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