cleaning the plant. Every day.
Please, all they need to do to clean the plant is to wash out the critical machinery, wipe things down with fresh clothes, and go home. Once a week, give a particular room a thorough douche. But under socialism you have men and women doing pointless labor that wastes resources and causes pollution, all because some Jew published some stupid book that a socialist wrote.
This might be a good time to remind you of the emblem of the liberal. It lasts a thousand years, and then a thousand more. It has vast strength and resilience to change. It is dependable, durable, and will be with us, forever. It is the plastic water bottle. A miracle, available in numerous sizes, allowing us to quench our thirst in the middle of the Sahara, if needs be.
Tree huggers and water bottles. Food safety, and mindlessly mopping clean floors. No civil liberty violations allowed, for intelligence informants. Woody Allen. Would we be surprised if he hydrates his Jewishness with trendy water? The Third Reich may not have lasted a thousand years, but Woody's bottle will, there, on the skyline of Staten Island. Liberalism is a ruthless and fatal disease, and you've got it up to your lower lip, you stupid asseholes.
You soldier types, if you want to follow morons as listed above, anywhere, you're nuts. Organize massive desertions. Get out. Tell the O-corps to use hydrogen bombs to tame the Muslim world, not your blood, and leave. Insist that your government encourage shunning, boycotting and harassing Muslims. Neuter them and deport them, unless you use the super-polygraph to separate the monsters from the merely unlikable. Try to imagine what they could do with a few barrels of nitrate and, say, a supertanker at dock in an American port. Get them out. Use Jewish logic. Oye, veh, they're always wailing about some absurdity or another, What if it saves a single life? Oye veh, indeed.
Back to C-SPAN, before getting back where we belong. They should do industrial documentaries. With the new video recording equipment, these can be both engaging and beautiful. Even slow motion with dazzling fidelity. It's amazing how many common process are beautiful when filmed with these cameras. Good music. Good hosts. Like the chap at the meat processing plant in Chicago. Make C-SPAN watchable. End of message to Brian the Bull.
Congeala Rice. I was going to go for it, that is typing out her first name, but my fingers congealed at the thought. It is interesting to see colored folk aping their betters. I live amongst black non-Americans, my best friends are black non-Americans, and the last thing that's needed is a black television face telling anyone anything, except about being black. It's time for the white boys to play, folks, because as Shumer drones, so drones the nation.
Now, on to more pleasant things after a quick sorry-`bout-that for all the typos and copy errors. It's the only disadvantage to Net publishing. No copy editor.
Starting the car.
How had he reached the car? Wait, it's coming back. The girl. She must have helped. Who was she? Sitting there, beside him. Seemed like a warm and friendly little piece of fluff. A voice in the distance was telling him to take her somewhere. But how? The key weighed more than an anchor and had to go into a hole the size of a few toothpicks.
"It's fun feeling like this," Steve thought, to himself. After all, he was in an entirely new world. How should he feel? If he could feel? That was the rub, but, not to worry, it was coming back to him. He'd been drinking with this girl. Had she slipped him something? Didn't seem the type, not with those blue eyes.
Where was he meant to take her? Or, had he already taken her? It would be with him in a minute, so he slowly lifted the fifty pound key, and once he had the tip in the slot, it...
He didn't want it to come back so fast. Happy, dazey land was better taken on in a lingering fashion. Better chance of survival. Yet coming to had its rewards. The girl. She was his stop daughter. He'd fallen in love with her, boy, that was easy to remember, now that he thought of it. Yes, over cocktails. She was smiling, gently to herself, as she cuddled against him and watched his hand with the key. Why, her little fingers even helped with the final shove of the metal blade into its receptor. Was she being bad? When the key was all the way in, the little hand on his made him draw it out a quarter inch and then thrust it back in. Why, it was almost lewd because she didn't just do it once with him, she repeated the process. It did help with his memory issues, Steve had to admit that.
"Cindy," he whispered.
"Hi, Daddy," the girl said softly. "Are you okay?"
"I've already lived forever, so it doesn't matter," Steve replied.
Cindy giggled happily and let him have his way with the car key. The car. The car wasn't going to make it. What was he doing dating this angel beside him, driving around in some dorkamungus Brady mobile? Steve's mind flashed over his finances. Thirty grand, maybe a little more. What was the best buy? A ten year old Jag. Pwefect. Cell phone, out, special operator on , connection made, deal made, and they were off to Tarzana, driving their sedan to an early grave. Carol was next.
"This is a full-blown hijacking," Steve stated, dramatically, when Carol answered. "I'm off with your leastest daughter, blue eyes, pig tails, and, since she's had her turn at shopping, I'm taking my turn. We'll be back when we see you. Would you like to talk to Cindy?"
The girl and her mother chatted Cindy described her new blouse in under ten seconds. The rest of their conversation made driving difficult, even when one was on the freeway to the Jaguar dealer.
"I don't think I'm old enough," spoketh the fairy queen of eight year olds. It was simply virtuoso. Keeping the car in the world was a challenge. The minx used a perfect blend of reverse psychology on her birth mother and had the woman coaxing her into staying overnight with her step father. She left out neither bear nor tea set nor toothbrush in listing reasons she wasn't big enough. Carol was still in the Now, Cindy era, but it took less than a dozen to have the deal down, lock, stock and barrel. Steve had his operator dispatch a dozen massages, clearing his already reduced schedule for the weekend. They reached Tarzana and pulled up besides their new ride.
"You're good at secrets when you want to be," the girl said as they viewed the new wheels, then dived into the opulent yet eminently practical machine. Steve had the dealer put the vehicle on a lift and bad the technician to turn out the lights. In the darkness he used a flashlight to check the underpinnings, then he yelled to Cindy to start the engine. As the car lowered, he turned off the flashlight and opened the bonnet, had to be a bonnet. Using a wooden yardstick, he stirred the wiring under the hood looking for any trace of leaking voltage. It was, after all, a Jaguar.
As they prepared to leave the dealership in their new rig, Cindy pulled Steve's sleeve. There's stuff in the trunk of the old one, she said, blushing. Uh-oh, this had to be good.
The salesman wasn't being pushy, he was just a nice guy who liked the thirty-five-year old architect and his eight-year-old daughter. Besides their purchases at the Galleria was a pup tent, sleeping bag, and other outdoor impedimenta Sure looked like someone was going camping. The handsome male, the mint pretty little girl, and a pup tent. The salesman handed his clipboard to Steve without a word. Steve signed, without a word. Cindy stood blushing as she looked at her Dad. Man, shopping had never the hell been like this before.
Their day was going well. Cindy loved the sleek car and its strong, silent, electric move through traffic. The British lion was defiantly not suited for her chosen destinations, but her plan was not rigid. Her dad might not even like it, so she relaxed and enjoyed the ride, feeling like more than eight years old. When Steve asked her where she wanted to go, she directed him over the Grapevine, and they sped along occasionally pushing the machine to one hundred sixty to feel for vibrations. Cindy thought this was great fun, and passing vehicles that were doing eighty, at eighty, had to be almost like racing. Satisfied that everything was tight, Steve soon melded into the flow of traffic and the two talked of school, how cool it would be to eighty-six that dump, life, and the New Brady Bunch.
They stopped for lunch at a diner and when their dishes were cleared, Cindy pulled a map from the alligator skin bag she'd decided on as a replacement for the blue vinyl purse which had matched her little outfit. No need for that all the time. Good.
"You're not going to like this," she intoned, holding the map in front of her like a hand of cards.
"Not going to like, what?" What was there that could, by the wildest stretch of a dot comer's imagination, be not to like? Was she suddenly gone demented?
"It's not for overnight," Cindy explained as she passed the sheet across to her step dad.
The young female's clipped handwriting belied her tender years. Her lines were neat. But now this was strange. They ended at a dump. "We can use the sleeping bag, to, you know, climb over any wire fences," she stated as if he had an idea in the world of what was going though that fabulous blond head.
Steve stared at his daughter blankly for a total lack of other options. Sure, a lot of people had been killed earlier in the month, but there were benefits to the situation. Open roads, privacy in restaurants, even as small as diners. Cindy's voice dropped to almost a whisper, anyhow. This always spelled massive trouble that tended to overtake one, instantly.
"It's going to be more than just sex with you, Dad. It's going to be right along with being alone with Pete as an experience in my life. The last thing I want is a fancy wallboard palace, or the back seat of a luxury car. Most of the time, it's okay. It's how we live. How every nationality that comes to this country lives, so there must be something in it. But I want to be with you in a dirty place. Blowing dust and plastic. Plenty of stink in the air. And the two of us in our little pup tent. Symbolic. A rose amongst the rubble. It's the kind of thing writers try to span when they get mature. A man, a little girl, and a brownie tent."
"Check!"
"I think you're bigger than your boy, Dad,' Cindy commented as the new-to-them car rolled over desert roads flanking Edwards. After appearing to consider the matter for a moment she added, "and more sperm. Definitely. I could hardly finish my ice cream." She smiled shyly. God in heaven, she was a love. Good thing for him she was in love, too.
"Daddy," Cindy Brady asked after ten minutes of silence. Deep desert. Steve was glad he'd taken time to check the car over and run it out. It should serve for the mission. Deep desert.
"What?" he replied.
"How much can we do, you know, before it becomes boinking. Like the kids at school do it. Faster than chickens, if half the stories you hear are true."
"That's not to do with boinking, the elder Brady explained. "That's to do with being young. Boys can't hold their, you know, they can't hold on. If they're in love, they can hardly make it to the point where they can try to hold on. So it's probably natural that lingering passion is rare. Remember, you're eight."
"Well, how about doing it too much? Is that boinking?"
"Yes," Steve answered. "That's just what it is. Dicking for its own sake, to be a bit crude about it, with nothing to say to each other. It's meant to be a very lonely experience, but in only befalls those who fail to educate themselves. Freedom for the peasant class is not a very pretty thing, and for a female it's twice as ugly as it is for a boy."
"But they're the people who build things," Cindy responded, doubt in her voice. She'd wanted to change her pleasantly vacuous dad, and she had.
"We can keep them building things by taking all their money away with lotteries and high taxes on cigarettes, so why throw their daughters on the heap? Sure, they build stuff, but they live like animals, fall for every scheme in the book. Watch the ads on late night television, and tell me people you would ever care about support crap like that."
"It's never come up," Cindy said slowly.
"Look, sweetheart," Steve said, softly, "you want to be grown up. Part of it is thinking. Judging things for exactly what they are. If you have an ounce of pity for labor, think how union plane operators shut down travel at holiday time so management will pay them a quarter of a million dollars a year. Think of the sandhogs in Boston who have set a precedent of thirty dollars an hour for unskilled and semi-skilled labor. How that will effect rebuilding New York. From the first day it was hundreds standing while a few dozen worked, every one of them on the clock, every minute. Labor is worse poison than flaming jet fuel because everything around it withers and dies. Look at Japan. Total defeat grabbed from the jaws of victory, with tradeunionism as the fatal sword. Hari-kari, or seppuku. They let it exist, they deserve to die. It wall always be the way of the world, except it can survive for short periods under favorable conditions."
They rode another few minutes across the ugly desert. California. What a joke the place was. It was so ugly. The beaches with their lifeless sand, cold, gray water, and slimy brown rocks and piers. From El Toro to Malibu there was as much gray brown ugliness as the human eye could tolerate and human soul endure. The cove from "From Here to Eternity," and used in countless films, was an ugly little kelpy dinge hole. Ah, the magic of the movies.
It was nice being phonied out. New America. Having parted with the platitudes and hollow homilies; being fucking finished with them, but, he had to admit, after good usage so he'd never have to look back and wonder at the glad road not taken.
"Hey," he finally said, "what are you upset about. Do you want to go home?"
"No, " Daddy, the girl responded quickly, "it's okay."
"Look, Cindy," Steve said, any plaintive quality gone from his voice, "I'm taking you way out into the middle of nowhere so we can be together in a tent in a dump, which I hope is in fact abandon, so I'm not exactly in the mood to talk about the next sock hop. Labor is labor. It's major. It's more dangerous, in the long run, than Arabs, Russians and Jews, put together. I'm sorry if you don't agree, and you may not agree when you're twenty eight and are vice chief counsel for the AF of L and their rotten crowd if push and pull artists."
"It's just all the stuff they have in the books at school. You know, exploitation, mistreatment, violence..."
"Cindy," Steve said, "in my opinion it's always been this way: The family that came to this country and happily did whatever it took, together, made it from soup to nuts in fifteen or twenty years. That meant staying the fuck out of bars, living pleasantly with your extended family, and working hard. Families that did it raced ahead light lightning. Those that didn't formed so many unions and were so blatant in their extortion that every city in Amnerica has at least one great big expensive armory built for the sole purpose of cracking the skulls of workers doing the bidding of the union kicks. That's the story of unions. Driving good men to hate them. Being recalcitrant, confrontational and militant, for money, and not intelligent enough to realize every raise one union gets raises the costs of goods and services for the member of other unions. Much better to be dead, Cindy-pooh, than alive in Hoffa's brutal thug land. Look for the union label, and you'll find it on your tomb."
Cindy snuggled closer, her left hand moving to her step dad's inner thigh.
"When I have a daughter," the girls whispered, "I want you to hang out with her, a lot, and starting when she's five or six. None of this malarkey about a girl having to be a certain size. I'll trust you not to hurt her."
"Some girls yes, some girls, no. It depends on your daughter, Miss. I hope that's cool with you."
After a moment, Cindy responded. "I started wanting to be with you when I had my first bathing suit that wasn't a bikini. I wanted to tell mom that I wanted you to see me when we went swimming, but I didn't know how to, you know, put it in words."
"Keep improving at your present rate, Cindy," Steve commented, "and you'll be published at ten."
"I hope it's a story about having a baby," the elf replied with a smile Steve knew instinctively she shared only with her middle step brother.
That did it. California was beautiful. Never mind the gravel-pit landscape and hideous gray brownness. (Certainly could never call it color.) No, it was the Golden State, after all, and a double duh'uh to that.
But damn, the dump wasn't much. Closed it may have been, but someone had set in on fire. No one within ten miles. That was obvious because that's how far they could see. Smoldering and typical. Hey, it was a dump. They parked the car and Steve mentally counted to ten before opening the door.
Hot. Well, that's why they called it a desert. Those poor mules. But the mormons had beaten heat like this to be with each others' children. Best day in the lives of those girls must have looked about like this spot in nowhere looked, now.
No dramatics with the sleeping bag were necessary. The barbed wire had gaps aplenty, and they passed through to even more refuse and stink. The girl seemed to want to incorporate everything from the most vapid sitcoms to some zone beyond Nabakov in her little-girl play at symbolism. Id and ego, yin and yang, I and chin. Silly. Real surrealism was having an eight year old undoing your belt as you opened and removed your shirt to her adoring gaze.
There was a blanket in Cindy's ensemble of gear, and they used it as a carpet on the sand. She got her step dad completely naked, and Steve removed the young female's new blouse and her shorts and panties, leaving her to prance about in her brand new training bra.
They began with the tent, keeling together on the blanket to set the pins. At times during the process, Steve was right on top of Cindy, helping her with shoving the pegs home. His penis was massive and hot all along her pretty tummy. And the whole process, standing, staring, moving around, kneeling and working had to be repeated on the other side, then at each end.
Nest ready with soft down sleeping bag spread as a mattress, the father and daughter entered, the female crawling low on her belly under her tall, athletic father. At the middle of the mattress they stopped. This must be the place. The child lowered on her forearms, and the big male froze above the up-thrust bottom of the girl. Sweat glistened both the healthy young bodies. The male was patient, moving gently in his discovery He let his head sagged until his mouth was at the ear of the lank-haired female underneath him.
"Cindy," he whispered, "if you want to call me Pete, it's okay. I'll understand."
"I'll probably call him daddy, Daddy," the girl replied in her soft whisper. Then her voice dropped so he had to snuggle close to her hot lips. "Daddy," she whispered lower than a mouse. "I'm wet from him. This morning. He came over from his quad and we met in the boys room in mine. Ten fifteen, just before you picked me up. I lay back between two sinks. He was like a doctor. He held me down and sprayed in me like giving me a shot. That was his present to you."
The urgency of the male is more apparent now. Perhaps a bit of impatience is noted in the behavior of the immature female as she lowers her face and spreads her legs to expose her inner loings. Just as she is pushing up, with the obvious intention of reaching to find the male, and offer guidance, the male grunts and both his panting and perspiration appear to redouble.
The signal given the male by the female amounts to an almost inaudible single utterance consisting of O, Dad.
The male is mater-of-fact in his penetration of his child. They both whimper, pant and sweat as he takes his minute to fully mount the eight-year-old girl.
Again the couple freezes its motion. The damp head of the female has risen, apparently so her ear can be near the moth of her stallion. The male droops his head, kissing the girl wherever he can reach her. Instinctively, the female partner rises to her elbows and forearms. Apparently, she is offering her breasts to the male, because he continues to hold his child in his left arm, while his right hand goes up under the little girl's bra.
Heat or no heat, the couple remains in this position for half an hour, the only movement the gentle caress of the young female's chest by the dominant male. They say nothing but rather seem to communicate through gentle mews and whimpers. The observers felt, while recording this state of affairs, that it could change suddenly and dramatically. They were right.
"What's my book going to be about, Daddy," the girl is heard to whisper, intimately.
The male rises, still fully inside the girl. His fingers find the snaps on the girl's bra, and in a second he is peeling the garment over her shoulders and releasing it to fall and cover the hands of the female child. Looking down at it, he now molests the girls naked chest with both hands, alternating so he can maintain his balance while remaining fully mounted.
After five minutes of this behavior, the partners separate, apparently signaled by a certain grunting pattern in the male, as no words pass, whispered or otherwise.
In a moment, the girl is on her back, her fingers laced behind her neck, her legs spread wide. The male looks down, now sweating and panting like an athlete. Taking just a moment he reaches back and retrieves the blanket from the entrance to the pup tent. Pulling it under his knees, he is able to stay free of sand while he rolls the lower end of the down sleeping bag under the buttocks of the immature female. This appears to make the girl spread her long, white young legs ever the wider.
The male, hugely engorged and dripping wet, wastes no time, this time. In a flash, the girl's hand is there to guide him, and just as fast, back under her neck. His thrust to her, this time, takes but half a minute. As he completes his mounting, the girl wriggled tightly and urgently against him. The man lowers himself over the female, kissing her lips slowly and tenderly. The female's tender girl mouth apparently still testes of seminal residue. All observers agree that this taste seems to be almost catalytic in its nature, for micrograms of biological material involved. Some argue that there would be a psycho somatic factor; that the knowledge of recent events might have triggered an imaginary saltiness. It is apparent the female has a secondary method of enticing the male. Again, the modality of the tender, soft whisper is used.
"Daddy," Cindy asked, "can you feel Pete's sperm in me?"
This opened the rutting season. Slowly, tenderly, at first, the male begins his motion against the child. Several seconds for each cycle of pulling gently away, then returning fully. Soon, all researchers agree, a lessening of control becomes apparent. Yet more perspiration, yet a deeper and more feral tone to the rhythmic grunting. And then a speed of power is reached. The males plunging becomes fast, hard and steady as a rock. The girl remains widely spread beneath him, as he alternately lowers himself to kiss her and rises so both of them can look into each others' eyes, or down along their bodies to where they are joined.
This stage lasts forty three minutes. The sleeping bag becomes damp, their bodies and hair are slick, they kiss ardently and frequently, the girl sometimes raising against the male and the male sometimes lowering himself to his daughter.
The event ends with the young female screaming and grabbing her stalling in arms and with legs, the male bellowing the tent practically down, and the sleeping bag sopped, especially under the waist of the young girl.
It is understood by both observers and researchers that the witnessed event was successful. That they provide the only possible happy vector to a new day and a new way.
May the force be with them.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx