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  1. #1
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default UNLIKELY ANTICHRIST: Book One, Nascent

    In the Sex Stories section of this site, I have posted the first book of a trilogy called UNLIKELY ANTICHRIST. The three books, and their current status, are as follows:

    Book One: Nascent online here, in full, 503,000 words.
    Book Two: Beauty in development, 400,000 words in final draft, 1/2 complete.
    Book Three: Sublimated in development, plotline complete.

    UNLIKELY ANTICHRIST is not for everyone. The whole work will top out at around two million words. It is an improbable erotic romance, and it develops slowly. That said, please start at the beginning, and read it!

    Here is a very brief excerpt from Book One (for those of you who are wondering what the deal is with the title, and why I would call a trashy porn piece "Nascent"):

    The girl's mother smiled with amusement and said, "Maybe you could save that for the second date, if there is one."

    "This is a date???"

    Her mother laughed and said, "Wrong word, sorry. Visit. It's just a visit. Why don't you try just going out there and being yourself? I am sure he'd like the real you most of all."

    The door opened. Jessica came out, hands behind her back, and stepped right into the room. He considered standing, but she was so small. He decided to remain sitting. And apart from that minor decision, he found his cognitive capacity severely degraded by his observation of the million tiny diamonds upon her tied back hair, and the sheen of light-motes upon her neck, and the universe reflected in her eyes. She smelled like rain upon leaves, like the forest after a thunderstorm's passing, like seed-crowns teased into waves by an autumnal breeze, like snowflakes captured by eyelashes in nascent winter. Her soul playfully cast its net like a taunt, and captured him, there where he sat, snatched him up in a gentle cage made of its slender fingers, and regarded him with avid curiosity, as he fluttered impotently, at the mercy of its gentle fetters. Then her soul released him with an enigmatic smile, and retreated to commiserate with the angel herself. The girl and her soul made a game of their assessment, beguiling and challenging each other with dares, and judged his fate while he sat and awaited the outcome of his existence with passive acceptance. He imagined that she had come to some sort of provisional decision as she impulsively shivered, and he had to fight back the compulsion to mimic the reflex sympathetically. She rubbed the damp goosebumps upon her forearms. And then, her musical voice was speaking again. To him. Apparently she and her soul had decided that they would deign to speak to him. For now. Her voice sounded soft and pleasant, yet high, clear, and confident, too.

    She said, "Dr. Spencer, hello. You surprised me."

    Read the disclaimer at the head of Chapter One, and then decide for yourselves whether to delve in. If you're into erotic romance, you won't regret it.

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  2. #2
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Here's the link.

    Here is the link (I now have the ability to post it):

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  3. #3
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :

    Default Book One: Nascent, Short Excerpt

    Still getting the hang of this place. Though no one has responded to this thread with words, some person or persons has taken the trouble to load it up with happy stars. Therefore, an excerpt from Book One, Nascent. If you like it, and say so, I will post excerpts from Book Two, Beauty.

    Codes: Mf, consensual sex, light consensual BDSM.

    Nelson dropped the cane and slammed himself deep into the tortured animal that writhed beneath him. He bent over the girl's arched back, and further tormented her body by ripping the binder clips off her nipples. Blood flowed into the tortured nubs for the first time in more than an hour and a half, and the replenished nerves sang an aria of bitter agony to her brain, but Nelson joined in, and entered his own theme, suckling first one tortured nub and then the other into his mouth, squeezing them alternatively with a free hand, and suckling them, and pulling her entire breast into his mouth, and milking it, feeding from it, as he pounded his swollen red cock in and out of her guts, and then they came for each other, soaking each other with the mutual release that flowed like a river; their wetness soaked the blotter, ran upon the desk in turbid rivulets, and dripped into the carpet, but they made love obliviously, over and over, so as to express a mutual adoration that would never end.

    Fortunately Nelson's office had a private bath and shower, tucked behind a small door partially obscured by the ubiquitous file cabinets and shelves. Eventually they made their way into the shower, and washed each other, and licked and sucked each other to yet another round of mutual orgasms, and still they were not sated, so Nelson rutted little Jessica from behind as she bent over the counter with the blow dryer and looked back at him, through the vanity mirror, with worshipful reverence.

    This time he had not held back. He really had cut her poor little self to tatters, first with the belt, then with the cane, and of course her own penchant for callous self-destruction had been no help: her poor pussy, and the double wounds where she had stapled herself, burned anew, under a fresh infusion of rubbing alcohol. But, for Jessica, this was merely the fantasy become real. No longer would she have any reason for Kens and Barbies. Finally she had outgrown the dollies. This ordeal had been a waypoint in her formative development, whereby she could now service her Nelson body and soul, to be loved or hurt or broken, and she would wear the stripes and wounds with pride, as constant reminders of her voluntary, joyful subservience, until the scars faded and necessitated replenishment with another round of horrors.

    Even now, he rutted her masterfully, while she dried her hair, and thrust into her body powerfully, and pounded her femaleness with his ardor. She loved him so much that the tribulations she'd suffered were nothing as compared to the limits she was prepared to endure.

    "You are my lord and god, Sir," the girl pronounced to the resplendent sculpted male form who growled his lust and need into the mirror as he rammed her so hard over the counter that he lifted her right up off her feet.

    "No," he snarled, "I am a savage, a monster."

    "You are that, my lord," she conceded. "You're my god of the underworld, my glorious Prometheus with his iron hammer, and your retribution for my transgressions has been cruel. God, my lord, fuck me harder, damn me to hell and fuck me for eternity in the fire!"

    "I've already done that, Aphrodite. I've beaten the living shit out of you."

    "No more than I deserved. And I will dress up well. You've only spoiled the parts that no one will ever see but you. And if the evidence of our passion shows, so be it. No tattoos for this body, love! Brand me! Brand me with red-hot iron! No restraint, Nelson! No mercy!"

    He wrapped a giant hand around her quivering belly, and fondled the raised weals that crossed her bellybutton, and the iron hammer of Prometheus bashed her so hard that the godly balls slapped her thighs with the upstrokes. At some point, as the satyr rutted the nymph, he became dimly aware that she had offered herself up for branding with red hot irons, and he realized that he had not cured her, not even close. He found himself completely at a loss. He had exhausted his ability to beat her, for now, but he endeavored, with little hope, to penetrate her compulsion with words.

    "Aren't you pregnant yet, goddess?"

    "Alas, no, my liege, I sadly confess that I am not."

    "How is that even possible? I've done my job, damn you! You have semen coming out your ears."

    "I've told you I'm inadequate, my love. I've been begging you to cane me double."

    She felt his cock swell inside of her, and stretch her, and slam into her guts, and throb in her womb, and she thrilled at the visceral evidence of his desire to love her, use her, beat her over and over, endlessly, and she didn't care how hard and cruelly he used her, how viciously he tore her up; she would never tire of servicing him, and being used by him, and being encunted and bred and raped and broken by him, never. Jessica would never deny Nelson, not in their bed, though all her exhausted, fucked out mind might want to do was escape into sleep; not in their wooded glade, should he feel the compulsion to defile the sanctity of the setting by bending her over a rock or a fallen tree; not as she sweated and screamed through labor, and wrenched her guts so hard as to turn herself inside out, and shrieked with triumph upon the apotheosis of her femininity as she birthed his flawlessly beautiful progeny; not as their lives attained maturity and basked in a state of grace in the company of strong and swift sons and daughters; not as they ailed, and grew old, and were gradually left alone and bereft by the departure of their children, progressively devoid of purpose as their loved ones blithely waved good-bye and danced off the stage; not as their bones became brittle, and with incipient senescence their minds increasingly wandered, and they forgot themselves, and could barely recall the arcane mechanics of intimacy; and not on their deathbed, when fleeting, capricious life itself wavered and lifted its wings to cease its all too brief visitation; not as they died together in each other's arms, their last memories as their souls departed being their final communion, mated to their very last heartbeats as their souls wrenched free of their corporeal shackles and ascended, intertwined, and raised themselves aloft through interstices of cloud and air; and not even at the gates of some petty tinhorn simulacrum of heaven, some trite, meaningless place that they would mock and deride until time itself succumbed to rust, and lurched to a shuddering halt, and seized upon its titanic axle, and even then, Nelson and Jessica would goad and torment God himself, a luminescent pair of recalcitrant archangels, by expounding their love and fucking each other for eternity against the locked mother of pearl gates, indifferently smashing the walls of heaven itself with the seismic aftershocks of their passion.

    Nelson roused the girl out of her blasphemous ruminations by shuddering above her, dripping sweat from his chin, as he shook and groaned and emptied himself into her yet again, and with a thrill of illicit pride, as her god and lover filled her belly with potent semen, she moaned with the otherworldly transports of her own climax, awash in the fulfillment and affirmation of knowing that he would never tire of her, neither in life, nor in death, never for eternity.

    So much for being careful, her mind whirled in its damnable post-apocalyptic haze; so much for restraint, so much for being sensible and acting responsibly! With a norepinephric rush of blissful, guilty glee, Jessica thought, 'Poor Abby would be terribly cross, if she were to see us now! Very cross indeed!'

    Nelson and Jessica took their time dressing each other. She held still, back straight, while he tenderly doted upon her, and gradually draped her black cocktail dress over the cane weals and cuts, but he kissed every mark, every sore little bit, with such gentle attentiveness that the vulnerable girl very nearly had to climb up onto him and impale herself upon her glorious archangel's omnipotent hammer once again. But there was nothing for it, she conceded with a weary sigh; she needed food, water, and air, at least sometimes, and at the rate they were going, their plan to treat themselves to a posh dinner might have to yield to chipped plastic plates in a greasy all-night diner. But his demure, devilish Aphrodite had to be properly accoutered, and he took his time with her necklace, and attached the clasp behind her neck, and draped it over her breasts, and made the full circuit around her head and delicate shoulders, kissing every last pearl, and the soft skin beneath. Then he attached her pearl bracelet, and kissed her small slender fingers, and her cupped palm, and the soft hollow of her wrist, and his lips lingered against the pulse at the base of her palm while the heavensent girl caressed his hair; and then he enclasped the heavy charm bracelet upon her opposite wrist, with kisses from her fingertips to her elbow and back, and she moaned with desire through every kiss, because her omnipotent Prometheus was still naked, and desperately, massively hard, and Aphrodite felt her wetness and desire dripping down her thighs, and how in God's name would they ever make it to dinner? But somehow she controlled herself, and passively allowed him to attend to every little bit of her, and all too soon, he had dressed little Jessica elegantly once again, an evil, wanton minx adorned in platinum and pearls, her hair tied back into a bun by her favorite onyx clip, awash in the cloying perfume of Nelson's virile Sperm, and it was now her turn to dress him, and she attended to his beautiful, handsome clothes as an attendant cardinal would handle the formal vestments of the pontiff, and she gently kissed every last part of him that his clothes covered, and she kissed every tooth of his zipper as she carefully pulled it up, tooth by tooth, over his straining erection, and she nuzzled her cheek against the front of his trousers, and drank in the heat and musty aroma of sex that diffused through the wool, and she lost track of time and self as his fingers caressed the nape of her slender neck with featherlight touches, until somehow, after an eternity, she summoned the strength of will to lift herself upon her knees, to reach his starched white, paper-crisp shirt, and she kissed every button that she fastened, and she kissed his palms and fingers as she attached his cufflinks, and she kissed his feet as she laced and tied his shoes, and she kissed his neck, and whispered her adoration in his ear, as she helped him, once again, with his silk tie, and the necktie did still present a problem; its mystery eluded the thirteen year old genius, but he assisted her, patient and kind, and she watched his hands in the mirror, from behind, pressing herself against his back, and soothed her aching breasts by rubbing them on his powerful shoulder, and mimicked his hand movements with concentration, honestly baffled by the conundrum that neck ties presented, and swore to herself that she would master and perfect this mundane culmination of his morning ritual.

    Five and a half hours after she had arrived, they were dressed and ready for dinner. But everyone had gone home. The company tour would have to wait for another day, which suited both Nelson and Jessica just fine.

    They stood beside each other, arm in arm, before the vanity, and just looked for awhile, both at themselves and at each other.

    "Dear sweet fucking Jesus, are we ever beautiful," Jessica declared.

    They sat upon meticulously upholstered French provincial chairs, opposite a candlelit white linen tablecloth; the rippling flame glimmered upon paper-thin Rosenthal china, and danced in the prismatic facets of the Waterford goblets. They looked out on the dim path lights of the Boston Public Garden, and spied the shadows of lovers moving surreptitiously among the dark looming trees. As beautiful and posh as the setting might be, Nelson and Jessica outshone it to a degree that left witnesses and passersby alike in astonished awe.

    Yet, contrary to all appearances, their conversation had none of the grandeur that one might have expected of gods and goddesses come down from aethreal heights to slum for an evening among the feeble living. No, they did not casually discuss the fate of the earth, and all the poor cannonfodder upon it, and the fates of vanquished souls cast into an indifferent universe. This god and goddess still basked in the afterglow of their union, which consumed their thoughts, and commanded all their attention, and the devious playfulness of their repartée threatened to devolve into the carnal; even here, in this elegant setting, they continually forgot themselves, and had to drag themselves back, grudgingly, from the mutual compulsion to jump right over the lovely table, and smash the fragile china, and shatter the crystal, and make love with wanton abandon among the shards.

    Nelson gazed into Jessica's gleaming espresso eyes and griped, "I grow weary of telling you that this day has been the very best day of my life. I find myself saying it all too often."

    A thrill of electricity rippled from the nape of her neck to her toes. "No worries," she assured him, "You have not begun to wear out the words. After all, it is your fault, love, that you insist on ever improving our days."

    He scoffed, "You certainly indulged my cheap thrills this afternoon, Miss, but please tell me you didn't enjoy it."

    "How could I possibly say that?" the shocked girl demanded.

    "Well, some parts of it you might have found tolerable."

    She quietly laughed a soft, mellifluous laugh, and assured him, "I found this afternoon much, much more than tolerable."

    "So," he hesitantly resumed, "You found the strapping tolerable and satisfactory, yet also unendurable."

    "Love, I found every part utterly delicious," she averred, "each and every dreamy, wondrous part."

    "Jessica Elizabeth, please. I've cut you to pieces."

    "I am yours to cut to pieces," she said simply.

    "So you would endure it again?"

    "Endlessly. Tonight, if you'd like. Reopen my wounds, and work on me all night in your basement, until I scream myself raw and run out of tears. Of course, Nelson. You need never ask. Just take me, and use me, however you wish."

    "You are a precious princess of the hereafter, come down to earth to transport me straight to heaven."

    "And you are my dearly beloved Satan incarnate, arisen straight up from hell to smite heaven's crystal walls, and rob me from an angel's bassinet, and carry me back to damnation impaled to the lungs upon your bestial cock."

    Nelson gasped, "Holy fuck."

    "He he he. College-level English Composition and Grammar has been improving my imagery. Tell me, Nelson, and be honest. Topically related question."

    After a moment to gather his wits, "Bring it."

    Her eyes sparkled deviously as she whispered, "You enjoyed the Stapler Game, didn't you?"

    "That game does have its qualities," he conceded. "Seriously, and blasphemous poetry aside, be honest. You would really play that game again?"

    "Anytime," she promised, her eyes fierce. "Better than Barbies, better than Monopoly, better than chess. Oh, yes. You leave me breathless, Nelson, by your genius, and your invention, and your delicious cruelty. Sorry, poetry again. But the answer is yes. Yes, to the Stapler Game, anytime."

    His eyes smouldered from across the candlelit linen table. "I need you again."

    "Take me now," Jessica commanded.

    He groaned. How would he get through dinner without launching himself over this fucking table? Why had they come here? What could have possessed them to aspire to some prosaic standard of decency?

    "Well," he groused with frustration, "at the very least, please tell me whether I have succeeded in curing you of your neurotic and somewhat alarming deathwish."

    She chuckled with an impish grin and confessed, "I am afraid not, love."

    "Seriously," he demanded.

    She gazed at him from behind the candlelight and said, "Nelson, the Stapler Game suits me fine. For now. But you are not limited to that. Anything, Nelson. Your imagination thrills me, and I am enthralled. I am leaking into this fancy chair, just thinking about the tortures you'll come up with next. Call it a deathwish, if you will. So be it. Anything, dearest. No safewords. No limits. Ever."

    He sat back in his chair, and said, "I don't know what we are going to do about that."

    She sighed, "Nor do I, my love, nor do I."

    For much more, see Book One: Nascent.
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  4. #4
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    Join Date : Oct 2009
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    Quote Originally Posted by Aesexual Pseudonym
    Blood flowed into the tortured nubs for the first time in more than an hour and a half, and the replenished nerves sang an aria of bitter agony to her brain, but Nelson joined in, and entered his own theme, suckling first one tortured nub and then the other into his mouth, squeezing them alternatively with a free hand, and suckling them, and pulling her entire breast into his mouth, and milking it, feeding from it, as he pounded his swollen red cock in and out of her guts, and then they came for each other, soaking each other with the mutual release that flowed like a river; their wetness soaked the blotter, ran upon the desk in turbid rivulets, and dripped into the carpet, but they made love obliviously, over and over, so as to express a mutual adoration that would never end.

    Damn run on sentences

    Your descriptions are superb You majored in English classes huh?
    So did I.
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  5. #5
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :

    Default There is a reason.

    Quote Originally Posted by amanuensis View Post
    Damn run on sentences

    Your descriptions are superb You majored in English classes huh?
    So did I.

    For most of my life I have resented periods.

    Time for a spoiler (from Book Two: Beauty), forthcoming.
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  6. #6
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :

    Default Book One/Book Two Excerpts

    This material has appeared in the forum's General Discussion board, but has been deleted (for whatever reason), so I am consolidating it here. Excerpts from Book One: Nascent, and Book Two: Beauty, with brief discussion. WARNING: Spoilers. Additional warning: more long sentences. The way I write. Not for everyone.

    Codes: Mf, Romance, Sex only hinted. (Other posts on this thread contain explicit sex, if that is what you are looking for.)

    The protagonists of UNLIKELY ANTICHRIST are love-inflicted atheists. These excerpts impart their views on this life as well as the life that purportedly follows.

    In this first excerpt, Jessica Turner's impressions on the purported delights of the hereafter. (From Book One: Nascent.)

    Jessica commented that the choir and strings sounded both glorious and sad, and with some despondency as to her own cultural ignorance, asked Nelson to name the piece.

    "Faure's Requiem," he replied.

    She nodded silently, and listened, and wondered at the music's beauty, the grandeur and dignity of the death march, and she wondered also at the absurdity of the notion that anyone, or anything, could be regarded as more beautiful in death than in life, and she rued the proclivity of the flawed human animal to glorify, edify, and enshrine its death, and to adorn its corpses in the childish and naive vestments of the hereafter. Death as perfection struck her as so utterly preposterous a conjecture as to be unworthy of rebuttal. What value or use could eternal life possibly have for an animal that so callously squandered its living moments? Surely, to such a rough beast, its hour come round at last, eternity should be nothing more than a worthless cipher, a trifle bought for a pittance in the weekly tithe, yet another yellowed photograph to be pinned to the satin of the casket, a dried rose pungent with formaldehyde, to be entombed in the dirt, below the grass, along with the rest of the trash. Jessica resolved that she would live every day, every hour, every moment, and drink life's beauty as though imbibing liquid diamond, and would savor its taste, every radiant drop, as though each waking moment might transform her flesh to crystal and render her insensate for eternity.

    This next excerpt is from a love letter from Jessica to Nelson, in which she puts the notion of heaven in (what she deems to be) proper perspective. (From Book One: Nascent.)

    And finally, since it is bedtime and I will soon be asleep, with absolutely splendid dreams, I shall take pains to convince you that my recent sexual awakening has not entirely eclipsed all other considerations. You are much more, to me, than merely my glorious, godly Male. I am not particularly religious (hence god with a 'g'), so I find myself at a loss for words. Not only am I not religious, but I have also tended to spurn false hope and faith. As for dreams, I concede I do enjoy them very much, and will be partaking of said enjoyment shortly, but only for idle entertainment, in lieu of the real thing. Moreover I have always found the notion of 'heaven' rather silly. Far too exclusive a club, as it has always been conveyed to me, populated by the most petty and obstinate among us, sipping tea among their no-trespassing signs with their all too few friends while the vast swarm of humanity dances obliviously down the sidewalk, beyond the chain link fence, on its way to hell. Being an irredeemable atheist, I can hardly call you my spiritual mate, or my guardian angel, or my personal god; nor can I call our time together a precursor to heaven, since I would gladly trade a single fleeting moment in your warm embrace for an entire eternity at the right hand of the father without you. Yet I find myself yearning, my dearest, for those selfsame words; when I hear the cadence of your voice in the silence, whispering in my ear, delighting me with your wit, and when I close my eyes and see you before me, with clarity; when I lay in this bed and recall the soft electrical sensation of your hands upon me, your body against mine, yourself inside myself, filling and fulfilling me, our senses intermingled and stirred into a magically conjoined state of shared synesthesia, I am filled to bursting with the anticipation of being with you again, and imbibing our delicious love, and gazing down upon heaven from so precipitous a height as to make the gods and angels dizzy with vertigo, and hand in hand we gaze out upon the panoply with the dismissive, otherworldly preoccupations of lovers who inadvertently bruise the grass, and trample ant mounds, as they dance. Surely we must annoy and irritate the saved, as we merrily waltz upon the ceiling of their precious firmament, disturbing their indolence with tinny echoes that rattle their ears like dice shaken in teacups, and their irritation delights me. You are not merely my God, Nelson; the word sounds too petty and demeaning, too antediluvian. God is old and spiteful, embittered by the mere notion of happiness such as ours, a senescent nocturnal creature blinded by our love's intensity, rendered malicious by its blindness, and cruel in its malice. You are altogether new, and resplendent; you outshine that embittered old wraith, and disperse its last remnant of substance with an errant exhalation, and in the wake of its passing you take me up, and effortlessly lift me heavenward, buoyant with joy; I shine in your presence, reflecting and magnifying your radiance. You are utterly, gloriously beautiful, my dearest one, and you make me feel beautiful, and I will thank you, every day of my life, for every moment of yourself that you give to me.

    In this excerpt, from Book Two: Beauty (still in draft and not yet released to this forum), Jessica Turner reflects on the comparative difficulties of atheism versus religious faith.

    Teddy had cultivated a rich inner life, the more so when his body had failed him and had compelled him to turn inward. Perhaps he had found ways to celebrate that inner life, and to travel the landscapes of his imagination. Being a trained mathematician, no doubt he had walked, climbed, spelunked topologies that would have seemed as unfamiliar to those bound by three dimensions as the subtle textures of heat and tremors, appreciated by the blind and deaf, are lost to the optical and auditory noise that inundate the vast majority who can see and hear. But now, finally, the failings of Teddy's body had turned inward to the greatest possible extent; the receptacle of his mind, that ailing crucible, had finally collapsed around him, and he would never celebrate again. Jessica agonized over the implications of that realization. So many times over the years she had imagined that she and Nelson would flout death and its aftermath by mocking heaven with their own incarnate version, freed of their corporeal shackles to soar in defiance of the angels amongst them and the living below, to fly the heavens as she often did for amusement in her dreams, that they would make love forever, on some transcendental plane, above and beyond the haphazard array of monotheistic heavens coerced into existence and scattered discordantly below them like doorless concentration camps. Yet Teddy had shown them, in the simple, natural act of his passing, that there would be no eternity in union with each other, nothing whatsoever afterward, apart from whatever semblance of existence they might together contrive with the paltry days left to them. For so it was for atheists, such as themselves, cursed with the cognizance of purposelessness, the absence of eternal reward, and the subjugation of the living to the indomitable power of entropy. Kierkegaard had once argued strenuously, in his contemplation upon the choice set before Abraham, that faith required the utmost in discipline, to forsake oneself, the loves and pleasures of the earth, in obeisance to the uncertain proposition of a hereafter and the hypothetical prospect of judgment, the need to deny one's nature, to deny oneself the joys of living, the pleasures of the earth, its tastes and smells, the caress of a lover, the vicarious joy through one's children, loving them and loving through them, living their lives and breathing their wonder, that this faith had to be the hardest of paths. Yet to Jessica's mind good Sören Kierkegaard had failed to appreciate the incredible inertia of the scale's balance. For what were a mere fifty or seventy years, or even Teddy's impressive century, of having to place oneself at the mercy of faith and its stubborn absence of absolutes, as compared to the mere possibility of an eternity in heaven? Having convinced oneself of the verity of the contract, by proof, faith, an odd hybridization, or whatever other means, could there possibly be too high a price, on this earth, in trade for all of eternity? Having entered such an understanding, and having been asked to smite his only son with a dull dagger, how could Abraham have hesitated? To claim that faith alone had assured him of recompense, or to claim that Abraham had entertained no serious prospects of a specific reward of any kind, much less eternity, to Jessica's thinking missed the point. He had raised the dagger over the heart of his only son in service of his maker, to whatever end his maker had deemed the greater good, for whatever inscrutable, convoluted path of reasoning. Had Yahweh enjoined Abraham thusly, 'On My order I command thee, do this vile thing that I abhor, and commit this evil act, with expectation neither of My favor, nor My condolence, even should the act damn you to hell, for the act I command thee to commit reviles and repulses Me,' could Abraham have summoned sufficient faith for the task, thusly presented? Not without also becoming the devil, himself, in execution of the act, and so the protest struck her as empty sophistry. No one did anything, in the absence of duress, ever, in service of a higher good, without some expectation of recognition by that higher authority, be it god, or the market, or society, or country. Abraham could not have thrust the dagger into Isaac's heart without some expectation that it would ultimately accrue to the good. Unless of course he had done the act in service of his conception of evil, which would have made Abraham himself evil, as well, in which case he would not have gone on, in history, to have inspired the three greatest monotheistic religions. Thus, faith, once having surmounted the difficulties inherent in its irrationality, had to be easy. Atheism was harder. To live a good life, for no reason whatsoever apart from the succession of discrete acts; to help others with no expectation whatsoever of reciprocation or quid pro quo of any kind; to refrain from impaling one's son in defiance of the bitter, obstinate demons that lurked in one's head, masquerading as some petty minor deity; to resist the offer of eternal bliss, and forego it, to recognize it for what it was, base temptation and nothing more; to relegate oneself to damnation, should heaven and damnation exist; rather to lose oneself to death and unceremoniously decompose, as other souls proceeded on, or even yet, to relegate oneself to eternity in flame; better that than to kowtow sycophantically to some despicable, moronic, heavenly child, with its insipid jealousies, puerile dares, and all too frequent tantrums. Atheism, to both Jessica and her beloved, meant more than the absence of God. It meant the absence of a contract, the absence of quid pro quo.It meant intrinsic good, good for itself, good with no purpose apart from themselves, and they were not the least bit surprised that the faithful, the supplicants of Yahweh and Allah and Buddha and Vishnu and Santa Claus, found the notion of intrinsic good utterly incomprehensible. For the faithful, there could be no good for itself, absent of God for its grounding and definition, or else, how could they be expected to explain the endless succession of infamies committed or instigated by God? How could they explain the Crucifixion, or the Crusades, or the Inquisition, or the Twin Towers without their sycophantic appeals to the ineffable? How could they explain Abraham, the Father of Judaism, without the rationalized assumption of some presiding halfwit demigod's petty jealousies and mindless rages? Yes, Nelson and Jessica had long since resolved, long before they had ever met each other, that there could be no hereafter, no life beyond, apart from that which they themselves might engineer, for each other, ere their end.

    There is sex, too. Honest. Lots of it. If these excerpts are well received, I just might post some of the good stuff.


    For much more, please read UNLIKELY ANTICHRIST: Book One, Nascent.
    Last edited by aesexual pseudonym; 11-15-2009 at 03:40 PM.
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    Quote Originally Posted by aesexual pseudonym View Post
    For most of my life I have resented periods.

    Time for a spoiler (from Book Two: Beauty), forthcoming.
    And you know your account and posts won't be deleted right?
    All the mods could do is reset your account by changing your password.
    You have to PM them your current password and they could change it.
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  8. #8
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    Default Why, oh why, am I not bannable?

    Quote Originally Posted by amanuensis View Post
    And you know your account and posts won't be deleted right?
    I have pretty much given up on my quest to have my odious little book and equally odious self ejected from this place, but why? Why won't my account and posts be deleted? Why am I singled out for this purgatory? People seem to get banned here all the time, but not me. What does it take?

    Questions, questions.

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    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Book Two: Beauty - Excerpt with Hotness

    In response to many PM's from readers who cannot wait until Winter 2010, here is a love scene between Nelson and Jessica, from Book Two: Beauty. WARNING: Spoilers.

    Codes: MF, Romance, Consensual Sex.

    Setting: Nelson and Jessica have just attended an oceanside funeral. They take a walk and become... emotional.

    From UNLIKELY ANTICHRIST, Book Two: Beauty.

    Nelson and Jessica walked hand in hand off the stair and onto the otherworldly landscape, and found themselves among a collection of couples obstinately attempting to tan themselves. They only came to this beach twice a year, so the sight always amused and delighted the young woman.

    The very first time that Nelson had taken her here, over the sand bar and onto this beach, Jessica had realized immediately that they had crossed onto an inexplicably popular spot, and she had begged Nelson for an explanation.

    "This is the famous - or infamous - Footbridge Beach," he had informed her, that first time. "Do you see anything noteworthy about its denizens - or at least, something worthy of curiosity?"

    "The couples are all males," Jessica had acknowledged with a bemused whisper. "This is a lovely spot, but there are pretty spots up and down the Atlantic seaboard. Why? Why, here, specifically?"

    "Who knows? No reason, apart from custom, I suppose. Upper Ogunquit Beach has some odd unwritten demarcations. Familes and fishermen to the north, day tourists and shoppers to the south, while here in the center congregate the largest collection of all-male sun worshipers north of Provincetown."

    Now, nearly four years later, sopped to the skin, still wearing their soaked and ruined funeral garb, the uncharacteristically heterosexual couple crossed Footbridge Beach on their way toward the tideline with its children and fishermen, and Jessica found her spirits uplifted. She observed Nelson's wry smirk, and remarked, "Your cynical side is straining to burst forth, Sir."
    He replied, "I suppose it's the preponderance, the congregation, that bemuses me."

    "Well, the sight gladdens me," Jessica declared. "I am not put off by it. I am heartened to find that the world, and life, afford us so many different ways to express love. All love is beautiful, and perhaps the contested varieties, such as homosexuality, most of all, the more so for their determination to persevere cynicism such as yours."

    "My, my. You're displeased with me."

    She laughed lightly and hugged his arm. "Not at all. You are ever my glorious, godly Male. Of course you know I celebrate our love above all others. But the love on this beach is fine, too, and worthy of our admiration in its own right."

    "I wonder if you would be so magnanimous and indulgent if this were a congregation of lesbians."

    She wrinkled her nose a bit and conceded, "I would perhaps have more qualms - the thought of women together, as these men are together, does make me a bit queasy, being as I am a heterosexual woman, and I guess that is why I can observe your stickiness without its making me cross. But the essential point would remain, Sir."

    "What is that point, Miss?"

    "That these people are alive, and celebrating, whereas Teddy is dead, and, and," and now the tears flowed, "and will never celebrate again."

    Jessica ran ahead, just a few steps into the fog, and spun upon his outstretched hand until their remaining hands met. They spun through several revolutions like children. She looked up into his eyes, and quickly appraised his soaked suit, which clung to him in such a way as to have given her a nearly overwhelming compulsion to bare her claws and tear it to pieces. Nelson, too, unabashedly assessed the way Jessica's black silk dress clung to every contour of her lithsome body, and the vision banished from his mind the somber gravity of the occasion. He assured the young woman, "Teddy will no longer celebrate; neither here nor beyond; on that we agree. But we will celebrate for him, every waking moment, for as long as we remain on this earth."

    Jessica leapt into Nelson's arms and clutched her arms around his neck, and fervently gasped, "Yes, yes, Nelson, and we will celebrate now."

    "Uh, now?"

    "Yes Sir, now, right here. Take me. That is not a request."

    Ordinarily, Jessica had to beg for sex in public places; one of the many traits she admired in her Nelson was his decorum, wherefore she often felt obliged to play the oft-too-lusty wanton, purely for sake of contrast. But on this particular occasion she barely got half the last sentence out before her beloved and powerful Nelson upended her and slammed her down upon the sand.

    Jessica gasped with shock, knees up submissively, as he tore his way right down the back of her dress, ripping the buttons right off. She caught her breath and repaid him in kind by tearing his lovely white linen shirt open with her teeth. He hiked the remains of her dress up over her waist as she raced him by working at the belt and zipper of his trousers.

    Jessica, perhaps realizing the madness of her own demand, breathlessly giggled,

    "Children might see."

    "Do 'em good," he muttered, ripping thin wet fabric off her shoulders, and added, "The fags are getting a show, too."

    "Do them good, too," she chuckled.

    Jessica upended her pelvis, both to keep her soaked vagina clear of the abrasive sand and to invite him in. She worked on his jacket and the remains of his shirt, but Nelson would not cooperate. She had made him desperately hard, and now she would have to pay; he slammed himself into his delicious fiancée so fiercely that she cried out with the brutality of the impalement. Luckily he had caught her just about as aroused and ready for him as she had ever been, because he did not wait. He groaned incoherently as he battered his way deep into her interior, and his garbled ravings sounded like something to the effect of, "Fuck, you feel so good," and Jessica gave up on his jacket, abandoned the attempt to separate him from the tattered strips that had been his shirt, and simply wrapped her arms up and under the torn silk, and clasped her ankles and hands together behind his back as he slammed himself in and out of her without restraint, in celebration of Teddy, who had gone.

    When they had first met, she had been too small to get her ankles all the way around his back, a position of willful subjugation that she had since come to adore intensely, now that she could manage it.

    Of course her ability to straddle him, wrap herself around him, and encage his torso with herself was not the only physical aspect of their relationship that had changed over the past three and a half years. Jessica had once obsessed and gnawed her lip over Nelson's prodigious size, to the point where she had mythologized the man. She had often used words like godly, and glorious, and monolithic. Of course the young woman still regarded Nelson as godly, and glorious, and Male, and edified his Maleness, and still, almost four years later, she remained true to her pledge never to take her beloved Nelson's Maleness in vain, or address it in the vernacular, or mention it in casual conversation, with anyone, at all. Still to this day, two months short of her eighteenth birthday, her beloved Nelson's Maleness was not to be discussed, or named, or spoken of in open conversation, to anyone. Yet his Maleness no longer gave her butterflies, or made her queasy, or motivated her to practice with tampon applicators and shampoo bottles. She had never dreaded it, per se, but at thirteen years old, his formidable endowments had surely given her a lot to contemplate. She had once had to prepare for it, and they had always made a conscious effort to restrain their exuberance and gratitude for each other. He would have to throttle back his strokes and be ever mindful of his depth. She would have to strain her thighs, sometimes painfully, when squatting on top of him, to prevent herself from impaling her tummy too deeply upon his beautiful erect cock. They had given each other one too many scares, back in the formative period of their collective life; they would occasionally forget themselves, cast away restraint, and make love with an ardor, a wanton abandon, that would come close to inflicting permanent harm on the girl. Indeed, in that period Nelson would sometimes reassure Jessica that she was a precious amalgamation of delightful girl, beautiful woman, and fantastic lover, wrapped up into one, and Jessica, in her deepest, darkest imaginings, would often wonder if, when she grew and matured into a woman, Nelson's ardor would abate, and his eye would wander, and he would pine for the girl he had lost as she had grown up into a woman. Because they shared everything, because they kept nothing to themselves and communicated every thought with words for lack of a more efficacious medium, Jessica had not kept these anxieties to herself. She had expressed them soulfully, and Nelson would take pains to reassure the girl that, while he did not know how he knew it, all the same he felt utterly certain that it would not work that way; that he would love the woman above and beyond his love for the girl by orders of magnitude; that when she turned seventeen he would love her seventeen times as much; that should he gaze into her eyes a hundred years hence, his memories would transport him back as through a time capsule, and he would still see the little girl, to whom he had long ago bequeathed his soul, and that the little girl would look back at him, through the eyes of the twilight shrouded centenarian, as though they had just met yesterday. And now, nearly four years later, Jessica took joy in conceding that Nelson had spoken nothing but the truth, that his ardent reassurances had not been empty, that, though the girl had long since dropped away like a discarded chrysalis, he loved the woman all the more. And no longer did his prodigious Maleness make her bite her nails, or make her queasy, or lead her to wonder whether this might be the time that they would inadvertently injure her womanhood beyond hope of repair. By some miracle of sublime transubstantiation, though she felt as tight and delicious around him as ever, and though he filled her every bit as masterfully as he had when they had first met, now they just felt right, and perfect, and whole, when they mated; they fit together with perfect precision, and every opportunity for that union filled Jessica with nothing but longing and anticipation. Because, as a growing, blossoming mathematician, Jessica might be stranger neither to symmetry, nor to beauty, nor to elegance, yet with respect to her dearest darlingest Nelson, Gödel's Incompleteness Theorem and Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle reigned supreme. She confessed herself utterly incapable of expressing the breadth of her love for him, or to quantify the precise means of his strange metaphysics, by which he made her feel beautiful, or to chart the outlandish Möbius topology of the lens that he placed before her eyes, so as to twist all the world before her field of view and imbue it with rightness. Jessica woke up every day and found herself so completely, utterly happy, that she expected nothing more whatsoever of her existence and would not have begrudged fate if it had popped the world and its trappings thenceforth like a soap bubble. There was only so much happiness in the world, only so much that could go right, and she had taken so disproportionate a share that she knew, somewhere, gargantuan supergalaxies must be in the process of being swallowed by mammoth black holes, just to restore the entropic balance of the universe.

    And that was why, with so many of Jessica's wishes having been granted, both the grandiose wishes that she would not have dared hope for, to the rather meaningless and inconsequential ones, she could not have been too surprised that the universe, now of all times, would have had the temerity to have taken and negated poor Teddy. But she and Nelson would rectify that inimical imbalance forthwith.

    "God, Nelson," the young woman moaned, "Slam me! Bash my guts into whipped cream!"

    Nelson bit down on her neck, not quite hard enough to break the skin, but with an abruptness that elicited a sharp cry of pain and shock. Some blasted corner of her mind acknowledged the wonder that he could do it at all, though he did have to hunch over a bit to reach her carotid, because when they had met, she had been so small that the top of her head would only have come up to his sternum. She had grown in the past three and five sixths years, from a girl-lover to a woman, and though at thirteen she had not considered herself to be in a hurry for womanhood, the seventeen year old fiancée gloried in her transformation. Even in the heat of her beloved Nelson's impassioned rutting, she could not let the observation pass without comment.

    "Nelson," she started again, unable in such moments to avoid equating him with some anthropomorphized deity, "God, god, when we first met you were so careful with me!"

    For reply he roared like a bull, "Ennnghh!" and battered her pelvic cradle into the sand.

    "Sir, I'm not your precious princess anymore!"

    "Oh, yes you are; you're my crown princess, and precious, too, incidentally, for two more months, until you walk down the aisle. After which I will need a new pet name for you, since 'precious queen' has no alliteration and sounds simply awful. Yet all the same, you will be precious to me, more than ever in fact."

    "Precious! Bullshit, Nelson! Sir, you're not careful at all! You don't even try to be gentle! Ahhhh, ahhhhh, not even a pretense! I don't rate tenderness anymore! You just rape me to death, or try! Ahhhhhhh, it's a wonder you haven't killed me dead! Be tender, god damn you!"

    "Fuck tender, Miss! Fuck it!"

    Jessica laughed with delight, between her fevered moans, and dug her fingernails into his back hard enough to draw blood as he drummed a fierce rhythm on her womb. She breathlessly teased, "You miss the me that you first met, don't you Sir?"

    "Hah! You haven't changed a bit, Miss!"

    The ridiculous claim beguiled the feisty enamored seventeen year old, ludicrous though it sounded.

    "You miss my tiny incipient three and a half inch deep cunny," she accused.

    He ground himself into her innermost depths, until their pubic hair meshed, held himself deep inside of her, and broodingly mocked, "Yeah, I miss those days, when one false move could have ruptured your cervix."

    She breathlessly giggled, "I think you're rupturing me now, Sir."

    Nelson began to slowly pull himself out, centimeter by centimeter. Jessica playfully fought him by squeezing tightly, from top to bottom, gripping his warm, throbbing cock with the muscles deep within her abdomen. Nelson groaned with the delicious tightness that gripped him from inside her belly like a silk lined Chinese handcuff. Jessica loved this game, loved this power she had, loved to grip him deeply and pull him in with the inescapable grip of her cunt. She taunted, "Where the fuck do you think you're going, Sir?"

    "Just adjusting."

    She giggled and kissed the hollow of his neck, a french kiss, and her tongue lingered, caressing his neck, drank in the warm pulse of his carotid, while she playfully continued to grip him from the inside. He would not be going anywhere without her leave, and to her immense satisfaction, he did not feel compelled to complain.

    "You're not much deeper now than you were then," he remarked.

    "All evidence to the contrary," Jessica wryly observed, and to affirm the point, Nelson gave up on his rather pointless efforts to withdraw by slamming himself in and punching the wind out of his shocked and besotted beloved. But then Jessica relented with a definitive kiss to his chin, which she had to crane her head up to achieve, and whispered, "Do me, beloved Sir, do me hard, as though this is our last time ever."

    Jessica loved tender, too; she adored those times when Nelson would hold still and let her do all the work, with her vaginal muscles alone. She loved playing that game in a warm bath, or skinnydipping in the pond up north with the White Mountains in the background; they would join in a tight embrace, the young woman in his arms and fully impaled, and she would grip and relax her deep vaginal muscles, stroking and milking him, no other parts of their bodies moving, and the lovemaking might go on for entire afternoons over which they would lose all sense of time and place, just playfully, tenderly loving each other from the inside, but Jessica adored being used roughly, too, by her powerful lover, adored being pounded mercilessly into the sand, an outlet for his overflowing virility, his exclusive receptacle, to be manhandled, used, fucked, spermed, and through every protracted moment she gloried in the feeling of being needed and desired by the most powerful alpha male demigod in all of existence, and she would imagine her omnipotent, cruel and tender master, Nelson, accosted on a mountainside, herself the unlikely object of contention, in a battle for existence between her lord and protector on one side, and by Satan himself on the other, huge and terrible, with hide of glowing coals and steel fangs lining icy jaws that belched flame, and she imagined the incarnate terror of all creation rashly locking horns with her tender and merciless beloved, and Nelson's vast implacable hands, and his terrible outrage at the audacity of the insult, and his viselike grip would compress around the hapless devil's monstrous goat-head, would twist it through impossible revolutions, blood running freely down its matted chest, sinews ripping, the bleached skull unhinged from the spine, the anticlimactic and rather unseemly collapse of the mangled corpse, and a trillion damned souls would kneel before their terrible and improbable liberator, Jessica's beloved god, her beautiful Nelson, who by some impossibly virtuous confluence of quantum collisions and episodal waveform collapse had alighted briefly upon this earth, had randomly glanced her way, and had chosen her, of all meek, insignificant creatures, little Jessica, to love. The girl softly wept, not with pain, though the ache of Nelson's ardor might easily have convinced the girl that he had transported her straight back through spacetime to those afternoons in her bedroom, when they had first met, when her prepubescent incipient femaleness had been only three and a half inches deep and not wider then Nelson's pinkie, when she used to anticipate him, oh yes, and yearn for his beautiful maleness, but with deep and earnest trepidation, too; yes, she still ached to be loved by him, and always would, to some degree, especially when he used her hard, with a hunger and passion that might make the most inhumane rapist seem merciful, but she wept for the loss of Teddy, whose passing would not be mitigated by this impromptu celebration, and she wept for her own good fortune, and for a love that had only grown and leapt forward logarithmically over the past three and five sixths years, and for their improbable, blessed romance, this chance conjoining of the god and his princess.

    Nelson felt Jessica's fingernails clawing desperately into his back, inadvertently drawing blood in rivulets, but did not care; felt his buttocks and thighs beginning to strain as the rutting went on and he had to support not only himself, but also his delicious, clinging fiancée over the sand, but did not care; felt his balls tangled up in an aching, infuriating way in his mangled, waterlogged trousers, which Jessica hadn't managed to remove before he had made his heroic effort to bash himself up through her guts and up into her neck, but did not care; felt the girl's powerful vaginal muscles gripping and pulling at his cock in counterpoint to his efforts to piledrive her six feet deep into the sand, but he did not care; Nelson did not care a whit about anything but the glory of knowing that this brilliant, beautiful, delicious, chocolate-eyed brunette woman and lover and soulmate had made herself all his, and his alone, all his, and no one else's on all of the earth, that Jessica had leapfrogged her class, her town, her peers at an impossibly early age in defiance of her family's modest expectations, had transcended the Bell curve, had transcended herself, and yet somehow, by some incredible miracle, had not outgrown him in the process. This lovely girl, who had grown into a stunning woman with an hour-glass figure, this beauty who turned the heads of males and made them forget themselves, had inscrutably chosen him, and for reasons known only to herself, had neither tired of him nor had outgrown him. Almost four years ago, he had resolved to call her bluff, to test her conviction, to test every time she had ever rued hoping and had dreamt of their coupling, their protracted union upon in this life; he had bent himself upon a knee, at her fourteenth birthday party, and had bared his soul irrevocably before the teenaged prodigy who might have been expected to demur. After all, he had reflected with near-fatal anxiety, are girls not predisposed to dream of princes and castles and eternity in the arms of a beloved, and does reality not inevitably encroach upon those dreams, when inevitably girls feel the gentle tug of life urging itself to be lived? Do girls, becoming women, not yearn for independence and the preservation of a sense of self, and are they not flattered and emboldened by the gradually accumulating incidence of male attention as they blossom into womanhood and inspire courage and maturity in boys who inexplicably find themselves feeling compelled to transform themselves into men, those selfsame boys who in the past would not have so much as looked at them? And do girls, becoming women, not owe it to themselves to demur, to refuse the first offer, to hold out for better, to avail themselves the opportunity to try life and love on for size in its multifarious flavors and guises, since in this world of opportunities, this hallway of endless doorways, this succession of boys and men craving attention and consideration, and craving especially for a singularly beautiful and brilliant young woman such as Miss Jessica Elizabeth Turner, with her many and farflung admirers, how could it have been possible that she could have hit it perfectly and could have found her sole lifelong mate on the very first try? How could delicious Jessica Turner with her bright yet taciturn espresso eyes and shimmering obsidian hair possibly have committed herself to her first lover, her first kiss, for the rest of her life, without first having given proper and prudent consideration to the innumerable other viable opportunities? Nelson had gone on his knee before a child just turned fourteen, a drenched blazing adolescent girl fresh from a water fight with her fellow Sirens of Titan, a girl who had stood before him in judgment, surrounded by her watching teen friends, and made vulnerable herself by those witnesses who must surely have pitied her for being so helplessly besotted, yet somehow he had summoned the courage to place his own neck in the guillotine, and had held his grandmother's ring aloft to be accepted or spurned, and in contravention to all expectation, against common sense, propriety, and even against what any dispassionate observer would have undoubtedly ajudged to have been the girl's best self-interest, dearest beloved Miss Jessica had neither mocked him, nor demurred, nor gently killed him with the expected refusal, the dagger that might have cut into his neck with words like, 'perhaps after we have thought this through like adults, because what we have is fun and delicious, and of course I love you, but marriage is a very serious thing, and we are serious of course, but we can't possibly be that serious, because after all I am only fourteen, and I love playing house with you and dreaming of babies, but you don't really want all of that for real, now, for life, do you,' yet he had not heard the expected denial; instead his incredulous ears had heard, without hesitation, "Yes, Sir, oh yes," with conviction and blazing triumph; the fourteen year old girl had launched herself into his arms, had watched with rapture as he had gently eased Grandma Genevieve's ring onto her finger, had lost herself in his eyes for the rest of the afternoon, even though her family and friends had swarmed and incessantly plied her with meaningless conversation. She had said yes to the longterm engagement with neither hesitation nor equivocation, and in the ensuing years their love for each other, and their commitment to each other, had swelled boundlessly, and god did he ever need her; he lost his breath, felt his heart running away, lost his sense of balance, spun slowly through the air, bereft of gravity, as every nerve sang with joy at the pressure and heat of her delicious body against his, as she clung to him and moaned softly with her own desperate need, and curled her delightful little bottom up to angle her straining birth canal in thirsty yearning for the pearlescent tribute of its beloved impaler, and Nelson felt his climax swelling upward from the base of his spine, the fire raging gradually up his vertebrae, groping and clawing for fruition in his brain, felt himself going lightheaded, dizzy, by the preponderance of blood that had swollen his cock and had abandoned the rest of him, and he fucked his way along the edge of a razor, raced to empty himself into her depths, raced against impending death, because surely his body could not survive the intensity of the orgasm that swirled up to inundate him.

    "Ennnnghh, ennnghh, ennghhh, god, you feel so good-"

    "Yessss, Nelson, my love, harder, fuck me deep, fuck me harder-"

    God, how the fuck could he possibly go harder? How could he survive this? His spinal column disassembled in a bath of caustic endorphins, and she wanted it harder! He summoned the requisite strength, from his tenuous grasp at mortality, and being incapable of denying her anything, defied with his own impending demise, to give it to her harder; he cradled her head, caressed her cheeks, while dropping his weight on his elbows, and blasted the beachsand with rushes of hot air while exerting himself like a bull in mid-charge. This climax was coming now, and nothing would stop it; semen boiled in the base of his guts, a scalding bath, hot enough in his balls to melt the sand into glass, and he had to purge it, before it consumed him.

    "Cumming, oh god, Jessica Elizabeth, oh god I love you-"

    "Yes, my love, my love, Nelson, Nelson, Nelson!"

    He came off his elbows, flexed his hamstrings, levered the girl right up into the air, and her pelvic bone slammed against his as he emptied himself into her with powerful contractions, and his brain shook in his cranium, caught in a mid-sneeze that went on and on, caught in a loop, the pinnacle of the climax trapped at its zenith like light ensnared in a prism, suspended forever on the moment of anguish. Jessica's fingernails had finally relented, and now she caressed his buttocks, encouraged every drop of his soul into herself, coaxed him, emptied him. Nelson shuddered endlessly, gasped, croaked, found his breath, enough to whisper raggedly, "I am the luckiest man who has ever lived."

    Jessica breathlessly retorted, "No, Nelson, you are God, and you are beautiful, and I am yours."

    They did not uncouple. It took a long time for Nelson to recuperate from the blissful disassembly of his skeleton, but once he put himself back together again, he picked the woman right up. She still clasped to him with all four limbs, still seated herself upon his jutting sword, and still nestled her head against his shoulder. Nelson carried her down the partially obscured beach, through the swirling fog that occasionally revealed rather embarrassed and vaguely offended passersby. Above, a window opened in the sky to reveal two diamond shaped kites and strings that descended into the mist, presumably on paths toward operators somewhere in the distance, and to Jessica in her languid aftermath, the fragile mylar and balsa fliers seemed tenuous, fleeting, perched on the edge between transcendence and destruction, at the mercy of the wind's caprice, just like themselves, the woman and her Nelson, who made love so hard as to flirt with their own mortality as they fought against death and time to achieve their own sublimation. Nelson carried Jessica into the pounding tide and kept going, until they waded waist-deep, accosted by crashing waves. Jessica clung to him peacefully, trembled against him, shivered with the reverbations of pleasant little aftershocks deep in her tummy, and watched curtains open and close on the sky, selectively revealing scenes of the celestial drama played out by a panpsychic cast.

    "I may still be your precious princess, if you insist - although the notion bemuses me, these days - but you are not careful with me anymore. You've beaten me from the inside out, Sir." Somehow reproach never made its way into her intonation. Indeed, she sounded most satisfied.

    Nelson conceded, with a speculative murmur, "I suppose I am less restrained, now."

    She laughed and buried her head in the crook of his neck. "Yes, Nelson, you are less restrained. Such a delicate way of putting your delicious violence."

    Jessica massaged him up and down with her interior, clenched herself on his deeply seated erection, squirmed against him. In defiance of the principles of probability, a lengthy succession of clouds parted like veils and revealed the distant strand of Ogunquit Beach and its row of restaurants and giftshops. Children flocked like birds against the backdrop of the cliffs and hotels beyond. Then the curtains swept closed, lending the impression that no one else remained on this meager remnant of sand that lay imperiled by the sea.
    Nelson and Jessica bobbed up and down on the waves, and every time the swell passed them, they descended back to the sand; Nelson would hit his feet hard upon the ocean floor, and Jessica would feel his erection bottom out in the pit of her guts. Teddy might be gone, might never celebrate again, but Jessica and Nelson continued their revelry. The world unfolded as always, beyond their chrysalis, and imparted its histories, but the lovers curled inward, into themselves, and shared each other, gave each to the other, the very best of themselves, shared at some elemental level all that they most loved about loving to be alive. All the while, as they rode the waves and embraced to the grand cadence of the moon's pull on the tide, they played their ever-present glass bead game. Jessica held its parameters in her rather compendious head, and could recall, by inspection of the crystalline edifice that she navigated in the forefront of her consciousness, the fantastically complex intersections between its dimensionally folded rooms. Nelson brought to their game his artistry, and with his adept and potent imagination manipulated the walls, rooms, and stairways of the edifice like Escheresque origami, turning its lines and corners inside-out, carrying Jessica through infinitely nested doors and hallways that wended through labyrinthine tesseracs, and all the while he painted those arcane topologies with his ethereal music. Nelson was always the one to imbue their lovemaking with music, sweet multithematic arias that resonated through Jessica' s bones and set every aspect of her substance to harmonious trembling.

    "Mmmmm," she sang in counterpoint to his music, "my Nelson, inside me, my Nelson all the way in me, so full, I'm so full!" The glass bead game itself might have been abstruse and arcane under the direction of any other pair of adherents, but Jessica and Nelson colored its contours with joy.

    Nelson did not reply in words. He took her deeper into the water, up to their necks, and they danced a slow, careful waltz in the sea, surrounded by drifting veils of fog that hid and revealed the backdrop like sets upon a boundless stage. Jessica gazed deep into his verdant eyes, lost herself in their depths, and found him deep inside herself, touching her heart from underneath.

    "Do you remember, love, when we were courting, and I would beg you to forget yourself, and defy propriety, and take me, rashly, to satisfy the insatiable needs of your Maleness? Nelson, love, remember? The way I would beg you to ravish your precious princess like an unrepentant cocktease? Do you, Sir?"

    "It was the most delicious torture, Miss."

    "And you told me, once, that our courting, our playful dance, winding each other up, was better in its own way than sex. That sex, I would someday realize, could seem like a mundane destination for so delightful a journey. You would say, in your staid dignified way, 'this is more than enough for me, and someday you will appreciate what I mean.' Do you remember that silly tripe, Sir, do you?"

    "I do," he acknowledged between kisses, "I recall every word. It made sense at the time, and I stand by it, too."

    "Well, I don't understand it at all, and after nearly four years in your arms I have no appreciation of the point. I love having you inside me, Sir. Your presence inside me, filling me, straining with the crux of your virility, love, it is sublime. I can't imagine any better feeling than this. I can see no other point to living, to having been born, than this. You, in me, inside me, filling me up. This is why I am alive, and every blessed moment is beautiful. I would trade anything, Nelson, my friends, my talents, my family, whatever days or years remain to me, for this moment, here and now, the next second, of having you inside me. I would give up everything, all of the rest of me, and all of the rest of my life, if that is what it would take to prolong this moment, this miracle of you loving me and making love to me, for just one moment longer. There is nothing, Nelson, nothing in my life that I have ever lived, or will ever live, that is better than this."

    "Jessica, I had said those things before we first made love, so the words may justifiably strike you as having been rash, but I do stand by them. Sex, for so many, this act of being inside each other, is dirty, reprehensible, a violation. We bring to the act all that we are, and the physical act is reinforced, sweetened, graced, by all that we have shared of ourselves, and layer upon it. I do concede I need you as a lover more than food or air, but you are ever and always my precious princess, and that is why our loving transcends the physical. Additionally we are young, and we have all of our lives ahead of us, and the anticiption of the nearly endless succession of moments yet to live redound backward to amplify and sweeten the moments of the present, as we live them."

    "But our moments are not endless! Our lives are so short. There is so little time to live, and love, before death takes us. Just look at poor Teddy."

    "He lived to a hundred, love. You are not yet eighteen."

    "But anything could happen. We could be taken, in innumerable ways, right here and now, here in this surf, and we would die, and no longer breathe, no longer feel, no longer celebrate our communion with each other."

    "Teddy lived a rich life."

    "He was cheated," Jessica insisted with conviction, "as are we by his death. The world is a dreary place without him. The human race suffers a deficit with its loss of him. His death should not have had to be."

    Nelson kissed his lover, his fiancée, insinuated his agile tongue between her parted teeth, explored her, and she melted into him, and lost herself in the madrigals that she heard in his pulse and his exhalations. Nelson needed to help her dispel, dissipate, her antipathy. This was the grace and curse of atheists, the acutely difficult goodbye, the empty words, spoken to nothing, uttered to a cubical maple box of unreactive ash, with the ever-present realization that nothing listened on high, that no abiding presence looked down with gentle empathy for the bereavement of those left behind. For atheists there could be no solace - they had nothing, in Teddy's absence, but themselves. Jessica had lost a kindred spirit with irremediable finality. Now they made love together, and the act, its needfulness and sweet deliciousness, did assuage her, that and more. For atheists such as they, there could be no more fitting defiance of death's finality than to live, and to live life at the apotheosis of its expression. So they danced, and sang, and consumed each other from within, and shared their dreams, and Jessica carried Nelson into fantastic topologies that spiraled like the interiors of vast diaphanous seashells; they glissaded through curving vortices of space and time, embracing all the while; they perched upon the spires and crenelations overlooking creation, and Nelson filled those limitless spaces with color and song. At some point they came together, there in the tide, emptied themselves each in the other, a moment that defied words, the inexpressible miracle of their being for each other.

    Nelson needed time to speak, time to find his breath, but when he did, he murmured, "If I had to trade all of eternity for the next moment here with you, I would trade it gladly, even if I knew my existence would end resoundingly thereafter. But I do not face that choice, and neither do you. We do have all of our lives, so the choice is academic. And to your original point, yes, I concede our lovemaking is the sweest part of my life, but for me more than half its sweetness is the playfulness and joy that we bring to it. You do wind me up; every moment is still delicious, now more than ever before; every day transcends the last, and our lovemaking has simply been subsumed by the prevailing modality. One time you asked me whether we would ever tire of each other, and run out of ways to arouse each other, run out of ways to love, and I am rather hoping that you can now recognize the innocence and emptiness of that anxiety."

    "Yes, dearest, I do remember it, and you replied that our love and need for each other would only grow, that you could not explain your conviction, but that somehow you just knew it to be true. And you were right, dearest, you were absolutely right."

    "It was only a hunch, perhaps powered by hope."

    "A prescient hunch, my love. You do need me more than ever, just as you had promised."

    "Yes, I do. Truly, I do, darling."

    "You're making love with me this very moment."

    "There is absolutely nothing on this earth, or in this life, that I want more than to be inside you."

    Jessica tried to crush him in her arms and legs. The waves crashed upon them and parted like air upon their bodies. "For you I will go on living, Nelson. No other reason, not another accursed breath, but for you, for being with you and being loved by you."

    The young woman had overcome her morbid fascination with subjugation and death when she had been but a child, in the climbing mishap that had nearly claimed them both. They had not been together long when the near-fatal debacle had occurred, and she had only been thirteen and a half years old. Up until that time, when she had begged him to save himself and leave her for dead, she had entertained the most horrendous fantasies - of immolating herself with a curling iron, of playing russian roulette in her vagina for Nelson's titillation. She had never acted out these fantasies, apart from playacting them in her dreams, and since that time when Nelson had anchored her through an avalanche rather than abandon her, she had never again entertained those self-destructive fascinations. Yet all the same she did know, with conviction, that she lived only for Nelson and would not allow herself to go on breathing five minutes longer than he. Poor Genevieve - she would go on, would stoically persevere, without Teddy. Jessica had no idea how Genevieve could do it, but she did know she did not possess that resevoir of strength. She could never do it herself. Jessica had once foresworn Nelson, had left him to cram early in their relationship, when after all they had yet shared very little. She had been with him less than six weeks prior to the mutual breakup, and she should have been able to endure it, yet the two months had nearly killed her. Now, four years later, Jessica knew with certainty that she was not strong enough, that she could never leave him again for two months, or even two weeks. And to watch him die? To go on living for some inestimable duration without him, never to share her life with him or embrace him or love him from the inside and lose herself in his luscious eyes? No, she could never survive it; she would surely die with finality, soon after he.

    The tide took them up in a swell, and Nelson lost his footing, yet still they made love as they drifted, seaborn, and let the swirling water carry them under, yet Nelson did not relent for a second; he hammered into Jessica with his desperately empowered cadence, drove himself into her, and she defiantly held her breath through another great wave that crashed upon them and carried them into the folds of a collapsing vortex, curved them repeatedly out into space and through the sea until space and time dissembled into elemental constituents of something vaguely reminiscent of moments. He found his feet again, for a mere instant, planted himself, and drove his cock up into her, hard, and she broke through the surface of the wave, gulped sweet cool air, and burst in a triumphant scream as she felt his warm soft wetness pulse inside of her and fill her yet again, "Yes, my love, yes, fill me Nelson, empty into me, my cruel and terrible leviathan! Pound into me, Nelson! Fill me up! God, I love you I love you I love you!"

    For the story of how Nelson and Jessica meet, and so on, see Book One: Nascent.
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  10. #10
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :

    Default Excerpt from Book Two: Beauty

    An Excerpt from Book Two, Beauty (unreleased).

    Warning, Spoilers. Unreleased Draft Material.

    Codes: Mf, Gangbang, semi-consensual, violence.

    Setting: Greta, a cheerleader, must decide. She can either go to practice at the risk of being gang-banged, or do a road trip. She puts her thumb out, and gets much more than she bargained for.

    Greta's Road Trip

    Greta took one last wistful look at her spinnet piano and walked downstairs. At the kitchen table, she flipped Mom's note over and wrote:


    Christopher fell through. No diff. Going out. Will be out all night. Sleepover at Jessica's. Don't worry!

    Love you,

    She lost more time staring at the phone, wishing it would ring. Perhaps Christopher had called every morning, all week long, but had not left messages. She stared and stared, tried to exert her will through telepathy, to will him to call, or at least to will the phone to ring. She watched the second hand on the analog kitchen clock, and played a macabre game. "If Christopher does not call in three minutes, I will go to cheer practice and offer myself to be raped, starting... now." She watched the clock, watched every moment of the second hand's progress through its three revolutions. As the second hand passed through the twelve on its third revolution, she exhaled and said to the empty room, "I'll play again. One more time. This time it's official."

    She played a third time, and still Christopher did not call to save her from her fate, or at least to absolve herself of making the decision.

    "Goddamn it," said Greta.

    She put her sunglasses on, and strode from the kitchen, knapsack on her back. In the foyer, a reflection from the living room caught her eye, and she turned: photographs upon the mantle, amid gelatinous dappled light that reflected off the glass in their frames and hovered in the air like haloes. Greta wandered to the mantle, and sucked in a deep breath.

    The two biggest frames, ovular, held herself and Cazzie as fat and pink babies, with bright eyes and delighted, innocent smiles. Greta could no longer recall herself being that happy. She fought back tears, and forced liquid into her sinus cavities. She sniffled and gasped for air as she looked back at herself in her infancy, gazing back at the camera, and Mommy, and Daddy, inexplicably happy. The next frame held a montage of wallet sized photos from vacations and pivotal family gatherings through her childhood. Some of the snaps went back years, and others were quite recent. She and Cazzie as first graders, on trainer skis in Aspen. San Francisco, at eight years old, standing with Cazzie on the front stoop of City Lights Books, where Mommy and Daddy had bemused her by loading a duffle bag full of obscure poetry, to the point where an aged and infirm Lawrence Ferlinghetti had emerged from his inner sanctum, his personal Coney Island of the Mind, to accuse them of cleaning out his store. Herself at four years old, a preschooler, being ridden on piggyback by a black-dyed, nose pierced uncle. Greta neither attempted to catch her tears nor put her hands to her tummy to massage the awful cramps that overtook her. Another picture. Wildcat. Last winter. Casimir in the center, with Greta herself on one arm and Miss Jessica Elizabeth Turner on the other. Greta impulsively covered her mouth to stifle her sobs, despite being the only person in audible range within a thousand miles. She had been happy once, and sure of her future, and since then, she had felt a semblance of happiness, too, with friends. Real friends. Or perhaps just one. But that was all over for her, now, because in that moment, with her full and lucid cognizance of its passing, Greta completed her descent into hell.

    Greta stepped off Azalea Circle, took one last look down the street, toward the high school campus, and found herself, within sight of her fate, unable to meet it. She put her thumb out, in her crop-top, blouse, and short white skirt, hand on her hip, back arched, and honey blond ringlets dancing in the light warm breeze. The first car stopped.

    A man and woman, in their thirties, garbed in ugly plaids. No children. Their car appeared to be taped together with anti-war stickers.

    "Are you okay?" the woman asked, leaning over her husband.

    "Do I look okay?" Greta returned, eyes on the husband, who looked familiarly transfixed.

    The woman persisted, "You're too young to be hitchhiking."

    To the woman, Greta said, "Shut up, hag," and to the man, she said, "Give me a ride."

    "What are you, some kind of whore?" asked the man.

    "Yeah. Five for a lick, ten for a lay."

    He stomped the gas pedal, with faintly comical results, given they were driving a hybrid.

    She walked toward the school, and ten or twenty cars passed. Greta still had not decided whether or not to meet her fate or forestall it, to her eventual detriment.

    In the end, incontrovertible proof of God presented itself, when at the entrance to the school grounds, a second car stopped, its occupant celestially predestined to make the decision for her. He drove alone, middle aged, with a peppered beard, a barely noticeable paunch, and a wedding band on his finger. Best of all, this mister knew better than to break the ice with open-ended questions.

    "I'm going to Harvard Square."

    "Goody. May I join you, mister?"

    "Sure. Hop in."

    She did.

    Greta settled into the car, as he pulled out and turned onto the Parkway. She put the lapbelt on to suppress the annoying warning chime, but left the shoulder belt off in case the mister would require that she bend over. She had already decided that she liked him, and would compliantly bend over for him if necessary. She smiled at the music: the first movement of Rite of Spring. A mister with pretensions. The mister did insist on prattling on. He must have been nervous.

    "You're probably wondering what I was doing in the middle of Winchester. A bit out of the way, given my destination is Harvard Square."

    "I'm not wondering. I'm just grateful that you picked me up."

    He rambled, "The bookstores in Cambridge are so expensive, as compared to the stores just up the road, though so few bother to take a look beyond their immediate surroundings, and well, you probably know that B&N on Route One has a café, and so they open at the crack of dawn on every day but Sunday, and I can be there and back before the stores in Cambridge even open. And, well, I often cross through Melrose and Winchester, on the way back to Harvard, just for a change of the scenery. I enjoy the quiet streets of the suburbs - particularly Winchester - as it differs so remarkably from Cambridge. More trees and air, you see. Are you from Winchester?"

    "You sure talk a lot, mister."

    He chuckled and nervously said, "You're right. Pardon me. Too true, however. You know, I could put something else on. I could find a radio station. This music must not be your style."

    "Stravinsky's fine, mister."

    He did such a long doubletake that he nearly went off the road.

    "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. I didn't mean to imply that you would not be the sort to appreciate real music."

    "I'm partial to Pearl Jam, mister. Got that?"

    "Oh, I don't think so."

    "Pity." She felt her attitude withering, and her more representative, bitter attitude emerging, which would be a pity if it occurred, not only for him, but for herself, as well. She really did like this mister, despite his being a bumbling, rather awkward sort.

    "So, just how old are you, anyway?"

    Greta was trying very hard to have patience for this mister, but he made it very hard. But at least he seemed to be interested.

    "Mister, you ask a lot of questions, too."

    He blinked at the road a few times, and struggled to do some math, in spite of the corporeal angel who currently sat in his passenger seat and regarded him with giant, speculative blue eyes. He could have sworn that had been just his second question, since she had stepped into the car, but he conceded he might have been mistaken. Then again, it suddenly dawned on this self-avowed intellectual gentleman that the obvious minor who occupied his passenger seat may have been referring to the substance of his questions, rather than their quantity.

    "You're right. Don't ask, don't tell, right?"

    Greta smiled her most endearing, demure smile.

    "Well, at the risk of asking you yet another unwanted question, what should I call you?"

    "I'm Goldi. What's your name, mister?"

    "Me?" he stammered, "Umm, well, maybe you'd just better call me Mister, if you don't mind."

    "Works for me," she said, with a shrug. And then, having decided that he really did seem like an affable sort, and seeing as he had gallantly absolved her of having to make the awful decision that had tormented her for fourteen hours, her next words came quite easily. "Mister, as I said, I am really grateful that you've given me a ride. And I think you're nice. So, like, umm, if there's anything you'd like me to do for you... to show you how grateful I am, I mean, well, we're not even halfway to Harvard Square, and I'm open to suggestions."

    "Oh! Well," he stammered, "I hadn't expected an offer of that sort, and, well, I did spend most of my money at the bookstore."

    Goddamn it. She really did like this mister, but he was making it inordinately difficult for her not to throw the door open and jump out at forty miles per hour.

    "Mister, I just said I'm looking for a way to show my appreciation."

    "Right. Umm, no money, then. I got it. Pardon me again, Goldi. You have to understand, umm, this sort of thing doesn't usually happen to me."

    "Why don't you just relax," she suggested, putting a demure little hand on his baggy trousers, "and try to think of some way, between here and Harvard Square, that I could show my gratitude." Her little hand fondled his thigh, on the way up toward his lap, and she said, "Umm, mister? Something must come to mind."

    "Well," he croaked, "uhh, there is one thing that you could do, uhh, that I've always wanted-"


    "-and my wife won't do it-"


    "-except I doubt I would be able to drive, if you did that."

    Greta smiled, leaned over the center console, and said, "Oh, I think you'll somehow manage."

    "I've never done this," he croaked, as she tugged at his zipper with her teeth. "I could crash."

    "We'll just have to take our chances," said Greta, and unsnapped his wool trousers to afford herself better egress.

    She pulled out his stiffening erection, and rubbed it against her cheek, gratified to observe that he was both circumsized and reasonably clean. The middle-aged man had also achieved just about as rigid an erection as he ever had in his life, which no doubt meant he had been truthful when he had told that this sort of thing had never happened to him before.

    The mister struggled to drive, while Greta attended to him. She never quite went down on him, but she kissed him all over, with her open, 'o' shaped wet mouth, and every once in a while her flax curls would brush against his cock and force him to jut his pelvis up into her face. Greta knew that lots of men had a thing for girls' hair, just as men of a certain sort were sexually attracted to feet. Having made the discovery that this man had most likely pulled over compulsively when he had stopped to pick her up, that he had been drawn to the curb by her hair, and had given her a ride with no expectations whatsoever, she played the knowledge to advantage by wrapping her hair in her own hands, and stroked him with her blonde curls while she kissed the hot purple knob. Her hair, to the man, felt like featherdown upon his cock, and he had to fight back the urge to blast his semen right up into the roof of the car, because he really wanted to go off in her mouth. He groaned repeatedly, from the pit of his gut, but somehow managed to drive.

    Greta did not want to crash and die anymore than he did, so she constrained herself to licking and kissing his hot throbbing phallus, and nuzzling her chin in his pubic hair, until they came to a stop. He had evidently pulled into a parking lot, and Greta supposed, incorrectly, that they must have arrived at a parking lot somewhere on the sprawling Harvard campus, or perhaps in an alley situated off the Square itself.

    She looked up out of his lap, saw nothing but trees, and returned to his warm moist cock. Now that they had stopped, she dropped all restraint, opened her mouth wide, and impaled herself all the way to the back of her throat. She prided herself in being able to take cock past her tonsils, but here in the car she did not have quite the right angle to achieve that. Not that the mister minded. He tenderly stroked her curly blond head and moaned appreciatively. He did talk too much, and he asked far too many questions, but on the whole, he struck Greta as a nice, convivial mister. If Coach Bruno and his assistants had been just a little less nasty, and had been a bit more friendly, Greta might never have been thrown into her present quandary, because she liked to think that, with respect to men and their sometimes perverse affections, she could be capable of impressive tolerance.

    "I'm gonna cum," he warned, between shallow, rapid breaths.

    "I know," Greta mumbled.

    "You're so good at this."

    "I know," she mumbled again.


    She looked up with a puzzled grin and asked, "Mister, don't you want this?"

    "Yes, yes, of course, and you're so good-"


    "And, well, I'm not what I once was, and I don't know if I could do this again today, and well, there's something else that I've always wanted to do."

    Greta closed her eyes and ruefully thought, 'Oh no, here it comes.' Ordinarily she dreaded open propositions from misters, but this guy seemed safe and appreciative enough, and so far he had been so nice, so in spite herself, she heard herself asking, "Yeah? What's that?"

    He said, "I've always wanted to do- what we were just doing- but outside. In a semi-public place. I walk here a lot, in these trees. There are benches on the paths. We could do it here. On one of the benches, under the trees. You could do what you're doing, and I could keep watch."

    On the one hand it sounded rather twisted. On the other hand, this married middle aged man did seem very nice, and not once had he mentioned that he had a daughter, or told her his daughter's name, or asked Greta if he could address her by his daughter's name. Nor had he reached up under her crop top to twist her nipples, or pried down her skirt to rake her labia with his fingernails, or reached down her back to twist the flesh of her buttocks into purple blood blisters. Even now he touched her gently, almost reverentially, like a little boy in the hands of an auntie or a teacher, a little boy besotted by a puppylove crush, who couldn't quite believe that this was happening to him. He seemed like a nice guy, albeit a guy with needs and a lot of pent up fantasies. And since when had that been such a sin?

    "Okay, mister, that sounds like fun. As long as we don't get caught."

    "We'll be careful," he promised.

    He fumbled with himself, struggled to put his desperately erect penis back into his pants. They emerged from the car, and Greta did a bit of a doubletake. From below the dashboard she could only see trees and sky, but she now observed a vast glass, redwood, and brick building nestled among the greenery. The mister led her around the back of the building and down a lawn edged by flowers and Japanese maples.

    "Do you work here, mister?"

    "No. I work at Harvard, which is not far away. About a half mile down Kirkland. I myself live on a street off Kirkland, but I didn't want to park near my house. Given, ahem, what we were doing."

    "Thanks for not taking me to your house, mister."

    He chuckled wryly and informed her, "It's more for my wife's benefit than yours, but you're welcome. Ahh, Goldi, or whatever your name is-"

    "Yeah, mister?"

    "You're just about the prettiest girl - young lady - I've ever been with. I hope I'm not talking too much again."

    She looked up at him and smiled. "I'll let that one slide," she said. "Mister, I have a question of my own. You don't have to answer it."

    "Ask away," he amicably said.

    "You seem very nice. Your wife... is she... nice, too?"

    "Oh! Oh."

    "Sorry, mister."

    "Not at all. Caught me off guard. Yes. She is very nice. And she knows that I sometimes have... needs... that she cannot or will not fulfill. She is okay with that, as long as she doesn't have to see it or know about it."

    "So she would be okay with this?"

    "She doesn't exactly condone it, but she says that she understands. Since she cannot, or will not, help with my needs."

    "Menopause?" Greta speculated.

    "No, no," he chuckled. "Do I really look that old? In actuality, my wife is younger than I am. And I do love her. We are trying to have a first child, in fact. But she is neither as becoming, nor as forthright as you are. And she won't change."

    "And she does not have needs on the side, herself, mister?"

    "Oh, no. She is pleased, and content, just to be married."

    Greta smiled silently at that assertion and thought to herself that this mister, though certainly nice in his pre-ejaculatory phase, had to be just about as moronic as any man that she had ever met.

    They found a bench, tucked away behind a thicket of rhododendrons and tree trunks. The blue sky peeked in on them from just about everywhere in the ceiling of overhanging arbors. Greta nestled up to him and whispered, "Let me do this, mister, before my mouth gets all yucky," and planted her open lips against his. She thrust her tongue into his mouth and felt up and down his rows of teeth, teased his palate, drank and tasted him. He groaned through the protracted kiss, and his hands explored her everywhere.

    "You're so small, and demure, and beautiful."

    "Thanks, mister," she said into his mouth, and went on kissing him in her futile bid to make the awful internal burn go away.

    In the end there was nothing for it. Relief would not come, but it had been a lovely kiss, and he had been just so nice that she just had to return all the nice favors he had given her, so all too soon, she worked her way down his chest while fumbling once again with his zipper. He actively assisted now, as he no longer had to keep his eyes on the road, and soon enough she was bobbing her head up and down on his shaft, and stroking his hot veiny cock. He had a nice one. Nice and big. Not too big, but satisfyingly thick in her mouth. She had to open wide to take it without grazing him with her teeth. She liked big ones, not so small that the guy had too much to prove, and not so big that they hurt. On the whole, this mister really was very nice, and appreciative, which made for a good change, and she really liked the warm, vaguely salty taste of his big fleshy cock.

    At some point after he had soaked her palate with slick precum but had not yet come to the brink of his climax, he urgently tapped on her head, and she came up for air with a slight giggle, and pressed herself against him to conceal his straining erection from a lady who walked by with a golden retriever on a leash, and glared at them disapprovingly. Greta buried her face in the mister's chest and gently stroked up and down on his erection with her small, slender fingers.

    He kissed her golden blond head and urgently whispered, "I really want to cum in your mouth. Please let me."

    "I'll let you, mister, don't worry," she whispered back, and courteously eased up on her grip. The poor man shook upon the brink of his crisis, and had to struggle with herculean effort to hold back his orgasm. The woman with the dog disappeared down the path. Greta dipped her head back down, collected saliva on her mouth, and drenched the proud knob as she bobbed up and down on him again.

    "Ohhh, that's so good," he groaned.

    Greta rapidly stroked the bottom half of his lovely cock, and gently fondled his churning balls, which coiled up and tightened like a spring, in preparation for the impending release into the girl's mouth.

    She knew he was close. She knew exactly how close he was. Greta had done this so many times, for so many men of all ages, to the point that she could anticipate the oncoming male orgasm, almost to the exact instant. She pulled up, and slurped on the head with her tongue, just in time to catch the first blast upon the roof of her mouth, where the hot stream would not choke her. The thick semen painted the roof of her mouth, formed stalactites, and dripped back onto her tongue. Greta savored the salty, pungent, uniquely masculine flavor, and vaguely sensed the brief recession of the ever present burn deep in her abdomen. She gulped and swallowed the powerful spurts of pungent cream. "Mmmmm," she sighed, "mmmmm," and shuddered happily at the sensation of his gentle and grateful hands upon her head. She had made a perfect choice this morning. She had picked a rare, fine, appreciative mister. And she had to shudder, too, with the realization that she could easily have been in that cinderblock athletic director's office, that very moment, suffering under the retribution of Coach Bruno's angry fists. Greta swallowed every drop of the mister's sperm, drank it appreciatively, and he returned her appreciation in kind, by caressing her head, and combing his fingers through her ringlets, until she tucked him back in and finally arose. But she did not zip him back up. She would not put his cock away. She would fondle and tenderly stroke it in his pants, until he made her stop, which at the present time he did not seem inclined to do.

    "You may not believe this, Goldi," he breathlessly confided, "given the amount of gray hair on my head, but that is the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me."

    "I'm glad. And mister? I like gray hair. It gives you a dignified look. Don't ever color it."

    He smiled down at her without comment, no doubt uncertain as to whether he could believe her.

    Greta squeezed his flaccid cock, stroked it slowly, and felt it gradually swell. Even the mister seemed incredulous, and had to look down at himself in order to believe the sensations being conveyed to his brain already.

    "Hmm," mused Greta, "I think he might want more."

    "I would not have thought it possible," the astonished man whispered, "but then again, you are a gorgeous young woman, as I've said already."

    "Yes, you have," she acknowledged, and continued to rub him in his pants. "So, at the rate you're going here, we just might be able to make some more wishes come true. Of course, I'd be happy to take you in my mouth again, sir, unless, of course, there is anything else you've always wanted to do in the woods."

    He gulped and said, "You'd really- I mean, you would? Out here?"

    "Try me," dared Greta.

    He groaned, and one of his hands slipped down to cup and gently fondle the underside of her firm taut ass. He groaned again, and she moaned into his chest. Greta adored having her ass held by a pair of large, gentle, masculine hands. She could feel the man's hunger through his digits as he groped her. She loved that feeling of being viscerally wanted. The mister's erection gradually revived.

    "I should warn you, Goldi, that I do not have any condoms on me."

    "That's not a problem, mister."

    "Oh, so you're on the pill?"

    Greta sighed, and advised him, "You're asking too many questions again, mister."


    "You have entertained me this morning, mister. And for that, I have no choice but to fulfill another one of your wishes."

    'I don't know," said the mister, "too risky."

    She snuggled up to him, and wrapped a leg up over his torso. Her skirt hitched right up, baring her entire thigh, and his hand, which had been exploring the bottom of her skirt all the while, relayed to his shocked brain that she was not wearing panties. He sat up with a jolt upon the discovery.

    "Don't look down," she urged. "Don't spoil it. Just act naturally."

    Greta straddled his legs, draped the front of her white skirt over his lap, and took him out again. He was desperately hard. She reached up and whispered in his ear, "I want this, too. You're ready. Let me get onto you, and you just sit still. I'll take care of you."

    "Goldi," he desperately whispered.

    "Watch for people. I'll do the work."

    She stroked his shaft to full hardness, kneeled up over him, her bottom concealed by the draped skirt, and lowered herself down upon his thick hard cock.

    His entry hurt. Vaginal penetration always hurt Greta, as sure as one breath after another. But his heat and the fullness felt so nice, too. And he had that look on his face, the look of a truly appreciative, sated lover, that look of an astonished little boy, glimmering through the eyes of the old, jaded man. She loved that innocent, abashed little-boy look that some men had. She lowered herself onto him, inhaled sharply at the burn of her descent into her interior, but she bit her lip and continued to sink onto him until he was deeply seated inside of her belly. Greta used her thighs and hamstrings to push herself up and down upon his rigid pole. He simply groaned with blissful abandon through the whole procedure, which ran long, owing to the blowjob he had received not twenty minutes ago.

    "You feel so good inside me," Greta sighed.

    "What do you want me to do when I cum?" he raggedly asked.

    "Whatever comes naturally," Greta replied.

    "No, I mean, should I pull out?"

    "Only if you want to."

    As if. As though he wanted to pull out. Men never wanted to pull out. Give them a choice, and they would go right inside. That's what men were for, after all. That's all men were for, the sum entirety of their reason for existence: to cum right inside. So much fretting and needless expenditure over purpose; while ironically, the preponderance of philosophical, religious, and eschatological hubris throughout history had been perpetrated by curiously myopic and perplexed men. Women understood the one simple job set before men with a visceral certitude that men, themselves, never could. And given the apparent joy with which they devoted themselves to their one alotted task, Greta couldn't for the life of her imagine why it ever left them feeling somehow insufficient and desirous of some higher calling.

    "You're so good," he groaned.

    "You are too," Greta said. Then she added, with a little voice that sounded much younger than eighteen, "Does it feel right inside?"

    He panted, "Right in what way?"

    "My shape. Inside."

    "You're shaped beautifully inside." The last word from the mister turned into a contented sigh.

    Suddenly he stiffened and warned, "Someone coming."

    Greta froze on his lap, with his erect penis deep in her tummy and her skirt draped over their laps, and softly giggled into his neck. "Another old bitty with her doggies?"

    "No, a guy."

    "Let me know when he's gone," she advised, wriggling a bit to seat him deeper in her tummy.

    "Just to warn you- I have a difficult time staying aroused if I'm interrupted like this."

    Greta reached up, kissed his earlobe, and softly exhaled into his ear. He groaned, and she felt him swell in her vagina and stretch her a bit more. She softly laughed and whispered, "You don't seem to have that little problem today."

    "I can't believe this is happening to me," he confided, "because I've never cheated on my wife before."

    Greta thought to herself that, in her opinion, he had cheated on his wife just twenty minutes ago, when he had ejaculated into her mouth, but odds were good that he honestly didn't see it that way. Yet another diehard Clinton fan, she silently grumbled. "Is that stupid dweeb gone yet, mister?"

    "Not quite, but he's not looking this way anymore."

    Greta started to wriggle up and down on him, and the movements of her pelvis became gradually more insistent. She had to strain her hamstrings and buttocks to rise all the way up to the knob of his thick cock. Yes, she thought, a nice big one. She liked big ones best, and it came as a relief to her that he seemed to sincerely enjoy the shape of her tummy inside, despite being rather larger than average.

    She felt him getting close. She could feel him swell and thicken inside of her. She could hear the desperation in his breathing. He urged her to quicken the pace of her rising and falling upon his cock. He palmed her ass and assisted her by lifting her body up and down. His climax approached quickly, much quicker than he was accustomed to. Then she felt it. She felt him shudder powerfully beneath her, and felt the spastic stabbing, punching of his cock up inside her belly, as the spearhead of his manhood thrust its tribute as deep as it could go. The sperm jetted up into her uterus. She couldn't really feel it spurting up into her, but she did feel her interior get all squishy and slippery, and the fresh lubrication made his big thick penis feel all that much nicer inside of her.

    He raggedly said, as he still pulsed inside of her, "I know you think I talk too much, so I won't ask you if you're sure this is okay, cumming into you I mean."

    She giggled into his neck and assured him, "This is absolutely more than okay. You've made my day, mister."

    He looked down at her with a stunned expression that she found rather funny, and he said, "I was about to say exactly that myself. Moreover I think it's been a long, long time since I've made anyone's day. Well, doing this, at any rate."

    "Mister, I have to get up off you, and you're wearing nice trousers."

    He chuckled and said, "Yes, I was rather wondering about that myself, given the fact you have no panties, but I'm trying not to talk too much; I'm afraid I've made you a bit of a mess."

    "Oh, I'm not a mess. I think you've made me feel just about right. Umm, mister, can we sort of stand up together? Then I can slip off you, onto my feet, without making you all dirty."

    He levered himself up off the bench, lifting little Greta as he went, and she slipped off him. He hastily zipped up, bent down, and kissed her upon the head.

    She smiled up at him and said, "That was nice, mister. Thanks for the ride." She honestly had not intended the double entendre, but now she laughed at herself, way ahead of him, apparently. That he didn't get the joke signaled to Greta that he would likely become pensive soon, which was her cue to say goodbye.

    The mister just shook his head in bewilderment, and said, "You've fulfilled my two biggest fantasies this morning, all for a ride to Cambridge. Is there anything at all I could do for you?"

    "Sure. You could tell me which way to Harvard Square."

    "Easy. Walk down this path to the gate, and keep going. You'll hit Kirkland in about a quarter mile. Take a right and keep walking. You can't miss it. I'd escort you, but... well, I have to get my car, and besides, this is my neighborhood."

    "Oh, I understand. So, mister, you really don't work here?"

    "No. I really do work at Harvard. I'm a teacher there. But don't be too impressed by that. I'm only an adjunct professor. I would take tenure just about anywhere at this point, but you don't need to hear about that."

    She smiled and said, "I'm honestly interested. What do you teach?"


    She brightened, "Oh, really? I know a great mathematician. We're friends."

    "Really? Who would that be?"

    "No one you'd know. Very young."

    He chuckled and said, "By any chance would his name be Tao?"

    "No. Who's that?"

    "TerenceTao is thirty-five. He won the Fields Medal this year. That's a very prestigious award."

    "I know. My friend's gonna win it, too. In a few years. But thirty-five sounds pretty old to me."

    "I imagine it would," said the forty-five year old adjunct professor. "So, this friend of yours. How old is he?"

    Could she hear a tinge of jealousy? Well, it would not have been surprising, not five minutes after having deposited loads of warm sperm in her mouth and belly. She could feel it seeping down her thighs, and the sensation made her indecently self-satisfied. She also quietly chuckled at the assumption he had made, that the young mathematician whom she had in mind must have been male.

    "He's a she, mister."

    "Oh? Well, that narrows the field considerably, if you'll pardon the pun. There are not too many female Fields Medal candidates - Larry Summers' recent ouster notwithstanding."

    Greta had no idea what he was talking about, and said so.

    "Summers was the university president. Recently fired for the offense of making essentially the same observation of fact."

    Greta laughed and dismissively said, "Well, he should have known better. My mathematician friend has been known to say that the truth seldom ever does more good than harm."

    "I suspect she's right about that. Do tell, try me. I'm sure I must have heard of her."

    "Jessica Elizabeth Turner."

    His mouth dropped open, and he swore for the first time that morning. "You're shitting me."

    Greta giggled and shook her head.

    "Do you know her, or just know of her?"

    "Best friends. Or so she tells me."

    "She's thirteen."

    "No. Fourteen. As of this past Sunday. I attended her birthday party."

    "And you're... eighteen?"

    "You're asking a lot of questions again, mister."

    "Listen," he said, persistently ignoring her exhortations to caution, "Are you sure I can't give you a few bucks?"

    "Mister, you're still talking too much. If you're not careful, I just might return the favor."

    He grimaced and conceded, "Okay. I've earned that. Hit me. What's on your mind?"

    Greta took a deep breath and said, "You told me, earlier, that you and your wife love each other, and that you are trying to make a baby."

    He nodded, with an expression that told her that he dreaded whatever was coming.

    "Well, mister, just so you know, if you're trying to have a baby with your wife? That stuff we just did? Not advisable. It's generally better to store it up, and save it for her."

    He set his teeth in that grimace. She set her teeth, too, and waited for the vindictive rage. It did not come.

    He took out his wallet. "Just a few bucks. Not to pay you. Just to help you safely back home, wherever that is."

    "No. Really. You're so sweet, but absolutely not. Besides, I have money of my own, back here," she explained, patting her knapsack.

    He frowned, honestly perplexed, and asked, "If you have money, why were you hitchhiking this morning?"

    She smiled at him and replied, "I should think it would be obvious. I was thirsty."

    "Right." He kissed her once more, said goodbye, and started to walk away.

    Then he turned, his expression full of skepticism. "Tell me something about her. Your friend, I mean. Something you would not have been able to find on Wikipedia."

    Greta looked back at the anonymous mister and said the very first thing that came to mind. "She's engaged."'

    "Engaged?" he stammered, "Engaged in what way?"

    "How many ways are there? Bye, mister. And thanks again."

    Little did Greta know, as she walked away, that with those casual parting words, she accomplished what Bethany Frazier had not: she inadvertently spilled one of the many secrets between her best friend, Jessica Turner, and Nelson Spencer. That very afternoon, the mister from the park logged onto Wikipedia, found the entry on Jessica Elizabeth Turner, and reported to the world that the recently turned fourteen year old was engaged to be wed. Wikipedia, true to its ever high standards of veracity, allowed the unsubstantiated bit of hearsay to stand.

    Greta walked down Kirkland Street, and felt herself leaking all the way. The sensation of sperm seeping down her legs gave her an indecent thrill.

    She turned left at the Science Center, crossed through Harvard Yard, and emerged in the heart of the Square to be immediately accosted by a strident pan-handler bearing a filthy bit of fishwrap which, he insisted, contained all the vital news of the day.

    "Hello young lady; hello there; you're a fine little Goldilocks."

    "I know."

    "Spare change for the homeless?"

    "No money," lied Greta, and it sounded like a lie, to herself as well as to the panhandler, since she had first wanted to blurt out, "impecunious," and had nearly stuttered. Goldilocks never uttered words of that sort, yet her diary was replete with them.

    She strode past him, walked not quite fifteen feet, and stopped. A weatherbeaten man in a straw hat bent over a newspaper that he had draped over a chessboard. From the edge of the table had been taped an equally weatherbeaten sign that said, "Play the Chessmaster. Two minutes, $2.00."

    "Are you really the chess master?"

    "That's the rumor."

    "I'm Goldilocks."

    "So I've heard. Want to play?"


    "Have a seat."

    Greta sat down, and dug out ten dollars.

    "Put that away. You only pay if you lose."

    She gave him a withering look, handed him the money, which he anchored under the chess clock, and they played for ten minutes.

    He pocketed the money. Greta had had so much fun, while playing chess and leaking the Harvard professor's sperm onto her seat without a single word between them, that she gave him a two dollar tip. That moment, perhaps due to her reflection on all the fun she had had that morning, it occurred to her that the iPhone in her knapsack had not rung once since she had left the house. Christopher had not called. Thank God she had not stayed home alone that morning. Suddenly she found herself cross with no one in particular.

    She thanked the chess master, stood up, and walked straight into the panhandler again, who had spied her clash of wills with the Chessmaster and now accused, "Young lady, I thought you had no money."

    "I rounded down, to the nearest thousand. Get the fuck out of my way, simian."

    He had frozen solid, his brain no doubt locked in deep concentration.

    Greta edged around the primate, wormed through a throng of morning indigents, and spent the rest of her money on fresh squeezed orange juice and almond croissants. She took the food to a table under stunted trees, dug out her diary, and scrawled a diminutive entry.

    From Greta's diary.


    r k b Q K b k r
    p p p p p p p p
    w w w w w w w w
    w w w w w w w w
    w w w w w w w w
    w w w w w w w w
    p p p p p p p p
    r k b Q K b k r

    The entry gave her a sudden idea as to how she might codify the lullaby of Nelson and Jessica in her diary as well, and lost herself in rumination as to how that might be accomplished, while idly nibbling at the almond croissants, and enjoying the sensation of thick sperm oozing down the backs of her thighs.

    A shadow fell over Greta's diary. She glanced across the plastic tray and orange juice to see four pairs of legs. She looked up. The shadow that had crossed her table emanated from a gorgeous six foot two slice of tanned, peroxide blonde boycake that wore a shirt with the words:


    Greta tried not to grin. She took a deep breath, picked up an almond croissant, and took a bite, while observing the bodies of the four lovely college boys who surrounded her. She swallowed, brushed the buttery croissant flakes off her lips, and looked up. Their faces were as sculpted and pretty as their bodies.

    "Hi," she said. "Can I help you?"

    A beautiful specimen with lovely babysmooth milk chocolate skin said, "You called that salesman a simian," he said, gesturing toward the panhandler who persisted in accosting passersby on the sidewalk.

    Greta picked up her freshly squeezed orange juice, took a sip, and indifferently asked, "Who? The pigeon?"

    "The what?"

    "Sorry, whoever you are. I don't feed the birds. Why don't you fuck off and join him? Just go form a mutual adoration society and suck each other's affirmative action dicks, so I can get back to my breakfast."

    She had not whispered the suggestion. A nearby mother and father abruptly snatched their little prince and ran for cover.

    The enraged Nubian beauty looked so inordinately beautiful in his umbrage, that she just looked up at him, simply entranced, as he prepared to leap over the table, when one of his three compatriots took him by the shoulder and suggested, "Hey, hey, let's all back up. Listen," he said to Greta, "we don't want a fight."

    "Yeah? What do you want?"

    "We just came over to say hi."

    "Huh. Well, you really need to work on that, because you failed to communicate."

    The first one who had spoken, the malevolent dusky-hued god, stomped off, evidently infuriated. The other three called out their orders - he must have been heading toward the counter - and he demanded that someone help him. One of the remaining three joined him. And then there were two. Greta gestured to a couple wire framed steel chairs.

    She absently asked, as she wrote words onto the open page of her little black book, "Is he gonna come back?"

    "Inevitably," one of the remaining two beauties conceded.

    "Is he gonna calm down and let me eat my breakfast?"

    "Yeah, he's gotten it out of his system."

    She didn't bother asking what had been eating the guy, nor did she pretend to understand it, nor did she care either way. She took another sip of orange juice, finished jotting a sentence that even she could not read, looked up with a smile, and capped her pen. The two college boys watched her every move.

    She sweetly suggested, "So, you were gonna say hi."

    He chuckled and said, "Hi. What are you so busy with there?"

    "My diary."

    "Rather exposed place for a diary, isn't it?"

    She shrugged and said, "Wanna read it? Be my guest."

    The guy, to his credit, made no attempt to take it.

    Greta asked, merely out of idle curiosity, "Labor Day's next week, so it's still summer for most of us. What are you guys doing here?"

    "Varsity football camp."

    Greta sat back in her seat, genuinely impressed, but she stifled it and asked, "What are you doing here, bugging me, then? Why aren't you down at Soldiers Field?"

    "Break. Weight training at four AM, breakfast, and a 10K jog down Memorial Drive and back by Tremont. Now we have three hours off. Scrimmage this afternoon."

    "Cool," said Greta. Lucky me, she thought. "My brother plays football."

    "Yeah? Crimson?"

    "No, no. He's my baby brother. Local boy. Varsity sophomore, for the Winchester Fighting Sachems."

    Both of the Harvard boys nodded appreciatively, and their little gears were obviously churning, which the other one presently betrayed by saying, "So, he's your baby brother?"


    "You could pass for thirteen."

    "Thanks, I think."

    She pulled her knapsack over her shoulder and stowed her diary and pen. She glanced wistfully at her iPhone, which had not rung. She played her game of destiny just one more time. She would wait ten seconds for Christopher to call. Then she would conspire to get herself gangbanged by four beautiful Harvard Crimson upperclassmen, and the violations she suffered would be all Christopher's fault.

    ....four, three, two, one, zero. Time to get herself worked on, thanks to dearest Christopher.

    Greta reached into her bag, muted the iPhone, and shrugged the knapsack back onto her shoulder. They watched every move.

    The first remarked, "You're a beautiful... woman."

    "Thanks. So, all work and no play so far this season, eh?"

    "Is it that obvious?"

    "Yeah. It is. You guys all freshmen?" Of course she knew they could not be freshmen, if they had been truthful about being varsity players.

    Both of them laughed at the question, and conceded her conclusion to have been a reasonable one for her to have drawn, considering how hard up they evidently were, and one said, "Juniors, in fact, for the most part. Except for the black panther. He's a senior."

    Wow. Juniors and seniors. Four of them, and all beautiful. Even the one with the chip on his shoulder, who wanted to pound her into mincemeat for some unforgivable offense having to do with an inconsequential simian pigeon - he was beautiful, too, perhaps the prettiest of all. She had been entranced by the deeply creased shadows of counterposed musculature as the wrathful godling had struggled to master his compulsion to beat and kick her into the dirt. Yet, the beautifully tanned, blonde warrior who now spoke to her, the one with the Thayer Hall tee shirt, had a chest of sheer angular stone, as tall, broad and indomitable as the Cliffs of Mohr. Dear Jesus, she wanted them all so badly that she couldn't decide. Maybe, with luck, she could have them all, if she could convince them to forget their manners, and all the crap their mommies had ever told them about respect for women, and all the inconsequential nothings their Daddies had taught them about being nice to girls. Maybe she liked the giant tanned blond the most. She couldn't decide. She pursed her lips and preened her golden curls.

    "Is that friend of yours, the senior, gonna chill, or do I have to tell all four of you to fuck off and find another table?"

    "He'll chill. Don't sweat it. Let us handle him. So, what's your name?"


    They cracked up. She just munched on an almond croissant and watched them.

    Presently the other two returned, and pulled up chairs. Greta took her tray off the table and set it on her lap, to make room for the mountain of food that they had procured.

    The one with the chip on his shoulder immediately started up again. "Look. I just have to get this out there."

    The nice one, the one that Greta liked and wanted and lusted for the most, advised, "No, you don't."

    "Yes, Luke, I do."

    "No. You don't."

    So, the tanned blond beach bum, the one with the Thayer Hall shirt, went by the name of Luke. She wondered whether she would learn all four of their names, and decided that she would make a game of it, if they would let her, which she now endeavored to ascertain.

    Greta did a bold thing. She put a small, gentle hand on Luke's forearm, looked up at the angry one, the one they had characterized as a black panther, and asked, "Out of curiosity. Have you ever actually read that rag the panhandler's shilling? I mean, really. I know you've bought it. We all have. After all, he is rather charming, with that sidewalk schtick of his. Most pigeons are fluffy and cute from the front, before you get a good look at all the matted feathers around their assholes. But have you sat down and read it?"

    "Yeah, sure I have," he said.

    "Bullshit. Because if you ever had, you'd know yourself that it's not even fit for starting a log fire. It's semiliterate, ungrammatical, typo ridden tripe. And if that dipshit had ever read it himself, and had half a brain, his own conscience would have throttled him to death by now, for pacing that sidewalk day after day trying to ram it down unsuspecting peoples' throats."

    "None of that has anything to do with my point."

    Greta sniffed and said, "I don't give a fuck about your point. He's either a simian, or he has no conscience, irrespective of color. And you know it. Listen, I'm sorry that filthy nigger happens to be a brother. I honestly wish he were just some dumbass cracker, so you wouldn't have your back up, because I like you a lot and I wish we could get along, so maybe we can get together, and I can let you vent your fury more productively." She held out her hand and demanded, "Shake."

    The beautiful and erudite mahagony hued Harvard senior scowled at her proferred hand.

    Greta sighed, hand still out, and declared, "I think you're beautiful. All four of you. And I want you. All four of you. Last chance, before I scream rape at the top of my lungs."

    Two of the other guys shoved him. Hard. The enraged senior took Greta's hand as though he were catching cooties.

    She bent forward across the table and kissed his hand. "Thank-you, sir," said Greta. "I won't apologize for giving offense. Your rage is beautiful. Eat. You're gonna need it."

    For the remainder of breakfast, all four of them mercifully confined their discourse to football. Greta honestly tried to join in, but for one thing, they had bought her a chocolate croissant and another orange juice, and for another thing, not one of the four had showered since their ten kilometer run, and the pervading essence of testosterone and sweat made her want to swoon. Having moved past the initial unpleasantness, the four football players comported themselves more competently than the adjunct professor with whom she had played earlier that morning. Not once did they ask Greta about her age, or her preference as to prophylactics, or whether it would matter, in the near future, that collectively they could not have scraped fifty dollars together.

    Now Greta sat crosslegged upon the steel chair, no doubt marking up her bare moist bum with a pattern of diamond-shaped blotches to match the perforations cut into the seat, and she leaned back against the beautiful angry one, who reached right around her slender waist and fondled her thigh, having evidently forgiven her indecent political incorrectness.

    Given the way she leaned back against him, her blouse opened and draped back, fully revealing the transcription that she had copied onto her white crop-top that morning. The other pretty one, the tanned, windswept beachboy, Luke, now did a doubletake and remarked, "What's with your shirt? Is that a song lyric, or something?"

    "No. It's an excerpt from page two hundred eighty-eight of my diary."

    The three facing Harvard boys gaped, and the one behind her contorted his head and torso to wrap himself around her and get a look.

    One of them said, "That must be one hell of a diary."

    "My heart and soul, hidden in plain view. In any event, it does get boys' attention, hmm?"

    "Fuck yeah."

    From Greta's diary.

    kiss me hold me feel me grope me
    hurt me kick me beat me rape me

    "What's the punchline?" asked Luke.

    "My diary doesn't have a punchline."

    "Why not?"

    Greta shrugged and said, "If it had a point at all, I don't suppose it would be reflective of me."

    One of the other guys said, "You're not quite as dumb as you let on, are you?"

    For a reply, she pretended to yawn, and arched her back, intentionally tenting her nipples in the crop top, and asked, "Would it matter either way?"

    "No," the beautiful piece of boycake replied, "I don't suppose it would."

    Luke said, "Goldi, we're not quite stupid enough to ask you how old you are. But, just to lay down a few ground rules, if there's anything you're not up for, now's a good time to tell us."

    Greta replied, "A couple minutes ago I said I really liked you guys. Are you trying to change my mind?"


    "Then shut up and finish eating."

    They wrapped up breakfast, and strolled as a group down JFK Avenue, toward the Charles River and Soldiers Field. Luke remarked that they still had two hours to kill before the resumption of football practice, and that their dormitory, Thayer Hall, just so happened to be on the way.

    Not exactly subtle.

    "Yes, please," said Greta, in response to his unarticulated question.

    The four beautiful Harvard boys took her in through a side door, which they opened with a key card. They led her through a game room with foosball, billiards, and ping pong tables; past an open laundry in which unattended machines chugged along, and up several flights of stairs. They formed a possessive cordon, the shortest of the four topping out at well over six feet, with little five-foot-one, eighty-five pound Greta in the center. Two pairs of hands stroked her bare slender legs from behind as they walked. The hands tickled up her thighs, but she allowed them to grope her, and resisted her urge to flinch childishly at the persistent tickling, concentrating upon the hammering rhythm of her heart to distract herself. A pair of hands moved higher. She stopped and trembled on a carpeted stairwell landing, and leaned against Luke, panting, as the fingers explored between her legs.

    "Holy shit," one of the intrepid Harvard men gasped, "she's not wearing panties."

    "No way," said another, and explored, too. "She's so wet," he observed.

    "Can't help it," gasped Greta.

    A thick rough finger pried into her moist slit and burrowed all the way up into her tummy. She wished the finger were thicker.

    The African American beauty's hands crept up her bare flat torso, fondled her ribs, and then crept up under her loose crop top with no subtlety to latch on her stiff little nipples. Greta's fingers clenched upon his jersey, and he chuckled as the girl nearly fell into him.

    "Pinch them harder," she whispered.

    "Shit," he replied.

    "Twist them, sir. Make them hurt. Punish me for all those awful things I said about the poor misunderstood homeless man."

    Before he could comply, Luke urgently said, "Let's get her back to the suite."

    Greta felt herself being lifted right up off the floor by four pairs of hands that possessed every erogenous zone simultaneously, and she drifted into a zone herself, wherein she no longer cared about anything that would happen to her.

    They would eventually make it to the suite, but not before a protracted detour.

    She felt not only four hands, but four mouths as well, all over her body, as she was carried into a room of echoing tile. One of the Harvard men asked why they were carrying her into the shower, and she heard her Nubian godling chuckle, "She's leaking more than girljuice, and I for one am not into sloppy seconds." Greta could not help but be impressed with his observation. Most guys couldn't tell the difference between one form of wetness and the other.

    All four had a laugh at that, and Luke taunted, "Had a fun morning already, eh, Goldi?"

    "That's from last night," she murmured.

    "Yeah, sure it is."

    She heard the shower go on, and hot mist filled the air. Hands let go of her in shifts, while they took turns stripping naked, but her own feet never once touched the floor. One of them unceremoniously tugged her white skirt, which by now had become quite soggy, down her hips, and it dropped off her hiking shoes, leaving her naked from the open blouse to her socks. They tried to get her blouse and croptop off, but gave up on the straps of her knapsack, and just left the rest of her clothes on.

    Now all four men were stark naked, and Greta found herself both surrounded and constricted by virile musculature that gripped, prodded, squeezed her from every direction. They pulled her under the how water, and her croptop and blouse instantly turned transparent and clung to her slender ribcage. Two sets of fingers pulled her upper and lower jaw in opposite directions, and all four laughed as one of them emptied the contents of a liquid soap dispenser into her mouth. Greta choked, and her eyes filled with tears.

    "Gargle it," the Nubian godling commanded. "Blow bubbles! Come on, wash out that filthy mouth of yours!"

    She coughed most of it out, but then they lifted her right up under the shower head and forced the full blast of the spray right into her open mouth. Greta wept, coughed, and vomited hot soapy water.

    "Fuck," one laughed, "we're gonna drown her!"

    "That'd be no fun," said Luke.

    After a moment of debate, they agreed to kill two birds with one stone; they drained the scalding water out of her lungs by upending her to blast the shower stream into her cunt. All four sets of hands forced her pelvis right up onto the showerhead. They unintentionally kneed her repeatedly in the breasts and face. The blows hurt no less for being unintended. She tried to fight them off, but a single hand gripped both her wrists and squeezed tightly to restrain her. They blasted the steaming spray straight into her vagina until it shot up out of her belly like a fountain. Then the four pairs of hands pulled her forcibly off the shower head and dropped her to her feet, where she promptly collapsed like a drowned rat.

    "Get up and clean us," said Luke. He dropped a bar of soap and a face cloth on Greta's chest and told her, again, to get her ass off the floor.

    Greta picked up the soap and face cloth, and began with him. She started with his broad chest and underarms, soaped and scrubbed him, while he held his arms over his head to give her access to his entire torso. She worked down to his hips, and each leg, all the way to his toes, which she kissed. All the while, hands groped and pawed her everywhere. She worked her way back up to his dangling scrotum and erect cock, which she attentively cleaned with her mouth. She felt someone's cock behind her, rubbing back and forth in her hair. Another one joined the first, on the opposite side of her head. She moved to another guy, and repeated the whole procedure, until she reached his hips, where her eyes widened with alarm. This guy - she couldn't be sure which one - had a really big cock. Not much longer than the others, but certainly much thicker than average, as wide around as her forearm. She skipped his legs and feet and went right to his beautiful erection, and he didn't mind in the least.

    "Hey Mikey, I think she likes it," said Luke.

    The African American said, "Some guys are born with all the luck," and the other two agreed. What was it with men and penis size? Greta supposed it must be just another one of those meaningless and arbitrary measures, yet another way for them to make excuses for themselves, should misfortune befall them. When all else failed, the resourceful failures could always blame their sub-par dicks for their lots in life. In her opinion, all four of these glorious Harvard men were beautiful from head to toe, their gorgeous erections especially, and she felt drunk with her fortune and enrichment, merely from being here at their mercy. She attended to each one, and was further gratified to observe that not one of them were hairtrigger guys. All four were massively erect, and handling that state with aplomb. She wanted desperately to get on with it, and feel them inside of her, either individually or in combination.

    "Guys," she croaked, her mouth still clogged with soap, "can we, like, move this party? So you lummoxes don't smash my skull on the tiles?"

    The men agreed that it would be a good idea to make their way to the suite. One of them shut the shower off, and they agreed to dry themselves off, since they would waste valuable time by making Greta do it. They did not bother to hand her a towel. Instead, Luke presented his hard dick to her mouth, and she suckled him thirstily, the sight of which persuaded them to remain drenched. Suddenly she found herself upended again, more or less horizontally, and the naked, dripping men carried her out of the bathroom and down the drafty hall. Greta vaguely saw aged walnut wainscoting and brick pass by her view, and then she was taken through a door, into a large carpeted room with plenty of light washing in from open doors along two walls. This must have been a corner suite. They set her down on the floor, and they bickered over which mattresses to drag out into the center of the suite, and apparently decided to raid one of the as yet unoccupied beds. Two of the men came out with a mattress each, and they laid them on the floor side by side.
    Then they tossed Greta onto the mattresses, and jumped her from four different directions simultaneously.

    "Go easy," she gasped, as the one closest to her posterior immediately wrenched her thighs apart and drove himself into her belly sideways.

    There was more bickering, and a few moments later, the African American came out of a room with a jar of vaseline. She kissed him impulsively, all over, until he took the hint and offered his mouth to hers. She thrust her tongue into his mouth, wrapped her arms around his head, and thanked him repeatedly for his consideration, while one of the other guys used the vaseline to lube her up.

    "You're not all bad, Goldilocks," he said.

    She kissed her beautiful Nubian godling all over his face, and nuzzled her face against his. His facial hair did not feel scratchy. He wore a close-cropped, well groomed beard that felt soft and curly, as opposed to the sharp razor stubble of the other three. She nuzzled him contentedly as someone else gripped and twisted her breasts, an experience from which she managed to temporarily disassociate herself, so that she could hold a brief yet coherent discussion. She breathlessly murmured, "Try not to persecute me for my upbringing. I can't help having redneck parents."

    He chuckled and said, "You're a piece of work, Goldi."

    "What's your name?" she asked with a sharp gasp, as one of the other guys burrowed into her slick, lubricated vagina.


    "Nice name," she said, knowing it had to be his real name.

    "Thanks," said Nathan. "Say. Honestly. You a student here?"

    "Here as in Harvard?" she asked, comically struggling to maintain a conversation while being pounded in the cunt by someone and having her nipples pinched and twisted by someone else.


    "That's a hell of a compliment, Nathan. No. I've applied, though. High school. Cambridge Ringe and Latin."

    One of the guys interjected, "You said you were from Winchester."

    "Parents are divorced, and Dad's not allowed to see me, after all the twisted things he's done to me. That's why I am the way I am."


    On reflection, Greta did not want these Harvard boys making field trips to stalk her at Winchester High. Her crude attempt at subterfuge had struck even her as lame, and she doubted they would buy it.

    Luke, who had been suckling one of her nipples, with his face half under her croptop, said, "So you are underage, and we're fucked."

    Greta chuckled, moaned, and whispered, "Senior. Seventeen and ten months. Just round up. I do."

    And they bought it, at least as far as her age went. Of course they bought it. She had a cock deeply embedded in her vagina; she had Nathan's ebony knob prodding at her tonsils, and she worked on the remaining two with her hands. These four had progressed way past the point where they could have used their heads. The four men traded places, played a game of musical chairs, for the next two hours.

    The big one asked her if she liked cock up the ass, and she murmured, "Whatever you want." He thrust his middle finger into the jar of vaseline, and the guy who was fucking her rolled her up on top of him. She straddled his torso, and rode on him, kissing his chest and pushing her narrow boney ass up into the air. Then she felt the intense stretching pressure of the lubed finger thrusting into her anus, and she softly cried into the chest of the guy below her.

    "Hey, dude," Nathan advised, "don't hurt her."

    "She said she wants it."

    "Whatever. She's not entirely with it, in case you haven't noticed. Just take it easy, so we don't regret this later."

    Greta whispered to him, "Thanks." She didn't think Nathan had heard him. Nathan, of all people, had reined the big guy in and spared her what would have been a rough bout of sodomy.

    The finger came out. They continued to take turns in her belly, until a couple of them apparently became imaginative. She felt a couple fingers thrust into her stretched vagina along with the plunging cock. Then she felt the fingers come out, and a second guy tried to mount her from above. Greta nearly swooned. She had never taken two boys into her vagina simultaneously before. She was scared that they might hurt her, but on the other hand she wanted them to try, and hoped that they could succeed.

    "Yessss," Greta moaned, "do it, shove them both in!"

    Nathan held her steady by the hips. The man beneath her shoved in hard, grinding himself up against the burning center of her cervix, and she groaned with the force of the assault. Then the man above her used his powerful legs to pry and bash his shaft in with the other cock. All four men took part in the double rape, two by impaling her, and the other two by holding her steady. Then the one with the thick cock shoved his thick knob ather lips as she gasped, and rammed himself into the back of her throat. Suddenly the girl realized she was being bashed to mush by three cocks and six hundred pounds of varsity muscle. She reached out for Nathan, and vigorously stroked him with two hands. That made four.

    Although they used her roughly, they never lost control, and they took turns. In fact, she had to be impressed with their ability to play cooperatively. So effective at trading off were the four men that she never once took an ejaculation in her mouth. She took all nine copious loads of hot potent sperm straight into her tummy, and in the process they pounded each others' semen into foamy whipped cream. Hands never left her breasts. Sometimes those hands pinched and twisted, but for the most part the hands just gripped and squeezed in such a way as to quicken her breathing and heat her up around their thrusting erections.

    The four men traded off in her cunt, one after another, until they had only fifteen minutes to throw their clothes on and sprint the two blocks down to Soldiers Field for their afternoon scrimmage. With just minutes remaining before the end of the party, Greta followed them into the men's room, with a pronounced limp, and washed her face while they tossed their clothes back on.

    Luke said, "Fucking Friday night, and this party's ending far too soon."

    "I could hang out," Greta offered.

    Nathan said, "We won't be back until dinnertime."

    "Bring food back," she suggested. "Get me a salad or something. And something to drink, too. I'm really thirsty."

    "You'll really hang out here for the next five hours, just to get ganged again later?"

    Greta shrugged and said, "I'm having a good time. I like you guys."

    Nathan scoffed, "You're gonna bolt the second we leave, Goldi, who do you think you're shitting?"

    She sidled up to him, in her transparent crop top, naked and dripping sour dollops of thick cum from her thighs, and kissed his chest. He grabbed her ass and squeezed.

    "If you're concerned that I'll trash the place or run off, you could always tie me up until you get back."

    "Holy fuck."

    The guy with the big dick, the one who had really given her abdomen a workout, said, "You'd really let us do that?"

    "Sure. Not too tight. I want to keep my limbs. But yeah. You can even make it uncomfortable for me. You know, contort me, so I can't wait for you to get back and untie me. Then, when you do untie me tonight, I'll be extra appreciative."

    Not one of the four could respond coherently to that proposition.

    "Just let me use the bathroom first. And you gotta promise you'll bring food and stuff. I'll be starving by then."

    Greta did her business, and then they trundled her back into the room. They lost more precious time, bickering over how to tie her. Luke suggested tying her upside-down by her ankles, off a top bunk, but they agreed they should not suspend her off the floor for six hours, because they could really hurt her badly if they didn't tie her correctly. In the end, they tore a sheet into strips. They tied her wrists behind her back, made her lay on her stomach at the foot of a bed, and then pulled her legs back up into the air, and tied her ankles securely to the footboard, forcing her spine into an acute arch. Greta panicked for a moment, with the worry that they might discover the box cutters that she had stuffed into her hiking shoes that morning, but the shower had drenched her shoes and socks, like everything else. Her socks clung to her shins like a second skin, and held the box cutters snugly against her ankles. The guys tied the strips tightly around the high tops of the boots, binding the box cutters securely inside.

    Luke enjoyed the effect of her straining torso so much that he looped another strip around her neck and pulled it back to pull her neck and head up into the air. He tied the strip off on the top beam of the footboard, until no part of her body touched the carpet but her lower tummy and the bones of her pelvis.

    "Can you still breathe?" asked Nathan.

    "Yes... hurts..." she gasped.

    Luke chuckled, balled up another strip, stuffed it into her mouth, and then tied a final strip tightly around her jaw and neck to hold the improvised gag in her mouth.

    A couple of the beautiful Harvard men expressed concern that she might choke to death in her absence, if they left her suspended like that, but Luke clapped them on the shoulders and said, "Come on, we have two minutes to get back to the field house."

    They shut the door behind them, and she heard a key rotate the lock tumblers. Then Greta was alone, with her pelvis and belly on the carpeted floor, her ankles tied up in the air behind her, and her neck and arms tied back so tightly behind her that her spine was bent back into a bow. They had left the crop top pulled up around her neck, so she would give a view of her aching little breasts to the first man to open the door. She also felt nine loads of sperm draining out of her vagina and out onto the carpet beneath her, where the creamy goop started to puddle. Her ankles and wrists hurt. Her back hurt. She had difficulty breathing, with the fat wad of cotton tied tightly into her mouth. It hurt to crane her neck back toward the bed, but if she let her neck droop forward, she choked on the strip of cloth that they had tied around her neck. Not a minute had passed, and already she wished someone would come and release her. She had told the four men that they could tie her tightly until they returned, and even contort her body a bit to make it uncomfortable. She had not counted on their doing quite this effective a job. She could not move a single muscle without feeling intense pain in her neck and spine. Already her legs were beginning to cramp painfully, and she couldn't stretch her contricted limbs to relieve the ache. She experimented with various ways to adjust her posture, but nothing improved the strain on her spine. Then she realized, at the outer limits of her endurance, that if she could only lift her arms up and back far enough to get a grip around the strips that they had used to pull her neck back toward the footboard, she might be able to hoist herself up and back to pull herself upright on her knees. From that point, she might be able to untie the strips around her neck.

    In the end she abandoned the idea, for two reasons. First, if her hands slipped, halfway up, she would fall forward and most likely choke herself to death on the bindings around her neck. Second, if by some stroke of luck she succeeded, and they came in five minutes later to find her laying comfortably on the bed, they would be disappointed. No doubt they were aroused just by knowing that Goldi awaited, tightly bound, back in their dorm room. Those guys - Nathan, Luke, and the other two, whatever their names were - must have been going crazy on the gridiron that moment, ripping their adversaries to pieces, just with the anticipation of the party that awaited them. She imagined they would get rougher with her on the second round. She did not imagine for a moment that she would make it out of this dorm room without having her mouth and ass used as roughly as her cunt had been used that afternoon, but she also knew that, by nine or ten o'clock, she wouldn't care in the least. She would be so grateful just to be released from her restraints that she would pull her asshole open for them herself.

    The guys had left her with one small mercy: they did not leave her with a view of a clock. A second hand, in view of her eyes, would have been an intolerable torture. As it was, she gradually became attuned to the agonizingly slow movement of light and shadows across the floor, but she had to be paying attention in order to perceive them. Fortunately she had other distractions.

    They had carried her into the shower still wearing her hiking boots, socks, croptop, blouse, and knapsack. The boots and socks felt clammy, but it was just as well; if her socks had dried out, the box cutters would have fallen out of them by now. These guys seemed innocuous enough; she might even have gone so far as to say that they were fun, although the jury was still out. They hadn't popped any beer cans yet, and they might transform themselves into angry drunks later on. Still, if the cutters fell out onto the floor, the guys just might get creative with them. She didn't think they would go so far as to slash her. They did not strike her as being wantonly cruel. But they might get the notion to slice strategically placed slits and holes into her clothes, and she did still have to get home somehow, at some point. It would be hard to move through the city with ripped and torn clothes; she was half-naked already. She had snuck home naked from the Winchester pond a few times, once out of necessity, and two other times for the cheap thrill, the danger of possibly being caught naked in public. She had walked the mile-long distance from the pond to her house in a constant state of peril. The fifteen mile odyssey home from Harvard Square would have been something else again. Greta might have kicked herself, had she been able. She couldn't believe it, but the mere possibility of being forced to walk home naked from this place, God help her, actually aroused her.

    Her recollection of the shower, and being upended in the stall to be doused in the cunt and mouth, brought to mind the white skirt. She had no clear idea of what had become of it. She had been naked, from the waist down, for the past three hours. The guys must have left her skirt in the men's room. She doubted she would ever see it again. She tried to imagine being forced to walk home like this, wearing just her crop top and blouse, with her ass and cunt on public display. She wondered how far she would be able to progress before other pairs of hands dragged her into an alley or an apartment to be raped repeatedly all weekend.

    Greta's hands felt numb, and she could no longer feel her feet at all. She wondered how long she had been left here, so far. At first, she had half hoped that one of them would come back, release her, and tell her that they had only been joking about leaving her tightly bound and contorted until dinnertime, but she had long since abandoned that hope. She occasionally heard muffled sounds of opening and closing doors, sounds that were conducted by the old oak rafters and masonry, but the noises were faint and distant. No one would return for her, and certainly no one would stumble upon her accidentally. Obviously Thayer Hall had a very low occupancy this week, because school had not yet started. Only the varsity athletes were on campus this week, and most of them at the moment were attending team practices out on Soldiers Field. She would have to stay here, try to put the aches and cramps out of her mind, try to ignore the indignant protests of her strained spinal cord, try to abandon hope that someone would take pity and come to release her. No doubt her predicament amused them, and made them hard, and recharged their balls for round two.

    Eventually, she presumed, they would release her, and she would have to find her way home. Luckily she had packed the pink tap pants in her knapsack. The were tiny, stretchy little things with leg holes at crotch level, so as to expose the bottom half of her ass. God would she ever look like a whore in those. Well, she would have no trouble hitching a ride. The trick would be ending the ride in one piece, somewhere in the vicinity of her intended destination.

    The guy with the thick cock had shoved his whole middle finger up her asshole. He had actually asked her, in advance of the intrusion, whether she wanted his cock up the ass, and she recalled having said something to the effect of, "anything you want." Idiot. The last thing she needed was a ripped, bloody rectum. She had already been assfucked rather badly last weekend on the pond, less than a week ago, and she hadn't healed. Another round tonight, on top of those recent wounds, would do a number on her. Yet she had acquiesced without hesitation and served her butthole up on a platter to four muscled, steroid pumped college jocks. When would she ever learn? If one used her that way, all four of them would want it. They would tear her to pieces. Luckily, Nathan had pulled the first guy back, but she doubted she would be so lucky later on, after they had recharged their testosterone in the scrimmage and guzzled a couple beers each. She castigated herself, into her gag, "Goldi, Goldi, Goldi. When will you ever learn?" She answered her own question silently: she didn't think she ever would. The act of sex hurt her, and the submission humiliated her, but she couldn't kick the thrill that she derived from subjugating herself and placing herself at the mercy of men who could use her, with impunity, any way they pleased.

    She had a thing or two to be thankful for, oddly enough, apart from the temporary reprieve from the anal drilling that would almost certainly come, after they fed and watered her. Although she had lost her white skirt, most likely for good, She did still wear the knapsack, and being a very good one, made of weather sealed leather with a waterproof inner lining, her diary, pen, and iPhone were almost certainly still tidy and dry. In the end, nothing really mattered to her but her diary - not even the traitorous, pathetic flesh on her bones.

    She had muted the iPhone, back at the outdoor café. She certainly had to be thankful for that. What if Christopher had been trying to call? What if the phone had been ringing through the gangbang? What if it were to have rung at that moment? She couldn't possibly have answered it. Or worse, what if she had not muted it, and it had failed to ring all this time? How much worse would that have been? Being tormented by an active, ring-enabled phone that would not ring, because Christopher didn't want her? That would have been worse than having been forced to stare at the second hand of a clock all this time.

    She knew, in her heart, that she had granted herself a mercy by having impulsively muted the ringer on her phone. Christopher had not been trying to call, and would not call. She knew it in the pit of her gut, and with vindictive satisfaction she idled away nearly an hour in the bittersweet contemplation of the spermy puddle that collected under her crotch, soaked the shag carpet, and congealed in the folds of her labia. She also made the happy discovery, in the midst of this contemplation, that her bindings gave her just enough range of movement to grind her mons veneris and clitoris up and down against the spermy, slippery carpet. The pressure, slick with seminal lubrication, actually felt pleasant. Greta masturbated with abandon on the greasy shag carpet and lost all sense of time, until the shadows between the filtered rays of sunlight became very long indeed. Yet she never quite achieved the release that she craved, what with the thousand and one suffocating preoccupations, and inescapable foreboding as to what she might endure upon the return of her captors, and of course the ever present burn in the pit of her guts, deep inside, up above her cervix where neither salve nor the featherlight caress of a rampaging dick could assuage it.

    These young, beautiful college boys certainly did have their kinks, but on the whole they seemed courteous and nice. And God could they ever fuck! Much as she found her present confines nearly intolerable, still she could not help but convince herself that she would have come to much worse harm if she had gone to cheer practice that morning and had ended up in the clutches of Coach Bruno and his henchmen. This fate had to be better. Of course, the coaches' retribution next week, for having ditched them today, would be severe. She would deal with their retribution next week. Tonight, she would have Harvard boys, times four.

    Greta would never have imagined that she could have fallen asleep, given the way they had contorted and bound her painfully to the footboard of the bed, yet sudden activity out in the suite's common room, and the sharp rattle of a key turning in the door lock, roused her and shook her back to lucidity.

    Nathan came in, bearing a stack of two plate-sized take-out boxes and a couple cans of beer. He shut the door quickly behind him and locked it, muting the ruckus out in the common room. He had changed into jeans and a crimson jersey. He also looked as though he had showered. Greta supposed the time must have been much later than six o'clock, given that they had ordered dinner, showered, and changed. Greta had another reason to suspect that the wait had run long: Her spine and neck silently shrieked in protest. She felt as though she had drifted off to sleep sitting up, and that her head had rolled to her chest and pinched her spinal cord flat ten days ago.

    "You still with us, Goldilocks?"

    "Mmnnmmn mnmnn!" she replied.

    He looked down at her and chuckled. He had come in alone. The others had given him time alone with her. She stared up at his heavy leather belt. Suddenly she was acutely aware of her taut, contorted frame, the vulnerability of her fragile, knobby spine, the exposed state of her splayed buttocks and the bulging purse of her cunt, which he could no doubt plainly see by looking down at her body from above. With her legs splayed apart and bound almost in a full straddle, he could aim his belt buckle right down the middle and strike her exposed cunt repeatedly. She would not even be able to cry out, much less thwart the blows.

    He bent down behind her head. She rolled her eyes back, but could not see what he was doing. He saw her entire body straining.

    "Try to relax," he quietly advised.

    "Mnnnmn mnnmnm mnnnnnnn mnnn!"

    Nathan chuckled again, and held a square plastic container in front of her eyes. She instantly relaxed with a muffled sigh. He held a jar full of petroleum jelly.

    "You're gonna need this. Not for me. For later. Relax."

    He carefully scooped several heaping fingers-full into her sore vagina, and used a finger to work the unguent deep inside.

    "You're gonna feel some pressure," he said. "It's for your own good. Try to breathe."

    She felt another slippery finger enter her tight anus. The finger pulled out and repeatedly returned. The entry and exit became easier and easier, as she acclimated herself to the pressure of the vaseline-laden finger. So she had been right. She would be sodomized tonight. Repeatedly. She whimpered into the gag.

    "Does that hurt?"

    She shook her head.


    She nodded, to the best of her ability.

    He whispered, "What's going to happen: you still have a choice."

    She whimpered with despair. His pronouncement gave her no comfort whatsoever. How could she trust herself to make that choice, without fucking it up royally, the way she had fucked up every other decision in her accursed life?

    "I'm gonna cut you loose, Goldi. Groan once if you'll be cool."

    She did.

    Then he shocked her to the core, and terrified her as well, by reaching into one of her socks and pulling out a box cutter. He hit the base of the handle against the carpet to reveal the blade, and chuckled at the terror in her eyes.

    "Don't worry, Goldi, your secret's safe with me."

    He started by cutting the strips that had pulled her neck back, and held her by the chest, so that she would not collapse when the bonds were cut. Next he cut her arms free. Then her ankles. Lastly, he removed the gag. Greta collapsed on her back and curled into a ball.

    "Ohhhhhh, fuck am I sore."

    Nathan chuckled again and tucked the box cutter back down her sock. She didn't think she would ever feel her hands and feet again.

    "Listen up, redneck," he warned, "I don't want you inferring anything by my knack for finding the shivs you've tucked away. It doesn't mean anything. I've just watched a lot of movies."

    Greta tried to laugh, but it came out as a groan. She rolled over, tried to straighten her back out, and curled into a ball again.

    She whispered, "Any chance of getting my skirt back?"

    "No chance in hell. Luke snatched it. Souvenir. I think he really likes you. I could grab a pair of boxer shorts or swimtrunks for you. They're stretchy, so they'd probably almost fit."

    "Thanks, but I've got shorts in here," she said, and attempted unsuccessfully to gesture toward her knapsack. She wouldn't even attempt to put the shorts on until she somehow escaped from the dormitory, or she would just lose those, too.

    Nathan set up an impromptu picnic. Someone had ordered her a tuna salad with hardboiled eggs. He set it out beside her head, popped a bottle of pale ale, and set it down beside her salad. She tried to sit up, and promptly collapsed again.

    "That looks good," she croaked from the floor. "Who knew I love fresh tuna?"

    "I thought you'd need the protein. And the salad has potassium. Should help relieve the cramps."

    She shook her head with incredulity. Wow, did she ever want him.

    He set his dinner out as well, a cheeseburger and a caesar salad, with a beer of his own. He told her that they could share his fries.

    "Where are all the others?"

    "They're downstairs. Setting up the game room."

    Even to her scattered, tenuous awareness, that sounded ominous.

    "Goldi, or whatever your name is, look. I just have to get this out there."

    Greta groaned. He couldn't really be referring to the dispute that had clouded their first meeting, could he?

    He chuckled again. "This isn't about Spare Change Guy. This is about you. Are you really cool with all this? Because if you're not, I'll escort you out of here, and call a ride for you."

    "Greta," she replied.


    "My name. Greta."

    "Thanks," he said, and meant it.

    "Just don't tell the boys my real name," she pleaded.

    "Oh, I won't get the opportunity."

    She asked what that meant.

    "Greta, if this - whatever is going to happen here, when they make you the life of the party - if this goes badly, I'm not gonna be the only black guy in the room. Right after we eat, I'm headed out to the library, with or without you."

    "You're a bright guy, Nathan," she croaked.

    "Thanks," he said again.

    "Dinner looks delicious, and I'm starving. But I can't reach it. Could you please, I don't know, help me sit up?"

    Immediately Nathan stood, draped a couple blankets down the footboard, and propped Greta up against it. He set the tray in her lap, and took a seat beside her.

    Sensation gradually came back to her hands and feet, and made her wish that her extremities could have stayed numb. She hurt everywhere. He suggested that the beer, an effective muscle relaxant, might help, and she said she couldn't trust herself to pick up her bottle. He picked it up for her, held the top of the bottle to her mouth by the glass neck, and tipped the cold beer into her mouth. Greta drank greedily and moaned. She guzzled more than a quarter of the bottle's contents without a pause. He set the bottle down. She wrapped her hands around her shins and shuddered as the bitter coldness coursed through her limbs.

    "Maybe now I'll shrink so small that I can slip right out through the crack under the door."

    "Good luck with that, Alice."

    Greta tried to hold her fork with her tingling, unsteady fingers, dropped it twice, sighed with frustration at sight of the mouthwatering rare tuna atop her salad, bent right over toward the floor, and snatched up an entire filet with her teeth. She sighed with deep satisfaction as she chewed and swallowed. Greta promptly inflated back to normal size, while Nathan looked on with both amusement and concern. "Eat me," she said to herself.

    There would be no slipping out from under the door tonight.

    Gradually she reacquired the use of her hands. First, she made the happy discovery that she could pick up her own beer. The alcohol rapidly hit her bloodstream, coursed pleasantly through her system, and made her feel as though she were hovering a few inches off the carpet. She tried her fork again, and discovered that she could now manage it, despite her rapidly intensifying inebriation. Greta only weighed eighty-five pounds, and had only drunk beer a few times in her life. She knew that she would have trouble standing later, if they expected her to do so. Yet they had carried her all the way in from outside, so hopefully she would not be required to use her limbs for perambulation.

    She swallowed a mouthful of salad and said, with slightly slurred elocution, "Thanks, Nathan. For offering to whisk me out of here. But I will have an easier time of it tomorrow, if I can look back on the whole thing and know it meant nothing. And you've been so nice that you're already in danger of meaning more to me than nothing. I don't want that to happen."

    Nathan had no answer. He tried to make sense of it. He also tried not to dwell on the excerpt from her diary, which she had scrawled across her croptop that morning, and through which her perpetually erect nipples and conical aureolae tented.

    "Besides," she mumbled, munching contentedly on a hunk of cold rare tuna, "I can take care of myself."

    He glanced down furtively at the rectangular protuberances stuffed stuffed down her wet socks, and said, "I can see that."

    She smiled, glanced down at her stowed box cutters, and said, "If I thought I needed those, I wouldn't have come here in the first place."

    "You haven't needed them so far. But it could get kind of crazy tonight."

    Greta wolfed down the rest of her food, grabbed french fries from his tray by the handful, and guzzled the rest of her beer. He offered her his half-full bottle, which she took and greedily drank with a half-muttered thanks. She set the drained bottle down, looked toward the bedroom door, and listened. It had gone very quiet out there.

    "There are more than four guys downstairs in that game room, aren't there?"

    Nathan replied, "I can take you out through the front entrance and walk you to the bus station on my way to Wiedener Library."

    She set her tray aside, murmured, "You really are sweet," and kissed his hand. Then his arm. She bent down and kissed his knees and thighs while her hands fumbled with his belt. Nathan helped, and lifted his butt off the carpet, so that she could tug his pants down. She nuzzled her cheek in his wiry black pubic hair, inhaled deeply, slowly fluttered her tongue on a thick vein that throbbed near the base of his cock, opened her mouth and slurped on it, imbibing its heat.

    The undergraduate senior murmured, "I've been sucked off before, but no one's ever swallowed."

    Greta looked up at him with big sparkling blue eyes and told him, "I love to swallow."

    Nathan groaned.

    She kissed slowly up his shaft.

    He raggedly whispered, "This is gonna sound stupid, but I've never had a blonde before today, either."

    She chuckled, while slurping and kissing up and down the length of his shaft, and asked, "Are blondes the best?"

    "By a fucking mile," he replied.

    She arched an eyebrow at her crotch and said, "Pull some out."


    "Souvenirs, silly. Pull some out."

    "I don't want to hurt you."

    "Don't be ridiculous."

    Nathan plucked flaxen blonde pubic hair out of Greta's labia by twos and threes while she threw all her energy into blowing him. Each time he yanked hair from her cunt, she cried out plaintively onto his cock, and her cries brought him closer to the brink.

    "You're being too careful," she advised, kissing him.

    She laughed at his perplexed expression, and she said, "Don't be careful." Then she rolled her eyes and said, "I'm gonna call you my Daddy's nigger sharecropper, just to inflame you."

    Nathan shook his head with bewildered admiration and muttered, "You're really something, Greta."

    "Thanks," she mumbled, and returned to her job.

    He took her entire blonde muff in his fist, clenched, and pulled. Greta screamed, sucked both testicles into her mouth, and slurped them like fat lollipops while he pulled and pulled. She stroked his shaft, to keep him on the brink, and when she heard him groaning, she popped his balls out of her mouth, raised her sore neck, and gobbled up the swollen knob of his cock.

    "Fuck- I'm gonna cum-"

    "Do it, Nathan," she urged, "right down my throat."

    Nathan clawed desperately at the shag carpet with one fist, and gripped the curly blond hair on Greta's cunt with the other. His quadriceps and muscular buttocks lifted Greta right up off the floor. She panted right along with him, both in response to the pain of his grip on her pubic hair, and with the energy of her exertions to bring him to climax. He had been so nice to her, as undeserving as she had been - indeed, by rights, he really would have been justified to have dropped her out of the window by now - that she needed to show her appreciation by giving him the orgasm of his life. And so she did.

    She looked up and whispered, "My nipples, Nathan."

    He could barely focus.

    She pulled his hand off the carpet, dragged it to her breasts, and urged, "Hurt them."

    Nathan shuddered and gripped her small, firm breast as tightly as he'd been clawing at the shag carpet.

    Greta cried onto his throbbing shaft, and bashed her head down hard enough to lodge his knob back to her tonsils.

    Without warning, his body abruptly shot a thick plume of pungent gruel right into the back of her throat. She fought back the impulse to choke, and giggled as the semen seared her windpipe and gushed out her nose. She tried to swallow, to no avail. She stroked his shaft and gently massaged his balls to coax out every drop. He gave her a lot. She could not believe the quantity, given that he had cum in her vagina twice earlier that day. Greta supposed that an afternoon of arduous football practice had recharged his balls. She kept sucking, stroking, swallowing, even after he released the grips on her breast and pubic hair. His arms fell, limp, to the carpet. His beautiful penis started to go flaccid, yet continued to emit pungent semen in languid oily pulses that she attentively gobbled up. He gently played with her bouncing curls.

    She looked down at the hand that had been pulling out her pubic hair. She both giggled and groaned at the sight of the impressive little bird's nest that he had collected.

    "Sorry about that," he said guiltily.

    She kissed his stomach, and explored his navel with her tongue, whispering, "I told you to do it."

    He continued to fondle her curly blond hair.

    "So are blondes still the best?" she playfully asked.

    "By a mile," he repeated. "Greta, come with me. Please. Let me get you out of here."

    She kissed him again. Kissed him, kissed him, kissed him. On the stomach, on the chest, on his powerful, muscular arms with their rippling striations. She said, "Dear sir. If you do that, Nathan, for the rest of the semester, behind your back, you'll be known as the dumb fucking nigger who spoiled all the white boys' pre-season party. No. No, Nathan. I can't have that. Our time together has been beautiful, and I won't spoil it. Thank-you, sir. Now, go to the library."


    "Go. Please, sir. I'll take care of myself. By tomorrow, I'll probably regret just about everything that happened today. All but you. You, Nathan, are perfect, utterly perfect and beautiful. You've made all the rest worthwhile."

    She rolled off him, dug into her knapsack, and took out her diary and pen. She etched a tiny note in her diminutive script. She wrote it out twice, in fact, while he put his clothes back together. She tore out one copy and set it carefully upon the little bird's nest of blonde pubic hair, while he watched in astonishment.

    They heard voices out in the suite.

    Greta hastily stowed her diary and pen, carefully zipped her knapsack back up, and put it on. She kissed Nathan tenderly on the mouth and whispered, "Show time."

    She stood up, walked gingerly to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the common room to the accompaniment of raucous cheers. Nathan looked down, nonplussed, at the tiny excerpt that she had left for him.

    From Greta's diary.


    on no other word
    do I tirelessly attend
    paralyzed by its caresses
    rendered helpless
    by its promise


    we have only
    one life
    to know joy
    only one

    Greta nearly fled back into the bedroom, to tell Nathan that she had changed her mind, and had decided to take him up on his offer to escort her to the bus station. She steeled herself. She would not implicate Nathan in whatever would happen next.

    She had left Nathan in the bedroom, where he would presumably hide until the common room emptied, and she would never, ever begrudge his discretion. Even now, she made a choice: to resist the impulse to flee back into the bedroom, into Nathan's protective arms.

    Despite having left Nathan in the bedroom, the number of her anticipant admirers had increased to six. There were new faces, many more new faces, because out of the six varsity football players in the common room, she only recognized Luke. He still wore the Thayer Hall tee shirt. They had come up for mattresses, and the six guys had, in their respective hands, no less than four mattress. Having imbibed more than a bottle of beer, Greta could not properly count.

    "Luke, what happened to the other guys?"

    He strode right up to Greta and embraced her. Several other guys dropped their mattresses and stared. Greta suddenly realized, belatedly, that she was naked between her socks and her crop top, and still dripped sperm from her thighs. Nearly six hours had transpired, but she had taken nine loads.

    One of the strangers, with an expression of apparent awe, said, "Luke, dude, you guys weren't kidding."

    "Shut up," Luke advised, "and get the mattresses downstairs."

    Greta trembled against Luke, as he caressed and soothed her from the nape of her neck to the bottom of her ass.

    "Luke. Where's everyone else?"

    "They're downstairs."

    "Doing what?"

    "Umm, setting up the party. You know, kegs, black lights, mattresses, that sort of thing."

    "Who are those guys?"

    "Oh, they're cool. They're just friends of ours. Don't worry, they're cool, you'll love'em."


    "Say, Goldi, have you had enough to drink? You need anything?"

    "No, no. I'm good."

    "Okay. Sweet. Want to head down?"

    She shrugged, with the nonchalance of a condemned maiden walking herself indifferently to the pyre, and said, "Sure, whatever."

    "You were cool? Being tied up?"

    She kissed his neck, strained up on tip-toe to do it, and said, "I asked for that. Yeah, it was totally cool."

    "You're the greatest, Goldi."

    "Listen, though," she urged, "you'll stay with me, right? You won't leave the room?"

    "Yeah, sure, what do you mean?"

    "You have to make sure things don't get out of hand. Keep it fun."

    "Yeah, yeah. Listen, we're not a bunch of raping psychopaths. We're the fighting Crimson. Harvard guys."

    She tried not to laugh.

    "Okay. Just promise."

    "Goldi, chill, okay? You have my word. These guys are all totally cool."

    "What weren't you kidding about, Luke?"


    "Luke. One of those guys - one of the ones I haven't even met yet - said you weren't kidding. What did you tell them about me?"

    She realized, as she watched his eyes, that he had already imbibed more liquor, and had become more inebriated, than she was, and she had to wonder whether she could really depend upon him to watch her back through the party.

    "Goldi. Baby. No sweat, okay? All I told him is that I found them the hottest, most beautificant babelicious frosh in Harvard. That's all. That guy, he's cool. He was just totally on board that you're a fucking doll."

    "What's my major?" she asked.

    "Philosophy. You're a frosh at the Harvard Divinity School."

    Greta laughed into his chest, and muttered, "Thanks, Tommy Aquinas." She looked up at him, caught his eyes, and for the last time demanded, "Promise you'll stay with me."

    "On my word. It's cool. These guys are all future leaders of the republic. It'll get rowdy, but it won't get rough. I'll be there the whole time."

    She took a deep breath, and looked down at herself. Naked, from her crop top to her socks, she looked - even to herself - like an advertisement for gang rape.

    "How many guys are down there?"

    He suddenly grew cold. "Goldi. You wanna go home? I'll take you out the front, right now."

    "No. But it's me they're gonna bang. I just want to know how many guys are gonna work on me."

    "Well," he stammered, "Those guys are from the starting lineup."

    "Umm, Luke? How many? From the starting lineup?"

    He fidgeted. He blushed. "It's not my fault. Mike did most of the talking."

    She surmised, based on a comment from all the way back to breakfast, that Mike must be the guy with the big cock, the guy who had really made her feel it, the guy that had almost pried his way into her ass, before Nathan had pulled him off.

    "How many?" she heard herself ask.

    "Uhh, well, actually... most of them. Uhh, all but Nathan's friends, that is."

    All but the African American varsity starters, upon whom the statutory retribution would have been most severe - if the night ended badly - because even now, in the enlightened twenty-first century, and even here, in the enlightened Athens of America, some Americans were more equal - and obversely, more culpable - than others.

    "Goldi, come on," he said chummily, throwing a hammy forearm over her shoulder, "these are all awesome guys."

    Yeah, she thought, awesome guys.

    "Any other girls?"

    "Hey, now be reasonable," he said, trying very hard to sound reasonable himself. "School year hasn't started yet. No girls around yet. None that would be into this, anyway. Christ, Goldi, this is a party in your honor."

    "Listen, Luke, I'm still kind of sore-"

    His face fell. "You want to ditch, don't you?"

    For just a half second, she gaped at him. Even now, with Luke, she still had a choice. With a word, she could still get him to show her safely to the door.

    "Naw, it's not that. It's just that, after six hours being tied up, my legs are still kind of numb. Think you could carry me?"

    He laughed with relief and scooped her right up into his arms like a big gangly Raggedy Ann doll.

    As he strode out the door with Greta in his arms, he said, "Say, Goldi? When we get down there, do you want to be called anything else? A fake name, so no one can ID you later?"

    She gave a sincere, full-bellied laugh, and what was more, she laughed straight at him. He offered her an alias, to conceal her alias, Goldilocks. "Chivalry's really not dead," she muttered.


    She tucked her head under his chin and confided, "My fuckbuddies at Ringe and Latin call me 'G-Spot.'"

    She watched the crimson wall paper and walnut wainscoting blur past her field of view as he hurried toward the stairwell. She requested a detour. He set her down upon a commode in a toilet stall, and shut the door to give her some privacy. She did her business, which took awhile, having recently consumed more than twelve ounces of beer, and took out her knapsack. She retrieved her iPhone, and took three deep breaths.

    She played her destiny game again. She would enable the ringer on the phone, check her messages for Christopher, and then wait a full minute after that. If she had a message from him, or if he called, she would be absolved from her immediate destiny: to be ganged by the starting lineup of the Crimson varsity. She would demand that Luke escort her straight to the sidewalk, without any further detours. She would take out the box cutters and grip them backward along her forearms, as Army Rangers were trained to do, concealing the weapons yet ready to slash or stick without warning. Greta could no longer recall where or how she had learned to hold knives backward, against the underside of her forearms, but the strategy had given her the element of surprise on several crucial occasions, and would serve well tonight, should it come to that.

    Greta checked her voice mail. Two from her mother, from hours ago. She listened to her mother's blather, all the way through, just to buy time and hedge her bets.

    Nothing from Christopher.

    To buy more time, she texted her two most recent diary entries to her very best friend, Jessica Elizabeth Turner, reflecting warmly that Jess both enjoyed chess and adored being in love. Furthermore, Jessica heartily espoused the notion that we had but one life to live, and could neither expect nor hope for so much as a further instant above and beyond death's finality. In short, Jessica would be pleased by the second poem. Greta herself could not ascribe entirely to Jessica's purist evocation of atheism, despite her ability to appreciate its properties and contours on a rational plane. She did not believe that any self-respecting God could countenance a world as perverse and malformed as that in which she lived, yet by the same token, she could not rule out the possibility that her perception of the world had been tailored, for some inscrutable reason, especially for her, by a wizened higher power. Greta felt, all too often, like the Biblical Job, a hapless victim relegated to persevere spurious evils with neither hope nor expectation of recompense.

    Greta had allowed her mind to wander. Suddenly, her iPhone beeped.

    "Are you okay?" Jessica asked, via text.

    Greta chuckled. Jessica Turner, ever the brilliantly erudite, fastidious perfectionist, insisted on texting in the Queen's English.

    "goody chasing luvly boycake )"

    "Your second poem has me worried, Greta."


    "You worry me when you become introspective."

    "Friday night!!! Partay!!!! I'll be over later."

    "WHAT? NO!"

    "Sleepover. U & me. Ur house. Leave the door open. Bye."

    She put her phone to sleep before Jessica could respond.

    At that point, Greta still optimistically reasoned that she would have no trouble crossing town, just twelve miles, to reach Jessica's neighborhood at a decent hour. All she had to do, before proceeding on her way, was pull a train with almost the entire starting lineup of the Fighting Crimson. Because Christopher hadn't called. Greta stowed her iPhone in her knapsack, flushed the toilet, and took three deep, slow breaths. Then she limped out of the bathroom.

    Luke, who had been leaning idly against the wainscoted hallway, scooped her up and enthused, "Hot little G-Spot!"

    Greta kissed his neck, and squirmed as he tucked an arm under her legs and managed to slip a burly thumb into her greased cunt.

    "Mmmmmmm," she moaned.

    "How'd you like being tied up all afternoon?"


    "Your idea."

    "I know, I know."

    "Come on, ragdoll, I'll make it up to you."

    "Nathan gave me a beer, but my throat's still dry. I could use another. I don't think I'll get through this unless I'm fucking wasted."

    "We have a half kegger downstairs, in your honor, right beside the band."

    "The band?" she asked, dubiously.

    "We don't fuck around. It's fuckin' Friday!"

    "Got anymore food?"

    "Ten pizzas," he assured her.

    "Any ham and pineapple?"

    "You bet your hot little ass," he promised, smacking her bare posterior.

    "Get me down there."

    "Affirmative," said Luke.

    "I need cock," she explained.

    "You're a piece of work, Goldi."

    "I know."

    Luke had not been kidding about the band. The foosball, billiards, and ping pong tables had been pushed up against a wall, under the dart boards, to make way for a three piece rock band, left and right loudspeaker towers, and a mixing board staffed by a sound engineer who looked as though he had already chugged at least a third of the keg. In the center of the room, the guys had arranged the six mattresses into a sprawling improvised playpen. Pizza boxes cluttered the game tables. But those were all spurious details. What got Greta's immediate attention was the press of horny muscle-bound males, who took one look at her and cheered as one.

    "As advertised, gents," Luke declared, "our entertainment for the evening, Ringe and Latin's very own G-Spot!"

    The cheers redoubled.

    Not another party girl in sight.

    "Ham and pineapple," she reminded him, shouting into his ear.

    "You got it."

    "And beer, too. Lots."

    "Coming up."


    "Yeah? You still on for this?"

    Here she was, in the room with what looked like at least thirty randy college guys, and not a single other girl for division of labor, yet still he persisted in offering her a choice.

    She replied, "Don't bother with names. I won't fucking remember tomorrow anyway."

    He chuckled and carried all eighty-five pounds of little Greta to the pizza boxes. He set her down on the ping pong table, where she promptly did a straddle, still naked from her crop top to her socks, purely in order to stretch out.

    The lead guitarist, who had been filling several plastic pint cups with cheap beer, walked by and asked, "Any requests?"

    "Pearl Jam. Even Flow, Jeremy, and whatever else."

    "All right! Classical, my kind of girl!" the guitarist assented, most appreciatively.

    Luke brought over a plate with three slices of ham and pineapple.

    Most of the guys tried to act aloof and above it all, and some of them even rearranged the furniture a little bit, so as to start an impromptu foosball tournament. After all, given the team had only managed to acquire one party girl, apparently it had occurred to at least a few of them that there were ten times as many guys in the room as Greta had holes, and that they would have to take turns, and occupy their time with more than just each other while they waited.

    "So," she said to Luke, as she munched on her pizza, "I hear you stole my skirt."

    He grinned and said, "Yeah. It was a mess anyway. Don't sweat it. We'll find something else for you to wear tomorrow morning. Speaking of which, you want to take the rest of your clothes off?"

    "I think I'd better keep them on my body, if it's all the same to you," she said, and pulled the knapsack's shoulder straps tighter, to emphasize the point.

    One of her new admirers - she couldn't possibly have kept them all straight - said, "Yeah, let her leave the knapsack and shit on. I like that sexy schoolgirl look."

    Another guy said, "And the crap someone wrote on her shirt is fucking hot. Who did that, anyway? You guys?"

    Luke replied, "She did. Before we even met her."

    The guy said to Greta, "why don't you just write kick me on your ass, bitch?"

    Greta replied, through a mouthful of pizza, "Can't reach. You can, if you want."

    "Fucking crazy," he muttered. "Are you for real?"

    "Is anything?" Greta retorted.

    The guys in the vicinity laughed appreciatively at her come-back, and high-fived each other.

    Luke reminded them, "I told you she majors in philosophy."

    Greta made it through two and a half slices of ham and pineapple pizza when four guys trundled the half-keg up onto the table beside her. One guy pumped the keg, while another aimed the spigot right into Greta's upended mouth. "Think you can chug for ten seconds?"

    "If I do, you have to do fifteen," Greta replied.

    "You're on!"

    He pressed the lever on the spigot, and a dozen guys counted, "One Mis-sis-sip-pi, two Mis-sis-sip-pi," all the way to ten, and there were cheers all around when, at the end, Greta tipped her head away from the spigot.

    The band, having finished its tuning, warm-ups, and sound checks, launched into its Pearl Jam repertoire at sufficient volume to shake the basement floor, the ceiling, and three floors above them. In the small game room, which could not have been larger than the average two car garage, the sound technician had rigged the musicians for a large nightclub. Even the drums were miked and amplified through the PA towers, so as to compete effectively against the lead guitarist's double Marshall stack. Greta's brain shook so hard in her skull to the volume of the music that she thought she might suffer a hemorrhage, and they had not yet started to fuck her yet.

    Her challenger guzzled for fifteen seconds. Other guys took turns. By now, eight or nine masculine hands explored up her crop-top, down both straddled legs, under her bare ass, and in the drenched folds of her slit. She garned compliments all around. Having been forced to wait and cool off upstairs while bound so tightly that she couldn't even masturbate, her pink vaginal slit had reacquired its fresh youthful tightness. So far, this had turned out to be an awesome party. Then again, by the time every starter on the Fighting Crimson had guzzled for fifteen seconds each, the alcohol had wormed its way up into Greta's brain, and she had become drunk out of her mind. Eventually the spigot came back to her, and she, too, had to guzzle for fifteen seconds. She tried to resist, so they spun her around and pulled her head right back off the front of the table. She felt the whole room go topsy-turvy and looked up at the floor. Someone had her arms, so she could not shield her head from the impending crash, and she screamed. Then she realized that ten guys were holding her, literally, from everywhere. They flipped her, and the room turned again, until she looked down at the ceiling.

    "Open up, G-Spot! Fifteen seconds!" Luke's voice. She knew Luke. He would control things. So far these thirty pieces of boycake had been really nice. Luke would keep them that way, and everyone would be friends. She compliantly opened her mouth, and thirty guys did the "Mississippi" chant for a count of fifteen, while Even Flow pounded away through a protracted cadenza, cranked to a glass-smashing fortissimo by the lead guitarist.

    Greta didn't quite make it to a count of fifteen, but they ran the spigot into her mouth anyway, and she choked much of it back up. But then a guy - she could have no idea which one - used his erect cock as a plunger, and bashed the frothing, regurgitated beer back down her throat. She coughed and spluttered. She felt the whole room moving, and then, inexplicably, she ended up on her back, upon the chest of some guy who commenced to wedge and pry his cock up her asshole while another guy mounted her vaginally from above. Greta had a mouth full of cock and beer, and couldn't possibly have protested.

    Through a thick haze of burning pain, she dimly heard the drinking game going on elsewhere, and the band continued to bash her brain against the inner shell of her cranium. On either side, masculine fists commandeered her flailing arms and put her hands to work, stroking erections. Greta serviced five cocks at once, with each hand as well as all three of her holes. Hands grabbed and mauled her small vulnerable breasts; she had no idea whose hands they were. And then the count increased further still, which she might well have thought to have been impossible. She felt her hair being pulled in two directions at once, and realized that at least two guys were masturbating in her blonde Goldilocks curls. She had supposed, upon entering the room and seeing thirty or so football players, that it would have taken all night to service all thirty of them, yet now, this moment, no less than seven guys were using her body. And given the way they were all swilling cheap beer out of the keg, she hoped that most of them would not be up for a second round anytime soon.

    The guy beneath Greta reached his climax quickly, under the intense simulation of her tight anal ring, and added to copiously to the lubrication that Nathan had considerately stuffed into her rectum. When he pulled his spent dick out of her body, he precipitated a minor crisis, because twenty-six guys wanted to take his place, and Greta was pinned so effectively beneath competing, churning bodies that she could barely breathe, much less move. These football players were big. The guy above her torso, who pounded relentlessly in and out of her cunt, must have been some kind of linebacker, and had to have weighed more than two hundred fifty pounds. Ten pairs of hands effortlessly lifted her into the air, and various bodies adjusted as necessary, so that the guy underneath her could escape the bottom of the pig pile. Then the huge guy on top flipped onto his back, pulling Greta up on top of him. Before she could react,her throat was stuffed again, and now someone mounted her from above and rammed himself into her distended anus. Greta cried out into the dick that filled her mouth. Her little hands were put back to work. Calloused male hands gripped her breasts under the crop-top again, pulled, pinched, twisted. The guy in her mouth gripped her head by the back of the neck, and bashed himself in and out so hard that his belly repeatedly punched into her nose. She took breaths whenever she could get them, but she couldn't steal nearly enough air to dissipate the horrible sensation of suffocation.

    Her mouth filled with powerful shots of liquefied, salty gruel. The blasts hit the back of her palate, and the thrusts of the guy's cock churned the cum into salty foam. The guy above her tried to lift her right up off the floor by her knapsack, and the jerk beneath lined the knapsack's leather straps right over her sore nipples, so that whenever the guy above pulled, her breasts were pulled tightly into her ribs. Another guy took her mouth. The man who sodomized her pulled her right up off the floor by her knapsack, crushing her breasts flat, so the guy beneath could crawl out from under her and let someone else use her cunt. A scuffle ensued, and the next thing the lone girl in the room knew, there were two Crimson men beneath her, stuffing their erections into her cunt side by side. She wrenched her head away from the guy in her mouth and screamed for Luke, a maneuver that the guy at her head didn't appreciate at all. He raised an arm, which she didn't see, but she did feel a hard masculine palm smack painfully on her trembling, sweaty ass. She screamed, and got her mouth stuffed with cock again. Two cocks pried into her fatigued, sopped vagina, while the guy above them drove relentlessly in and out of her gaping ass. The guy who had spanked her ass apparently didn't think she'd had enough, because he warned her not to bite, and smacked her ass again. Cheers went up all around. The spanking gave the jerks new ideas, and someone ran off to fetch a permanent felt marker. Somewhere close by, Greta heard someone asking if she could handle three dicks rammed up into her pelvic cradle at the same time.

    "Who gives a shit?" someone responded.

    She heard Luke say, "She's cool with that. We doubled her fuckhole at lunchtime. The slut loved it."

    "I don't know, dude, she's not having too much fun now."

    "Yeah, because you dumb fuckers are beating her ass."

    Indeed they were. They took turns spanking her ass. The hands smashed into her upended butt over and over again, so rapidly that she couldn't even gather enough breath to scream. Somewhere above she heard a bestial roar, and suddenly the log in her rectum was ripped out, and she felt hot splashes upon her back that hit her in thick streams and gobs.

    "Dude, you pig, we're beating that!"

    "Beat off," he groaned, jerking streams of cum out all over Greta's back and ass.

    Someone had found a marker, and wrote something on her back and ass, around the cum stains. Some other considerate soul tried to wipe the sperm off her ass with a towel.

    "You're smudging it!"

    'Shut up," the guy with the towel advised.

    Someone mounted her asshole. She didn't even feel the entry.

    The guy in her mouth jerked himself off in a frenzy, and repeatedly punched her in the nose with his hand. She screamed, cried, struggled to twist her head away, but he would have none of it, and gripped a fistful of her hair so tightly that she feared he might rip her scalp. He roared with bliss, pulled out of her mouth, and shot a thick hot stream of semen straight into Greta's wide open eyes. He wrenched her head back by the hair and shoved the knob right up against nostrils, cumming chunky wads of cum right up her nose. Greta spluttered helplessly and tried to pull her arms forward to wipe the salty, stinging sperm from her eyes. The effort earned more hard smacks to her ass, by guys she'd been autonomically jerking off. Someone underneath her - one of the two guys wedged into her vagina - must have ejaculated at some point, because her body was pulled up off them by the knapsack again. Strap buckles pinched anjd chewed into her breasts, because the crop-top had been yanked right up around her neck.

    Some guy put his face inches from hers, and shouted straight into her ears. His skunky beer breath made her want to vomit.

    "You having a good time, whore?"

    "Too rough, too rough-"

    His fist shot up, and squeezed her cheeks painfully, forced her jaw wide open, and another hand slapped the side of her head, back and forth, and rung her like a bell.

    "You love it rough, G-Spot! Filthy slut! Filthy little cunt! Say it! Fucking say it!"

    "I l-love it r-rough," she sobbed.

    She heard Luke growl at the guy, "Dude, take it easy! Either get busy or give someone else a chance."

    "What are you, her pimp, Warner?"

    "Dude! Asshole! No last names!"

    "Sorry, sorry." The guy stuffed his knob between her splayed teeth and shoved into her mouth, hard.

    Greta heard a familiar, chummy, gregarious voice right in her ear. Luke. Her protector. They guy who had agreed to watch her and make sure it wouldn't get out of hand. "He's only kidding, G-Spot, my name's not really Warner. How you doing? Hanging in there?"

    Greta tried to nod.

    "Having a good time?"

    Greta couldn't answer.

    He smacked the arm of the guy who was pounding away at her mouth and said, "Dude, time out. Let the lady speak."

    The jerk who'd been ringing her head like a bell pulled out of her mouth for a moment. She gulped down air and croaked, "Hurts. Everywhere."

    Luke actually laughed, and said, yelling into her ear to be heard over the rock band, "Could you be a little more specific?"

    Greta had thought that everywhere had covered it. "Eyes. Stings."

    She heard Luke laugh again, and then he yelled, "Hey dudes, her face is dirty, let's rinse her off!"

    Her eyes bugged with fear that they would start pissing on her face, but fortunately the thirty Harvard Crimson men, collectively, did not possess that much imagination. Unfortunately, their solution to Greta's predicament wasn't much better. Someone set the beer keg right down on her lower back. Not much beer remained in the aluminum barrel by that time, but still she screamed in agony and fear that the assholes had snapped her spine. Someone exacerbated the pain by pumping the keg's plunger, driving it into her back. Someone else - maybe Luke - aimed the spigot right at her eyes. The beer stung worse than the sperm. For good measure, he shoved the spigot into her mouth until she choked it all out. A cock was stuffed into her mouth again. The drinking game resumed.

    "One, Mis-sis-sip-pi, two Mis-sis-sip-pi...."

    The lead singer belted out a line from Pearl Jam: "I'm stayin' alive, yeah I'm still alive...."

    Greta lost track of time, yet could not escape to her thoughts. Gone were her family, the cheerleader squad, Coaches Bruno, Klein and Mayer, Jessica, Christopher. All that her mind could register was the pain - the cock that sawed in and out of her ass, and her poor vagina, stretched nonstop, often by more than one raping phallus simultaneously. The burning friction had long since exhausted the vaseline, but now the repeated spermings were almost sufficient to lubricate her. The guys had no trouble plunging into her dilated holes, but the violations ripped her to shreds. She could no longer count the number of times the guys had ejaculated into her body, but she suspected the count had exceeded thirty long ago. They must have long since gone into the second round, or even the third, which on some parallel plane honestly impressed her, since they were all so fucking skunked on cheap beer that she could only have been providing them with fantastic stimulation.

    At some point the guys dumped the aluminum keg unceremoniously off the small of her back and tossed it aside, spent. Greta was spent, too, but they didn't seem to care. They had all night to fuck her to death, and despite their deep inebriation, they seemed hell bent on doing the job thoroughly. She tried to disassociate herself from her body, and observe herself as Nathan might have seen her, had he returned from Wiedener Library and wandered downstairs to check up on her. She was far too drunk to accomplish the little feat of mental trickery, but what little she did see, in the form of moving shadows, made her shudder, and reminded her of a mural she had once seen, a lithograph of a Hieronymous Bosch oil painting, a fanciful depiction of hell, replete with crimson demons performing vile infamies on the bodies of the damned.

    Greta heard Luke Warner's chummy, oddly amused voice again in her ear. "Hey G-Spot, me and the boys are headed out."

    Greta screamed.

    Luke smacked the arm of whoever currently skullfucked her, and the bastard grudgingly withdrew.


    "Just a few minutes, we'll be right back."

    "Don't leave me-"

    "Come on, Goldi, you're fine; just keep doing what you're doing, and we'll be back in a few."


    "We need to make another packie run. Beer's out, and this party just got started. Got a bunch of guys coming down. Rugby team. We're getting a whole keg this time. This party could run long."

    "No, Luke, no!"

    "You want anything while we're out? Breath mint?" Several guys behind him laughed.

    "Don't leave me!"

    The guy in front rammed his cock into her skull again, and someone nearby said, "Come on, Warner, before the place closes!"

    The violations resumed as though no interruption had occurred, except that now a discussion ensued.

    "Hey, what did Luke call her? Goldi?"


    "Fuckin' Goldi?"

    "She's a fucking Goldilocks, alright."

    The discussion shifted. It sucked that only four guys could use her holes at once, with so many guys in line, and soon the problem would be compounded by the arrival of the rugby crew. The men put their formidable intellects together, worked as a team, and came up with a satisfactory solution.

    "Let's open up her ass, so she can take two."

    "Fuck you, I'm busy in her ass," said a guy who bashed her rectum like an engine piston.

    "Just for a minute. Hey, Rob! Grab that pool cue!"

    "Naw, that won't do. Joey's dick is bigger around than the pool cue."

    "Why the fuck didn't we buy beer bottles?"

    "Say, anyone have a baseball bat?"

    "Got a couple up in my room."

    "Go get'em."

    "All right, be right back."

    Greta tore her head away from the guy in front and screamed, "NOOOOO!"

    "Hey, shut up, Goldi, this is for your own good."

    "NOOOOOO! Not that, no!"

    "Be a sport, Goldilocks. You're not gonna be much use if we don't break you in. Relax, you'll love it."

    Someone laughed, "We're gonna assrape her with a baseball bat?"

    "Two, if we can manage it. Gotta move the line along somehow."

    "I need a camera for this. I'll be back soon."

    "No faces!" someone yelled.

    The band had stopped playing. The lead singer, on the microphone, said, "Uhh, like, you guys are being totally uncool."

    "Fuck you," one of the players yelled, "she's into it."

    "NOOOOO!" screamed Greta.

    Someone stuffed her face with cock to shut her up. Someone else exhorted Rob to hurry the fuck up before Luke got back.

    The lead singer yelled, "Dudes. The lady's done playing. No means no."

    "Fuck you it does. Shut up and play your guitar."

    More than a dozen guys laughed.

    Greta's ears rang with shrill feedback as the guitars were unplugged. The musicians, by now utterly discomfited, and ripped the phone jacks from their instruments without shutting down the amplifiers.

    "Oh man, you assholes, don't go!"

    Greta looked around wildly and saw the three musicians and the sound technician walking off the stage. They took the guitars, but left the drums. She tried to get her mouth free to yell for help, but the guy in her mouth gripped her head tightly by her ears.

    The sound technician said, "This is fucking nuts. We're outta here."

    "See if you get paid," someone yelled.

    "Fuck you."

    Greta heard another voice, a familiar voice, one of the guys from that morning, the one with the thick cock, the one who had wanted to screw her in the ass, before Nathan had stopped him, the intrepid Crimson man who liked to make it hurt.

    "You like big cock, don't you Goldilocks?"

    She couldn't answer.

    "My cock isn't big enough for you, is it?"

    She wanted to assure him that his beautiful penis was certainly more than big enough. She had taken bigger tonight than he, yet still, she wanted to tell him that he had the most beautiful cock on earth. She would have said anything to dissuade them from ripping her backside open with the baseball bats, if only she could have talked.

    Rob returned, and the guys cheered again.

    Another scuffle broke out. The Crimson man who had been sodomizing her insisted on doing the honors in return for pulling out, since he was fucking close and wanted first dibs after they opened her up. Two guys were still sawing in and out of her cunt, apparently oblivious to everything that went on above, and evidently had no intention of giving her a reprieve.

    Greta wept on the cock that bashed into the back of her mouth. Why could Nathan not come back to check on her? What took Luke so long? Where had he gone? How far away could the liquor store possibly heve been? She felt cold dry aluminum press into her distended ass and felt the burn of the entry. At some point they must have rent her anus, ripped her back there. The rape of the baseball bat would open the wound beyond healing.

    "No, you dumb fuck! Not the handle! Turn the fucker around!"

    Greta's mind whirled. The entry had felt so big, and cold, and hard, yet it had only been the handle?

    "You sure?"

    "Fuck yeah! Open that hole up! That's the whole fucking point!"

    A stentorian Harvard man turned the aluminum bat around.

    Every intrepid Crimson man who was not presently screwing into her body watched with perverse fascination as the bat's wide end was wrenched and pried up into her gaping ass. Greta knew that Luke would not be back in time. They would shove that thing all the way into her body and wreck her colon. They actually had a second bat, on top of it, and were drunk enough to try to give her both. They would kill her.

    Her hands had been abandoned for the show that proceeded behind. No one noticed as she reached back, dug into her socks, and pulled out the small white rectangular box cutters. Drunk as she was, a seven years of classical training on her spinnet piano gave her a natural, fluid ambidexterity. She pounded the handles of the box cutters hard on the mattress, flipped her wrists, and stabbed the razor blades into the chests of the guys beneath her.
    Both guys grunted with shock, their sensitivity blurred by alcohol, for a split second unsure as to what had just happened to them. Greta, to her credit, knew the difference between sticking and slashing. Sticking would get their attention, and injure them badly, but not kill them. Slashing would spill them open and finish them.

    She held slashing in reserve, but had no qualms whatsoever with resorting to it, if that would be what it would take to persuade them to let her go.

    Before anyone could react, she swept both arms forward and plunged the razors deep into the thighs of the guy in front. He staggered back in shock even as the box cutters disappeared beneath her forearms like the culmination of a cheap sidewalk magic trick. Greta scrambled up onto her feet just as the three intrepid Harvard men started howling.

    "What the fuck?" Someone yelled, appalled.

    The guy who had been fucking her mouth collapsed to his knees and bled into the mattress. The guys who had been beneath her writhed in agony, clutching their sides, with blood oozing from beneath their fingers. No one had seen the box cutters yet. Greta tried to make a dash for the back door, through which she had come in at eleven o'clock that morning.

    Some dumb fucker tried to block her path, with hands outraised. Greta made a shallow punch at his hand, turned her wrist to expose the blade from beneath her forearm, and slashed right across his palm, opening his entire hand, from his thumb to his pinkie, right across his lifeline, deep enough to scrape bone with a sound that induced several guys in the vicinity to wretch. The victim screamed, but being paralyzed by the incomprehensible pain, he didn't move quickly enough for Greta, so she stabbed the left box cutter deep into this groin. She sprinted to the door without pausing to see what she had hit; the guy collapsed to the floor behind her. She needed to get through the door, but she would not let go of the box cutters, so she spun around to face the men with crazed eyes, like a cornered dog.

    More than twenty guys circled warily, at a respectful distance.

    "What the fuck?" one of them asked.

    They saw the box cutters now, and the blood all over her forearms. No one dared to step forward.

    "This was supposed to be a party," another one protested.

    "You fuckers are never, ever satisfied, are you?" she spat.

    "We were just having fun."
    Last edited by aesexual pseudonym; 12-01-2009 at 01:01 AM.
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  11. #11
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :

    Default Book Two: Beauty, Excerpt with Sweetness

    This excerpt from Book Two: Beauty, featuring Nelson and Jessica just before her eighteenth birthday, is a sweet follow-up to the last rather dark entry. No sex in this one. Just sweetness. Warning, Spoilers.

    Codes: Romance, MF, No Sex.

    Background: Nelson and Jessica have been swimming, and are now lost at sea.

    That Nelson and Jessica felt so entirely validated in close proximity could often work to their detriment, because their mutual contentment, and their satisfaction with being together, so effectively insulated them from the mundane world, so comprehensively inured them to its objective hazards, that they often danced obliviously though perils that would have commanded the full attention of the fully rational. For instance, on the afternoon of Teddy Claremont's funeral, having made love on the sand, and in the surf, and in the riptide, in celebration of his life, and having drifted out into the cold, roiling saltwater, buoyed by the climactic afterglow, oblivious to their drift for far too long, they might now have been lost at sea. Yet the possibility, and their awareness of it, succeeded only in bemusing them.

    Jessica, doing the backstroke at this particular moment , and gazing up at the impenetrable fog, inquired, "Should we be at all concerned about sea monsters, Sir?"

    He ambivalently replied, as he did a lazy combination of breaststroke and dogpaddle, so as to hold his head above water, the better for conversation, "We should not have reason to be, by all rights. I had thought we would have hit shore by now."

    "Oh, we'll hit land eventually," his perennially optimisitic fiancée absently declared.

    "Maybe England," he pointed out.

    "Whatever. But not if we get gobbled up on the way. Are there sharks?"

    He chuckled. "Too cold. Doubtful." In fact he had no idea what he was talking about, and knew as much, but he had read, somewhere, that shark attacks on humans tended to be over-sensationalized. At that point he was more concerned about butting his head against England, but not concerned enough to be alarmed.

    "Barracudas? Piranhas?"

    "Piranhas live on rivers. And I'm pretty sure barracudas are warm water fish."

    "We're in the Gulf Stream," she reminded him.

    "Miss, Gulf Stream or not, I'm freezing my nuts off out here."

    She giggled at the sky and demanded, "Make love with me again, Sir."

    "Impossible. No way, no how. Not now that I'm out of you."

    "Why the fuck not, Sir?"

    "Because this water's forty degrees, and my Maleness has hypothermia."

    She laughed at the sky again, and told him it couldn't possibly be that cold, but she did concede the mechanical difficulties, and simply took them as incentive to get back to shore as soon as possible and warm up.

    "Nelson, there must be some kind of nasty cold water fish. Maybe one of those nasty fluorescent critters made of bones and teeth. The point is, should I be concerned at all, with some kind of tentacle wrapping around my leg and pulling me down into an abyssal trench?"

    "There's not much you could do about it even if you were concerned, Miss, except perhaps to swim a little faster. Just a suggestion."

    "It's nice out here," Jessica declared, and thus summing up her general contentment, left it at that. Some time later, she remarked, "If a giant squid does grab me, though, you'll fight him off, won't you, Sir?"

    "I will valiantly defend you against the giant squid, Miss, and barracudas, and whatever else might be lurking. I swear it on my life, Miss. Uhh, Miss, I can't help but ask, are you determined to find something to worry about?"

    "It might not be a bad idea to have something on my mind, Nelson, seeing as we're drifting out to sea." Her inflection sounded peeved, and he smiled, as he always did, when he succeeded in irritating her, which to her mind occurred with excessive frequency.

    "Think about me," he suggested.

    "I am, you fool, to the exclusion of everything else! That's the trouble. We're like dragonflies mating in flight, three feet from a jet turbine. We're imperiled by our own obliviousness. I need an objective hazard, and I need one now."

    "I'm at a loss, Miss."

    "Giant lobsters?"

    "They're bottom dwellers, Miss. We're floating."

    "Yeah, but if, Sir, is all I'm saying."

    "If a giant lobster were to come up for a breather, and decide to snack on you, he'd have to get through me first. You have my word."

    She giggled up into the fog, and felt utterly safe and content, despite their being almost certainly lost. "All things considered," she observed to no one in particular, "we're most likely better off out here. We were supposed to have stopped living dangerously. We promised your Mom years ago, and she's going to lift you off the floor by your ears for this stunt if we do make it back to the house without chunks bitten out of us."

    He dismissively said, "We're good swimmers. We'll get back. I'm pretty sure we're headed more or less in the right direction."

    "That inspires confidence," she remarked.

    "Really. We may end up farther down the beach than we expect, that's all. And besides, my Mom was specifically concerned about the ice climbing adventures, I think."

    "And our bedtime activities, too," Jessica added with a warm smile.

    "Ahh. Well, we can be less restrained now, in that respect. We're more compatible physically. So we're in the clear on that score."

    "That's for sure. God, Sir, was that ever great. On the beach, I mean. Making love together is always just so incredible, but today... God, Nelson, I'm... so in love with you. I just... I can't even express it."

    "Seconded," he replied. "The point being, at least in that respect my Mom has less to worry about."

    Jessica chuckled and speculated, "Oh, I'm not so sure about that."

    "About what?"

    "That we're being safer in the bedroom."

    He looked at her with puzzlement, and was astonished to see her blushing, which, given their incipient hypothermia, struck him as quite an accomplishment.

    She admitted, "I have a little confession. You might be mad at me."

    A wry grin played on his lips. Their storybook relationship had been visited by minor crises now and again, but never had either one of them been angry at the other, ever.

    "Now, don't fly off the handle. It's been a crazy week. And honestly, I did tell you. In a letter."

    He still looked puzzled.

    "Sir, I dumped all my birth control pills down the toilet two weeks ago."
    He rolled over onto his back and laughed at the soupy sky.

    "You're really not mad?"

    He looked over at her, still struggling to compose himself, and put on his stern board room expression. "I suppose I ought to be," Dr. Nelson Bernard Spencer, Ph.D., upbraided her severely. "I mean, you might have told me."

    "But I did, Sir! As I've said. It was no secret, least of all to you! And anyway I did tell you, as I've been trying to explain. I told you, in my most recent letter, that I would be saying goodbye to the pills, and that we should have a celebration when they're gone, since it's just two months to the wedding and it takes a couple menstrual cycles for all that estrogen and crap to work its way out of a girl's system, so I wanted that crap flushed out so we could start making babies for real on the first night of our honeymoon, or more preferably, on the way there."

    "I have read every one of the letters you've ever sent to me, several times over, seeing as I cherish each and every one, Miss, and I know I would not have forgotten that one."

    She bit her lip and admitted, "It's not done yet. I meant to finish it, but we've been very busy. Celebrating. And besides, there's really no harm. Even if the babymaking part worked out prematurely, our wedding day is just six weeks away, so it's not like I'd bust out of the dress."

    "So, you did tell me. Two weeks ago. In a letter that you haven't given to me yet."

    "Well... yeah."

    "Jessica Turner, you're crazy! Adorable and lovable and fantastic, but crazy, too."

    She just watched him, pleased and bemused by his easy acceptance of both her news and of the somewhat belated manner of its conveyance.
    He added, "I certainly look forward to your letter, Miss, despite the spoiler. It sounds like it will be a memorable one."

    "It's in our guest room. I'll put a pithy closing on it for dinnertime. If we ever find our way back to Maine."

    They swam the backstroke together and watched for breaks in the fog, which were regrettably absent.

    "So," he mused, "by any chance do you have any other trivial news for me, which may have slipped your mind?"

    She looked at him with a big smile and said, "Still too soon to check. My period's not for a week."

    "Which means you're probably ovulating around now."

    "Well, yeah," his unabashed and unrepentant fiancée admitted with her patented evil grin.

    "My, my, we have been living dangerously today."

    "He, he, he."

    Nelson and Jessica had last talked at length about babies a long time ago, before their engagement, back when their sex life had been truly illicit, and when they had needed to reassure each other that neither one nor the other would have regarded the so-called "accident" of a pregnancy as being all that dire. They had discussed their mutual longing for children, and their anticipation of sharing in the creation of a big family, many times since then, but only in passing, since the engagement had sealed and legitimized that eventuality. Generally, the resolutions upon which Nelson and Jessica agreed were subject to neither revision nor emendation. All the same, the subject of children, and the concomitant responsibilities, transcended all the other resolutions they had ever made, so neither one begrudged the other for the renewed insistence on reassurances - not now that, most evidently, they would be living, and loving, very dangerously, indeed.

    They had stopped swimming, and treaded water, bobbing on passing swells. Yes, the swells had been growing. They had certainly been swimming in the correct direction, more or less. The swells would soon turn to waves, and they would find themselves somewhere back in Maine.

    "Sir, I know we haven't talked about making a little baby in quite some time, what with everything else. But my feelings on the matter haven't changed a bit since our last talk. Making a little baby is still the greatest gift I could ever give you, and that is all I want: to give you that gift."

    Nelson assured her, "My feelings on the matter have not changed, either, love. I am eager and impatient to start with one, if we can manage it, and proceed from there. Our house has many rooms, and we must fill them, if we can."

    "You mean your house," she said, breathlessly.

    "No, Miss, our house."

    "Not for six more weeks."

    "You're still hopeless, Miss."

    "I know, dearest, I know. Nelson, Sir, I need to make a little baby with you again."

    "I know the feeling, Miss."

    "Sir, right now. I need to be fertilized deeply by you right now."

    "Let's just get back to solid land first.

    "But we can practice making little babies as soon as we get back? With sexual coitus and deep fertilization?"

    "Yes, Miss, with no pulling out, as the Good Lord intended, I promise."

    "Goody, Sir. Lead the way back to Maine. Pronto."
    Last edited by aesexual pseudonym; 12-05-2009 at 03:22 PM.
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  12. #12
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :

    Default Book Two: Beauty - Excerpt with Rape

    In this excerpt, Greta has been in the late summer doldrums, so she is dragged to the beach (on Cape Cod, Massacshusetts) in the hopes that the outing will cheer her up. Instead, she recalls the details of the experience that broke her irreparably.

    There is some sweetness (Jessica is there, too, and gives everyone a math lesson), but for the most part, nastiness. If you want sweetness between Jessica and Nelson, stop reading now, and go up one thread.


    Codes: Mf, Romance (recollections), Rape (recollections), Violence (recollections), Torture (recollections).

    On Saturday morning, when the Westfords pulled up to collect the Turner girls, for their outing to the beach, it became immediately evident that one participant in the, Greta, had not been informed of that Jessica had been invited. Greta looked out at the sidewalk from the front seat and did a doubletake at the sight of Jessica standing there on the curb beside Colleen, but in retrospect, she realized she should not have been surprised.

    She turned to her mother and accused, "You called her."

    Anne Westford hissed, "I did not. Colleen invited her."

    Greta didn't buy it. "You called her and put her up to it. You set me up with a chaperone."

    Anne sneered at the windshield, climbed out of the Hummer, slammed the door, and joined her son, who had stepped out to help Colleen into the back seat.

    "Good morning, Jessica." Anne curtly greeted the girl.

    Jessica could taste the friction between Greta and her mother, and did not want to be in the middle. "Maybe this isn't a good idea, Mrs. Westford."

    Anne forced her grimace into a smile - after all, Greta was right that Jessica would make an excellent chaperone - and said, "No, no. Plenty of room, and we would love to have you along. All of us," she added loudly, casting a baleful eye at Greta, who refused to look at any of them.

    Greta watched and listened to the whole exchange from the front passenger seat, and cursed under her breath. Jessica would just be a major pain in the ass, with her goody-goody outlook and her indelicate questions and her smug attitude and her fucking Saturn-and-Titan engagement ring. Anne helped Jessica up into the front seat with Greta, who had climbed out to let Jessica get into the middle. Greta would do a lot of staring out the window on this trip, she decided.

    Caz and Colleen had the back seat to themselves, and Anne warned them, without much hope of its effectiveness, "Hands where I can see them, you two, from here all the way to the Cape." Anne heard a soft giggle from her son's fiery, freckled bombshell girlfriend, and seethed. Well, she had to concede that Casimir had to be the most self-assured, balanced sophomore boy in her social circle. Nothing like a dependable sexual outlet, sure as clockwork, to balance a boy. To Anne's knowledge, Casimir didn't even masturbate anymore, and she was the only mother of a fifteen year old boy in Winchester, to her knowledge, who could say that. Casimir and Colleen had been getting together four or five days per week on average, all summer long, and Anne supposed she knew what they got up to all day long. At least the girl was on the pill, so why should she, Anne, have qualms?

    Besides, Casimir was the least of her troubles. Greta had not improved one iota since the locker room incident last fall. Three diferent school appointed counselors, and two different expressly referred specialists, on top of all the other counselors they had retained over the two previous years, and Greta had not opened up to any of them. She remained absolutely incorrigible. She still snuck out constantly - Anne was certain they only managed to catch her one time out of every five - and her so-called "steady" relationship with Christopher Albrecht had not done a thing to settle her. In fact Anne had begun to suspect that Greta's prolonged episode with Christopher had served only to exacerbate her angst. And now, the biggest outrage yet, Greta had explicitly defied Anne's will and had gone out for cheerleading, behind her back. This deceitful act should have come to nothing, since freshmen never took the severely limited open slots, yet somehow Greta had achieved the impossible and had made a spot on the varsity squad. Anne did not want to contemplate what her darling daughter must have done to have pulled that off. The only shred of hope Anne now had rested in Jessica Turner. Greta and this strange, engimatic prodigy had become inexplicably close. Anne had to concede, uncharitably, that she couldn't understand the mutual attraction. Greta and Jessica Turner would appear to have had nothing whatsoever in common. Yet, back in the winter, the girls had struck up an intense and resilient friendship. Anne could not help but wonder whether Greta might have confided in Jessica, after having divulged nothing of substance to any of the so-called professionals.

    had insisted on taking the window seat, and had made Jessica sit between herself and her mother, so that she could ignore everyone and stare out the window, all the way to the Cape. Of course it did not work out that way. Jessica could be counted upon, almost immediately, to offer an unwanted olive branch.

    "Colleen invited me," Jessica explained affably enough, yet Greta found a way to interpret the comment as petulance.

    Greta fought the urge to take her eyes off the window, and finally could not help peering into Jessica's silly canvas bag full of junk. The girl appeared to have brought all of her life's possessions. A large beach towel, a calculus text that might have passed for a dictionary, a couple changes of clothes, and the portable paint set that had been given to her by Aunt Abigail for her birthday. Greta uncharitably speculated that Jessica might not be so much trouble after all; she might be too preoccupied by all of her petty diversions to play chaperone.

    Then, from Route 99 all the way to the Tobin underpass and the Southeast Expressway on-ramp, Greta had to stomach the sickeningly saccharin exchanges of goo-goo talk that constantly passed between Casimir and Colleen in the back seat. Casimir had been on top of the world all year, and apparently had no prospects for every returning to land. Seeing Colleen up close and in the flesh, it was not hard to see why. Colleen had been blessed with classical beauty - a perfect conic figure, rendered in miniature, since she stood only five-three. She had lightly freckled, fair skin, red hair, red eyebrows, complementary amber (check!) eyes, full rounded lips, and breasts that seemed to never stop growing. The fourteen and a half year old girl had recently switched to a C-cup, and on her ninety-two pound frame her breasts looked disproportionately ample. And that knockdead body belonged all to Casimir, the lucky little bastard. Greta just listened to them and seethed. No doubt Jessica and her mother heard Caz and Colleen, too, but somehow they could stomach it without wanting to tear their ears off their own skulls. The pair constantly tickled each other, and groped, and slapped, and kissed, and they did this insipid babytalk thing whenever they weren't making out, where they would goo-goo and gaa-gaa to each other like puppylove inflicted daycare buddies. No doubt they got onto a good deal more whenever the opportunity presented itself. Greta supposed she should be happy for Caz, but she couldn't find it in herself to be charitable.

    As the Hummer turned onto a ridiculously indicative bridge, a cable-stayed monstrosity known locally as the Zakim (sp?), a billion dollar hunk of concrete and steel hubris that spanned nothing but a narrow creek of fetid oil, Greta finally decided that she must either find an effective diversion from the backseat soap opera, or launch herself right out the window. So, she took out her little black diary, and an ultra-fine black pen. She curled away from Jessica and her mother, and commenced with a frenetic scratching of ink to paper, facing the window.

    Sure enough, Jessica butted in. "That's your diary, isn't it?"

    Greta inclined her head, nodded once, and went back to writing.

    Jessica sighed, but did not press further. She looked straight ahead, watched the tunnel. She had not been this way, in a car, down into the Southeast Expressway tunnel, since the fair Commonwealth had seen fit to waste seventeen billion dollars on adding a lane in each direction; just as well, Jessica observed, that the Commonwealth in its infinite wisdom had seen fit to shunt all the potential tourists and consumers underground, where they would never see fair Boston above them; the dirty tunnel walls significantly improved the view.

    They emerged from the tunnel, with the city and its many undoubtedly compelling attractions safely behind them, by the time Greta finally gave in and remarked, "I told you last week that I would show you some letters from this nasty little thing," referring of course to the little black leather bound book in her hands.

    "You don't have to."

    Several more minutes passed.

    Abruptly, Greta added, "Actually, I have been. That's what I've been texting you."

    "Those poems are from your diary?"

    "My whole diary is in poetry. It's a form of code."

    Jessica's curiosity got the best of her. She peeked over Greta's shoulder, but warily, expecting rebuke. Greta saw her do it, but made no effort to cover the pages, which should not have been surprising, since the individual letters appeared to have widths of a millimeter or less.

    Greta quietly whispered, "I could show you today's."


    "It's not much. I might add to it, later."

    Jessica just waited.

    Minutes later, Greta twisted around, and held out her diary, with all but one entry on the open page carefully concealed by her two hands. She had written the letters so small that Jessica had to put her nose to the paper and squint.

    From Greta's diary.


    do not think of me too fondly
    as the curling wake places
    its distance between us;
    do not turn and call to me after
    the signal fire has exhaled
    down to ash; this world is too
    large to hold us together

    Jessica reread the entry three times with a deepening grimace, raised her head without comment, and stared straight ahead at Quincy, which apart from the absence of mile-high smokestacks appeared indistinguishable from her own land of rust and ashes. She resolved to think fondly of her best friend, regardless of whatever her dark little diary might advise. Greta gently removed the diary from Jessica's unmoving hands.

    Inexplicably, Greta seemed to take satisfaction in Jessica's silence, and said, "I will continue to write to you, after all. Despite your knowing the source, now. And show you more. From time to time."

    "Okay," said Jessica.

    For the remainder of the drive, they said not a word to each other, and now the inane banter between Casimir and Colleen grated on Jessica's nerves, while Greta blithely scratched away with her ultrafine pen.

    By and by, the party arrived at Horseneck Beach. A significant fraction of the main parking lot was occupied by a nasty little traveling carnival. Everyone agreed, without debate or even discussion, that the beach and sun would come first. They unpacked the Hummer and began to make their way over the dunes. Colleen and Casimir, still as effusively giggly as ever, trundled the big furled up sun umbrella between them. Jessica and Greta's mother carried the cooler. Greta just hunched her head over the shoulder strap of her bag and looked injured. Jessica could already tell that Anne was losing patience with Greta, and they had only just arrived. No discussion transpired between the members of the party as they made their way over the dunes, apart from the inane and increasingly irritating banter between Casimir and Colleen. Jessica disassociated herself from the noise by concentrating upon the pleasant sensation of the hot dry sand pouring between her exposed toes as she shuffled across the landscape in her open sandals; she smiled at the perfectly blue sky, smiled at the sun, smiled at all the other people who carefully picked out trajectories up over the dunes and toward the beach; smiled at the cooler between herself and Mrs. Westford; smiled at the notion that Mrs. Westford had been married for seventeen years, and had the joy of watching her children grow up, and seemed happy, content, fulfilled on the whole; smiled at the notion that she, herself would be married as well, all too soon, with children of her own, that the years that must transpire between now and then would seem like forever, would sorely test her patience, yet she couldn't help but smile at the fact that she could anticipate and welcome her future, in its entirety, with surety. And most of all, she smiled at her engagement ring, which filled her every thought, and had a dedicated allocation of her attention on every waking moment, a crystalline proxy of her beloved Nelson himself, a pale shadow to be sure, yet an ever-present reminder of her darling love. Jessica tried to be nonchalant about the askance glances that she stole, particularly in the company of her girlfriends, who were still at stages in their lives where the prospect of a steady boyfriend filled them with the conflict between devotion and freedom, a conflict which Jessica had settled, to her complete satisfaction, with finality; she endeavored not to let her glances devolve into stares; kept her head up, and cast her eyes at the ring aslant, from behind her sunglasses, so as to minimize the chances of detection. Casimir and Colleen were busy enough entertaining each other to fall for the subterfuge, and Greta appeared to be too busy moping and holding court with her own nasty little demons to pay much attention, but Jessica supposed she wasn't fooling Mrs. Westford for a minute, the way she stifled a wry smile every time she cast her eyes back, ostensibly to check on how Jessica was doing with her half of the cooler. This suspicion was confirmed for Jessica, halfway up the largest dune, when Mrs. Westford playfully teased, "Mine is prettier."

    Anne Westford laughed lightly at Jessica's deep blush.

    "Pretty obvious, huh?"

    "Oh, I suppose you could be excused," Mrs. Westford magnanimously offered, advising her, "It will feel heavy and new on your finger for at least three years, and you've worn it for all of two weeks."

    "Not quite that long," Jessica feebly defended, and held up her left hand as she walked. Her retina executed rapid, subliminal saccades about the glittering diamond, tracing the path of its platinum Saturnian ring, punctuated by tiny golden Titan. "I suppose every woman thinks her ring is the prettiest."

    "One would hope," said Anne, and silently completed a rather dark thought: it might be that, when one's ring is no longer the prettiest, that is when one has neared the end.

    This dark observation could not have occurred to Jessica, since she had nothing before her but her future, and she observed aloud, "Well, I should think the ring beautiful. It represents being chosen and loved by the most beautiful person ever to have lived."

    Anne snidely said, "Nelson would debate that."

    Jessica conceded, "As much as I love him, he can be argumentative. But what else could it possibly mean?"

    Anne smiled and replied, "Your acceptance of him. He is, after all, as incredulous as you are."

    The revelation knocked Jessica back on her heels, that her acceptance of Nelson could ever have been called into question. Who, on the whole wide earth, could not have wanted him?

    They topped the dune. Anne led them down toward a sandy, flat spot clear of debris and not too close to the rising tide.

    Greta had listened to the exchange between Jessica and her mother, and had let it all pass with what one might have adjudged to be healthy disinterest, except that she had lost herself in her own, ever-compulsive game. Like Jessica, she kept her head straight up, but her eyes cast from one direction to another as she checked out every guy, rated each one for desirability, and imagined all the things that they might do to her. The especially attractive ones she imagined hooking up with through thinly contrived interceptions. Getting picked up by guys came easily to her. In a crowded setting such as this, all she had to do was feign the damsel in distress - to approach a guy, preferably in the presence of his pals, which would embolden him, and claim that she was lost. Inevitably the guy would offer to help, or better yet, claim that 'you're not lost anymore.' Then they would go swimming. She would ask to be thrown into the waves. His hands would grip, tickle, fondle, grope. She would giggle, and set inane rules. 'You can touch me on exposed skin only, young man,' she would say, and she would loosen her bikini bottoms, to make it easier for him to flout the rule. Or her target might be the artsy type, maybe a guy with a guitar, who would play for her, and she would soulfully assure thim that he had to be the most talented musician she had ever met. Or she would find some other mark, a lone guy, twenty-something, building a ridiculously monstrous, overtly phallic sand castle, and she would amble over, hand on hip with an appraising eye, drop her sunglasses halfway down her nose, curl a blonde ringlet in a finger, and coyly declare to this adult, who really should have been far beyond the phase of formative development that craves uncritical praise from adolescent goldilockses, 'Mmmm, very feng shui. This sand castle is fantastic. You are, like, the most talented sand castle builder on this whole beach. Could you teach me? Pleeeassse?' And the lucky lottery winner would ask, 'What's your name,' the universal opener, to which the girl would spin a dense web of lies, 'I'm Goldi, and I'm seventeen and a half, but you might as well just round up, and I'm a Virgo, and I was bored and had nothing to do all day until about two minutes ago. Can I help? Let me help. I promise I won't mess it up,' and of course she would help, on her hands and knees, or perhaps she would stand, but with her legs wide apart, bent right over at the hips, and the young lech would seize every opportunity to work behind her, on a bridge, a road, or some other puerile sandpile, to afford himself the best possible view of this slender, winsome little blondie who pretended to be seventeen and a half and pretended to be bored and pretended to be in need of rescue with nary an altruist within a ten mile radius, and all the while she really would be bored out of her mind, and sick of sand castles, and busily hoping that the guy had somewhere to take her besides his Mom's basement. Already Greta had identified several such opportunities, and had earmarked acquisition strategies for each prospect.

    Today might be a little harder than usual, but the difficulties had nothing to do with her party. Casimir and Colleen were so wrapped up in each other that Mom would be busy chaperoning them all day. Greta had lost count of the number of times that she had gotten herself raped, sometimes by multiple assailants, right under her dimwitted mother's nose.

    Jessica would be easy to escape, too. She would be lost in her dictionary sized calculus text, working her tan, beautifying herself for her darling love, or perhaps she would wile away a few happy hours fiddling with her new oil paints, or she would just lose herself on the expanse of her towel and admire her new jewelry all day long. The girl clearly had hopped on a one-way flight to la-la-land, had been hopelessly doe-eyed ever since Greta had met her. So Jessica would be no problem, either.

    The only possible impediment to getting herself laid today would be Greta herself. She had taken it just a little bit too hard last weekend, when she had snuck out and had gotten herself gangraped by three guys down at the pond. She had known, at the time, that the losers had been way too rough, but she really had hoped that the after-effects would have faded by now. She still had coffee colored bruises across her stomach, thighs, and ass. The cleft of her anus was deeply bruised, even after a week, and scabbed lacerations marred her torso, from the puncture wounds inflicted by thorns that the fuckers had tied onto her chest like a set of reins, so they could play horsey as they had fucked the hell out of her. Consequently, she had been compelled to leave her most enticing beach gear at home. She wore a sundress and sarong over a lycra one-piece swimsuit that covered her entire front and back, the sort of suit - the only kind, in fact, that had her damned mother's approval, which in and of itself struck Greta as ironic, because it was only for her mother's presence that she had made this concession. If she had been here on the beach alone, she certainly would have put on a thong and skimpy top, and would have pressed her injuries to advantage, as she had done at the cheer tryout (another sore spot with her dear mother). In the act of presenting her injuries to a guy, there could be only two reactions. Greta contended with the somewhat quaint and optimistic notion that people are diverse, that the subtleties of human behavior comprise a continuous spectrum, represented diversely in any random sample culled from any village; perhaps the youngster had become jaded before her time, but she had lived long enough to have reached the conclusion that the diversity of human experience reduced ultimately to the imperatives of need. She had once held the provisional view that need and desire offered a narrow sort of duality, but she had since come around to believe that desires reduced to need as well, that the one drove the other, a belief that had been amply supported by experience over the past few years, and so she knew, without a doubt, that the male, presented with evidence of the harsh use to which competitors had recently put her, would react either with an oddly inverted altruism somewhat reminiscent of the Florence Nightingale effect, the odd paternal empathy that would evoke an outward show of indignation and revulsion even as the soulful empath conjured a massively hard erection; or her injuries would inflame the animalistic arousal of naked lust, as the guy, having been presented with the evidence of abuse writ across her body, would see nothing but opportunity, free of transparently facile encumbrances, would feel nothing but the will to power, would desire nothing but the possession of the golden haired knockdead piece of jailbait who evidently acquiesced to being used roughly. All Greta would have to have done to have evoked either one reaction or the other, had she been wearing a string thong, would have been to present herself to some stranger, any stranger at all, bend over, spread her legs, and pout, 'Look at what my boyfriend did to me. He's such a jerk, and he knew I was coming to the beach today and he hurt me anyway. He spanked me so hard and he wouldn't stop no matter how much I begged.' The sensitive types would beg to save her, and the animals would demand to possess her, yet in either case the end result would be the same, the fevered, animalist rutting, the pressure, and the inevitable injection of hot fetid sperm. The cruel ones would waste no time. Presented with the vision and thus inflamed, they would boldly press their fingernails right into her worst bruises, pinch the purple blood blisters until she cried out, twist the welts, and pull the back of her thong's crotch panel out, right there on the beach, perhaps shielded by four or five admiring pals, to get a better view of the deep purple bruising around the roughly used rosette of her anus, and the stranger would pull the string aside to look right down into Greta's upended rectum, a view she would dutifully assist by pushing at her bowels just hard enough to open herself up for cock, and the stranger would growl, 'Well, well, you are a rudely used little girl, aren't you,' and Greta would make a show of playing for sympathy that she knew she would never get, by biting her lip and whining, 'He's so mean; he uses me that way all the time, even when I'm sore, and he does it so rough, he doesn't even let me get used to it, and he's so big, and he pulls all the way out and slams back in, over and over, and he enjoys hurting me back there, and making me bleed, no matter how much I cry,' and far from being given sympathy, she would be taken by the scruff of the neck, and would be dragged right off her feet by the animal who would taunt, as he dragged her off behind the dunes or out back behind the rest rooms, or to some ratty car that had been baking in the sun for the past three hours, 'You deserve a hard assfucking, don't you, slut,' to which she would sob, 'please, mister,' and then the slaps would start, and the prompts, and he would feed her lines, force her to sacrifice herself, and long before she reached the dunes or the restroom or the car, she would be crying, 'Yes mister I'm a slut I'm a whore I need a hard assfucking I'm sorry I talked about my boyfriend I love him and I'm sorry and you're right I need a beating so I'll learn,' and all too soon it would start, all over again, maybe just the one sadistic animal, or it might be even worse if his four or five pals followed him to join in, and they would take her over the hood of the car that had been baking in the sun all morning, upon the paint that could have fried an egg, and her ass would blister as they achieved the imperatives of their need to assuage their will to power, yet it could just as easily go the other way, if by chance she offered herself to the soulful, altruistic variety; the sensitive ones, presented with evidence of the artwork inflicted on her flesh by animals, might assure her, 'You are so pretty, so beautiful, Goldi, don't you know that? Don't you know you could do better? Why don't you just break up with him if he can't respect you?' And she would sob in the hands of the sensitive, soulful ones, as they tickled her flaxen haired little bird's nest to comfort her and to show her that there can be more to male companionship than just cruelty, domination, and pain, and she would lay her little heart bare, saying, 'I've tried to break up with him a dozen times, but he won't let me, and besides my Mom really likes him, and that first time she just sat downstairs with the TV turned up and sent me up to my room to show him my stuffed animals, and then he started hurting me, and Mummy wouldn't come up to save me, and no matter how hard I screamed she just turned the TV up louder, while my new boyfriend beat me with his belt all over my body to break me like a horse and told me I would be getting a lot more of the belt because dumb twats don't learn, and he made me watch while he cut the stuffing out of my favorite stuffed animals and said he'd do the same thing to me if I didn't shut the fuck up and then he gutted the teddy bear that Daddy gave me before he left my Mom and he fucked my teddy bear to show me what was gonna happen to me, and then he threw me right down on my slashed animals and raped me, raped me, raped me over and over and all I heard was the blasting TV downstairs and my own screams for help but no one came, and I heard my new boyfriend yelling to shut the fuck up, and he hit me back and forth with his arms, and kneed me in the belly, and he raped me all night long, and the next morning Mom made him breakfast and thanked him for breaking me in so good and teaching me how to heel and serve a man properly like a good little poke, and now he comes around all the time and uses me just as hard as the very first day, and if I complain or beg Mummy for help she just ties me down on the kitchen table and leaves me there with notes to my boyfriend, telling him that I've tattled and that he has a naughty tattler on his hands and he'd better teach me some manners, and then Mummy goes off to work and leaves me there and I have to wait, tied down to the table, for hours until my boyfriend shows up and heats the metal soup ladles in boiling water, so they'll be burning hot when he beats me with them, and I hate my boyfriend so much and he says no one breaks up with him, he's gonna use me as long as he wants and I'll be a good little poke if I know what's good for me and he'll dump me when he's good and ready, and I wish some nice boy would come along and save me,' and Greta's bullshit monologue would persist as long as it had to, in order to persuade her savior that he had a duty to show her how much better it could be, to be loved by a man, and he, too, would take her to the dunes, or behind the restrooms, or to some half-baked car, and would ply her with soulful, attentive affection that would equate ultimately to the same pressure and pain, from climax to denoument, replete with inane utterances and enough empty promises to fill just about any innocent starstruck Goldilocks with dreams and sweet longing. Sometimes Goldi never got as far as trading a false phone number, but she did always get laid, because the two possible flavors were in fact dual yet equivalent expressions of the same animalistic need, as her abductors and saviors had demonstrated time and again. Yes, she conceded, it would be somewhat harder to initiate the routine today. Marginally harder, in that the one piece lycra swimsuit looked marginally less inviting than the string thong that she had left at home, yet ultimately, the one piece suit would merely provide her chosen animal with a brief conundrum, as he puzzled, with his blood-deprived cortex, over how best to get the foolish thing off. Somewhat more challenging would be overcoming the competition - not so much from Colleen, even though the feisty little cunt was already drawing male eyes from a quarter mile in every direction, with her bright red hair shining like an emergency beacon in the bright sun. Colleen would be literally wrapped around Casimir all morning and afternoon. Game over. But Jessica might be another story. Still too small and fresh to pass for anything but jailbait, she would nevertheless draw attention in spite of herself and all the silly diversions she had stuffed into her tatty beachbag that morning. Jessica was growing up fine, and it would never occur to attracted boys and men that little Jessica could already be engaged for marriage, despite the overt evidence upon her ring finger, which male eyes seemed so adept at filtering out. Jessica would dismiss them all as bothersome flies, of course, but she would still pose a distraction. Well, no matter. Maybe Greta could parlay the attraction that Jessica presented, by capitalizing on interested eyes, the same way she had scooped Coach Peter the Magnificent right out from under oblivious, lovesick Jessica's nose at Wildcat last winter. Jessica and Colleen might be forces of nature, subjects two and three in their formidable triumvirate, but so was Greta, and she would not be deterred.

    First, she still had to contend with her mother, who seemed to be inordinately cross and already acted harried. Cazzie and Colleen were already making a grand project of setting up the sun umbrella, by conveniently getting themselves tangled up inside of it. Mom forcibly extricated them. She pulled the umbrella open and presented herself with a view of Colleen's flush, firm, brand new cleavage, and the hands of her son, in the midst of exploring that warm, humid terrain. She loudly cleared her throat, and Colleen covered up with an embarrassed giggle.

    "Damn it, Caz, this is not getting off to a good start! Try to remember that this is a public beach."

    Colleen blushed even deeper, and giggled inanely as Cazzie labored at looking contrite.

    Not five minutes later, Anne Westford, from under the umbrella, which she had claimed soley to keep the pair out of it, snarled, "You two! The towels go underneath you! And they stay there!"

    She shook her head with frustration. This day would require constant vigilance, yet surely they would find some means to satisfy each other - in the water, or off in the dunes. It would be inevitable that they would succeed. It pleased Anne to see her son well balanced and happy, with a single steady girl, and a girl who was overtly, objectively desirable to every male within Colleen's olfactory range. Anne derived vicarious pride in knowing, having heard it often enough from other PTO mothers, that Caz was the envy of all his friends. She only wished that Colleen could be just a tiny bit more demure, and slightly less accommodating. To be more like her little cousin, more like Jessica? No, that couldn't be right, either. Enough hints had been dropped to convince Anne that Jessica was no stellar angel - that she had ensnared Nelson in every possible way, that she never left Nelson dissatisfied, that she played with every bit as much intensity as she studied. No, Jessica could not be much of a role model for Colleen, at least, not in terms of her comportment with Caz. And that left Greta.


    Anne's daughter had openly defied her two weeks ago. Greta had agreed to abandon her half-baked, impulsive plan to try out for cheerleading despite the impossibility of securing a coveted spot as a freshman. Not that Greta wasn't attractive enough - she was certainly an attractive girl - if a bit flat up top for a cheerleader - and she certainly had a set of lungs. But freshmen never got the slots, and besides, cheerleading struck Anne as an unseemly form of exhibitionism, despite its recently acquired pretensions of supposed athleticism and purported respectability. Too unseemly, too unbefitting her daughter, to Anne's mind. Cheerleading offended Anne's feminist tendencies in a visceral way. The girls lined up like chorus girls in skimpy outfits, and did splits for all the drooling teenagers and gray-haired dads, contorted themselves, put themselves in straddles with big welcoming smiles, while digital cameras snap-snap-snapped away, and all for some thinly rationalized pretense having to do with team spirit. Please. If school pride and team spirit were truly the points behind the institution, why should girls do the cheering in the first place? Why not the JV football team? Anne kinew the answer, of course: because spirit really had nothing to do with it. Because the skimpy outfits, displayed by lithe teen girls spreading, were the only point. The girls were the show. Not to mention the darker musings, the rumors Anne had heard of newbie initiations, and girls raffled off for incentive, and the outer fringes of their fundraisers - the weekend auctions, where supposed 'maids' sometimes did much more than housecleaning, and the team car washes, at which the biggest tips were earned by participants who did more than clean cars. Too unseemly for Anne's daughter, too far beneath her. And they had reached a tacit understanding, or so Anne had thought at the time. Greta would go out for a sport, instead - a real sport, like tennis or the swim team. Greta had gone out every morning over the past two weeks for try-outs and practice, only to return with the news that she had been selected for the varsity cheerleading squad. Greta had made the announcement to her father, at the dinner table, and he had immediately congratulated her with a hug, had thereby thrown cold water on Anne's predilection to explode. Anne had still not confronted Greta about it. She had been waiting until this morning. Greta seemed to be in the midst of an especially sensitive time. Hopefully it was just the impending first day at a new school, and all the concomitant pressures, complicated by the desire for a fresh start, after the debacle at the middle school last year, when those three monsters had dragged her into a locker room and molested her. Anne had fought to convince Max to sue the parents and the school, but Max would not be persuaded, and Greta herself had been no help, had outright refused to denounce her molesters. No doubt she had been coerced, threatened, maybe even blackmailed. So Greta wanted a fresh break from that nightmare, and an opportunity to establish herself with a new circle of friends. Anne could understand that. But cheerleading! Anne had to somehow convince her daughter that this choice would only land her right back into the same pernicious meat grinder. Something had to be said.

    Jessica and Greta had laid out towels, and had taken off their sun dresses. Anne approved of the one piece lycra suit that Greta had selected for herself (she had not seen the concentric rings of puncture wounds around her torso, of course), and thanked her lucky stars that she would not have to force her daughter to change into the suit that had hidden in the bottom of her bag. Jessica wore a bikini that consisted mostly of string, with bottoms that barely covered her butt and tiny triangles across her slender chest - a pink thing with vertical white pinstripes. God, did the girl ever pull it off. Anne tried to visualize little Jessica smothered underneath Dr. Nelson Spencer, and the effort failed her. Now the pair were rubbing sunscreen onto each others' backs. Anne wondered whether the girls would separate long enough to give her time to confront her daughter about the cheerleading. Her cell phone rang, startling her out of that particular contemplation, and she remembered that she had been expecting a call that morning.

    Anne abruptly stood up and walked away as she took the call. Greta watched and glared. Jessica instantly registered the sudden iciness in Greta's demeanor, and straightened up to gently stroke Greta's back. She did not ask what was wrong. She had seen enough mendacity between parents, and the effect that such petty, selfish deceits had upon children, to know that details about the underlying causes of Greta's current rage would only sadden her. And it disheartened her to realize that so few couples were immune. She did not know what was worse - the low grade psychological and sexual abuse that her own mother had suffered throughout her childhood, forced into a shotgun marriage and forced to subsist in a state of de facto indentured servitude, or Greta's parents, people who had money and liberties, educated and cultured couples possessed of every superficial advantage, people who should have known better than to hurt each other and the people around them.

    "Maybe it's your Dad, or a relative," Jessica offered, without much hope.

    Greta shook her head and whispered, "She would not have walked away. She would have stayed right here, if it were Dad."

    "I'm sorry, Greta."

    Greta looked down at her lap and said, "Daddy suspects. He works so hard. For her, and for us. And this is how she treats him. Day after day at that fucking sports club, wetting God knows whose fucking dick. She should have stuck with her tennis racquet, and kept plunging that up her filthy twat. I want to lay into her fucking cunt with a power drill."

    Jessica blanched, and stared out at the sea.

    Presently Mrs. Westford returned and announced that Greta's counsins would be joining them, and would be bringing lunch, which would absolve them of having to wander across to the seedy carnival for stale, reheated pizza. Jessica glanced at Greta, said nothing, but waited with a hopeful expression.

    Greta smirked at Jessica and whispered, "Good try, Mommy dearest, but that's old news. They made the plans, and Aunty Val confirmed yesterday. I read the text on Mom's Blackberry yesterday afternoon."

    Jessica laid face down on her towel, and purposefully pulled her new oil paint set out from the canvas bag. Casimir and Colleen were busy cavorting on their towel. Anne took her opportunity without so much as acknowledging Greta's present disposition, and did so at her peril.

    "Young lady, we still have to talk."

    "Who, me? I'd figured as much. Mom, can't we do this another time?"

    "School starts tomorrow. We are not going to have another opportunity."

    "I would rather you didn't embarrass me in front of my friends," Greta pleaded, making eyes at Jessica.

    "She's not listening. And even if she were, this is too important. I am not putting it off any longer. Your cousins will be here in less than half an hour."

    "I don't want to fight," Greta insisted.

    "Neither do I. All I want is to talk. If you're concerned about eavesdroppers, let's take a walk on the beach."

    Greta thought that over, and realized her mother would be more likely to pull her punches in the presence of witnesses. "No. Let's talk here. Whatever you have to say, I'm likely to tell Jess anyway."

    Greta's mother glanced ruefully at Jessica, who pretended to fiddle around with her new paints, and ground her teeth together. "Fine. We had an agreement."

    "We did?"

    "That you would drop this ridiculous idea to go out for cheerleading. That you would go out for a real sport, like tennis or swimming. You're good at those."

    "I'm good at cheerleading."

    "It's not even a sport. We had an understanding, and you intentionally defied me."

    "We did not have an understanding. You talked at me, and I ignored you, as always."

    "You certainly do."

    "Mom, I'm good at cheerleading. I made the team. Freshman never make the team. I don't get this at all."

    "You made the team," her mother scoffed, "faint praise indeed. It's cheerleading. It's just flaunting yourself like some kind of- of-"

    "Don't even, Mom." Greta could feel her ears burning. Jessica might still be pretending to have lost herself in the paints, but Colleen and Cazzie had stopped cavorting and were certainly listening in. She tried to reason with her mother, in a harsh whisper. "They never pick freshmen for varsity. They picked me. I'm good at it. I'm at a new school. I need friends. All the most popular kids in school are on either the cheerleaders or the football team. Cazzie gets to be a football player, and you have no problem with that. Just because I made a little mistake last year, you expect me to be some kind of nun."

    "That is not what I expect at all, Greta. I don't mind if you have friends and a social life. Of course I want that for you, the same way I want it for Caz-"

    "I am not Caz!"

    "You're not a floozy, either! I've heard the stories. Most of those cheerleaders are just sluts and nothing more. Having friends and being popular - that is one thing. But there are right and wrong ways to go about it."

    "Casimir has good friends, and all my friends are sluts. Real good, Mom."

    "You could make friends in tennis or swimming, too. This is not about making new friends or gaining popularity. I am not some idiot or typecast parent from a cheap sitcom, and I resent the insulting tone you've been taking since this discussion began. You are intentionally defying me. That is what this is about. That is all this is about."

    "Jessica thought it was a good idea."

    While Jessica cringed and scrunched her eyes tight, Greta's mother hissed, "Jessica might be exceptionally bright, but she is just fourteen. I wouldn't call her the be all and end all for proper behavior."

    Greta snarled, "Daddy thought it was a good idea, too."

    Anne Westford stopped dead in her tracks. "He what?"

    "You heard me. Daddy thinks I'll make a great cheerleader." Greta regretted dragging Daddy into it, but since it was too late to take it back, she might as well load it on.

    "I'll just bet he does."

    And that was how, for better or worse, the conversation ended, because Greta hopped up onto her feet and stalked away.

    Colleen and Casimir fell into a huddle of hushed whispers, but went back to cavorting, too. Jessica continued to pretend to be lost in the subtleties of her paints.

    Mrs. Westford violently rearranged the contents of her beach bag. Minutes passed before she implored, "Jessica?"

    Jessica didn't move, didn't respond.

    "Jessica. I know you're paying attention."

    Still Jessica didn't budge.

    "Greta has confided in you."

    Not a question.

    "You know what happened to her. Why she is the way she is."

    Jessica sighed.

    "I know it," Anne Westford bitterly declared. Then she flew at Jessica, so abruptly that the girl rolled backward with alarm. Anne grabbed Jessica's wrist tightly and demanded, "What happened to her? What happened to my daughter?"

    Jessica just glanced with alarm from Anne's distraught face to the fingers that painfully clenched her wrist. Anne must have realized that she was hurting the girl, and carefully relaxed her grip.

    "I'm sorry, Jessica. I'm sorry. I just- I just don't know what to do. She won't talk to me. Or anyone. Five professional therapists. School counselors. She hasn't opened up to any of them. She talks to you. You know. You know what happened to her."

    Jessica breathed hard, looking down at the red handprint on her wrist. "She- she told me a little. But not nearly enough. She told me the bare minimium, only enough to explain... the way she had treated me last winter."

    "What did she tell you?"

    "Mrs. Westford-" Jessica felt like she wanted to just fall apart. "Greta is my only friend-"

    "She's my daughter!"

    "And your daughter didn't tell you! Please, Mrs. Westford, please! If I thought it would help Greta, to tell you and lose my best friend, I would. This second. You wouldn't have to even ask. Because I've been struggling to find a way to help her, and I'm at a loss myself. But she wouldn't tell you what happened to her, and she must have her reasons. That's between you and her-"

    "But just a hint! Anything!"

    "Mrs. Westford, Greta is a lot better than she was. She has gotten a lot better. If I told you- God- I just know it wouldn't make her better."

    Anne Westford, perennially preoccupied with appearances, now made some insipid remark to the effect that her sister would be there soon with lunch in tow, and Greta had disappeared, God only knew where.

    "I'll go find her," Jessica said, without much hope of success, and hopped up.

    Greta nearly broke her personal record by picking up an adult male stalker within three minutes of stomping off on her own. Greta could not have made more than a five minute head start, but that was all it took. She had wandered away aimlessly, on a path vaguely toward the dunes. Her head darted this way and that, and her fine flaxen ringlets bounced around her shoulders. She had only been growing her hair out since January. She wished it could have been longer; the bouncing of her curls would have transpired to better effect. She looked about furtively, with her bottom lip between her teeth and her gray-blue eyes peeking above the rims of the sunglasses that hung on the bottom of her nose.

    Men were everywhere. Screw the boys. Fuck'em. The men, everywhere, checked her out as she moved. Greta became aware of herself, and of her effect on all the roving eyes, and played that awareness to advantage by twisting just so to look behind her shoulder, and by leaning on a hip, and by arching her back to push her small a-cup chest out and accentuate the curve of her firm narrow bum. She played to the hilt the pretense of being lost, and not a single man on the beach felt a trace of concern for her distress. The men felt lust, nothing more. Most of them could not, or would not, act on it. But on this crowded beach, with at least five hundred males in the immediate vicinity, there would inevitably be some who would be there alone, there on the prowl, with neither wives nor girlfriends in tow, there for one reason only, that being to pick up a hot girl and get lucky. Greta pretended to be lost, yet she was busy, too: checking out the men, not to gauge their interest, but to pick her mates. The damning thing of it was that the men whom she found most desirable, all too often, were already with partners. Not that she cared too much; that status hardly invalidated them, in her experience. Why should that be surprising? Why should it not be the case that the men whom she found most desirable were in fact unversally desirable, and desired by others? She concealed a smirk as she caught, out of the corner of her eye, a woman scowling at her husband, who castigated himself for getting caught checking out 'that kid.' The man looked buff, cut, fit. Looked like he worked out. His wife had let herself go three brats ago and felt so bad about herself that she couldn't take her sundress off in this ninety degree weather. She couldn't stand herself, yet she expected her husband to settle for her. He probably had children of his own. Maybe daughters. A daughter Greta's age, off somewhere on the beach, on a mission not entirely unlike Greta's, a daughter whom he dreamt about. He dreamt of his own daughter, and hated himself for it. He closed his eyes when screwing his wife from behind- or worse- would fuck her only in the dark, so he wouldn't have to look at her at all, and he would dream of stretching his own daugter from the inside, and pacing himself to her screams as he raped his own little girl. How many times had Greta heard that 'you're so pretty, I have a daughter your age, she's a pretty little angel, just like you, do you have a Daddy who loves you the way I love my little girl? I could be your Daddy just for today, and I could love you just how you like it best,' and now Greta looked for blond blue eyed men, or better yet, blond couples together with pretty blond children, and she identified such a family almost immediately, and fortuitously split up, to boot: a man surrounded by towels and plastic pails, with the toys' owners absent, yet no doubt somewhere nearby. Greta cast a quick appraising eye toward the surf and spotted a woman with two blonde children, one little boy, and an older girl. Greta made eye contact with the man for a split second. He pretended not to acknowledge her, but as she passed at a diagonal she could see his neck move, almost imperceptibly, as his eyes tracked her from behind his glasses. Greta intentionally stopped, twisted full around at the hips, showed him her slender profile, accentuated to alluring effect by the one piece suit. She could feel his eyes boring in now. From the corner of her eye she could see that his head had turned right around; he was looking up at her ass. Greta pivoted and faced him. He gruffly cleared his throat; his head snapped back to his family. Then he turned again, transfixed by the ringlets that framed her heart shaped face, unable to help himself. The wife must be watching now, from the surf line, throwing daggers. Greta wondered if she could get this idiot to stand and follow her, to abandon his wife and children, even for a second, that critical lapse when he forgot himself, forgot his responsibilties, forgot that he was standing and flaunting a rock hard erection in the presence of some little piece of jailbait. Greta might instigate a divorce, with any luck, right here on the beach. She would give him an out. She would let him speak first. The idiot did not disappoint. By now the tweener daughter must be watching, too, right along with the mother. Watching her venerable father figure acting like a reprehensible little pig. The man's mouth opened. Words came out.

    "Hello, there, may I help you?"

    "I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else." Laconic, polite. Give him another out. The wife had taken a couple steps forward. He could still redeem himself. Wish her luck, and turn away. Back to his wife and children.

    No. He stood up. He actually fucking stood up, and approached her, for his wife and children to see, the dumb miserable fuck.

    "Well, I am sure I could help. We could even be related."

    Greta sweetly replied, "You did look just like the man I am looking for."

    "Are you looking for your Dad?"


    "At least you're not alone. Or maybe that's too bad." A moronic laugh. A moron. A middle manager, no doubt, who lorded it over subordinates from a fancy Herman Miller chair while surving the internet for bad porn all day long on a crappy little computer that faced away from the door so he could hit Alt-F4 in time, on the off-chance that his own boss might take a break from hours-long bouts of profligacy.

    "Roger? Who is this?" The wife. Here already. She had moved fast.

    Greta said, to the incensed woman, "Hi. I'm Goldi. Roger was just going to help me find someone."

    Just when it started to get good, a quick tap on Greta's shoulder. Fuck.

    Jessica sweetly said, "There you are."

    Greta smiled brightly. "Oh, thank God! Like, I've been looking all over." Then she turned back to the man whose wife was about to provide him with a new asshole. "Thank you for your help, Roger. It's been nice meeting you."

    The moron said to Jessica, "You should put her on a leash."

    Greta sweetly said, "Maybe we'll try that," as Jessica dragged her away.

    "You sure do work fast," Jessica fretted.

    "Ahh, it was only fun. Nothing was gonna happen, with his wife right there."

    "Hah. That man was ready to abandon them and take you straight to the parking lot."

    Greta gave Jessica a devious grin, and said, "Would have been fine with me."

    "Greta, you would have ended up in a catfight with the guy's wife."

    "I could have taken her."

    Jessica hugged Greta as they walked.

    Greta said, "Let's not go back there. Not yet."

    "Your cousins are bringing lunch in a few minutes."

    "All the more reason to stay away," Greta retorted darkly. "Come on, please? Let's go in the water for awhile."

    Jessica exhaled into her lower lip, to blow the bangs out of her eyes. "As long as you don't hit on a few guys and give me to one of 'em."

    "I know, I know. You're taken. I really am happy for you, Jessi, when I'm not being a sicko twisted goth perve."

    They walked down toward the surf. Now all the eyes were on them again. Not only the men, but the boys, too.

    They entered the water, and kept going, until they had to hold hands and hop up and down as the swells passed them, to avoid going underwater.

    "Thanks for not judging me back there."

    "Who says I wasn't judging you?" Jessica demanded.

    "Well, at least you kept it to yourself. I've told you many times that I am not in a good place right now."

    "Yes, you have. But you made cheerleader! That's great, isn't it?"

    Greta shrugged, and swiftly recalled the ordeal that she had endured to secure the spot. Jessica's next question put it right out of her mind.

    "So, Christopher hasn't come to say good-bye, has he?"

    Greta sighed and shook her head.

    "I'm sorry. You deserve better than that."

    Greta quietly said, "He's never been all that nice to me. What I mean is, this isn't entirely out of character. As far as he's concerned, no doubt, we're still a couple and he can still come around when he feels like getting some."

    "Umm, well, can he?"

    Greta shrugged, "I suppose so. I mean, like I said, nothing has really changed."

    Jessica squeezed Greta's hands and said, "You will meet someone who will treat you better."

    "It's not his fault, Jess. I think he really is making an effort. I can't expect him to be good for me, if I'm not good for myself. I've been thinking about it for a long time. You know how, when we first met, I was so jealous of you, because I had the hots for Nelson?"

    "Sure, umm, I remember."

    "Yeah. Well, I wanted to be treated by a man the way Nelson treats you. It wasn't so much Nelson, per se. Don't misundertand - not that he isn't, like, some sort of Greek god. You, like, so cashed in when you landed him. What I mean is that, for me, any man would have sufficed, as long as I could have been loved and adored, the way you are. But that's how Nelson treats you, because you are good, and lovable, and adorable, and most of all, happy."

    Jessica softly chided, "You never knew me before Nelson came into my life."

    "Oh, please. Come on, Jessi. You were happy before Nelson, admit it. Not as happy, I'll grant you that. What I mean is, you had it all together."

    Jessica inclined her head, and found herself impressed with both Greta's perception and her grasp of human nature.

    "As for me, I was none of those things. Neither good, nor lovable, nor happy. Nelson would not have treated... someone like me... the way he treats you. He would have treated me like dirt, like furn... like an object to use. He would have been awful to me, and he would have hurt me, because I am not good, and I'm not supposed to feel loved or pretty. I'm just trash for assholes to whale on."

    This little soliloquy had Jessica distraught on several levels, not the least of which being the word that Greta had caught mid-syllable, which Jessica had sworn would have come out as furniture. "That is so not true, Greta! You are good and lovable and beautiful! You have a beautiful heart, Greta."

    "Yeah, right. You're blinded by your adoration for Nelson. My heart is destroyed. And Christopher hasn't called. He goes back to school today, and he has our cell. He could have called anytime this morning, just to say good-bye. But the thing is, if he had come over this morning, just to fuck me? I would have let him. He could have used me any way he wanted, and I would have let him, as much as it would have hurt me. He's nothing but the best that trash like me will ever get."

    "Greta, I'm scared for you!"

    "You don't have to be. I'm resigned to what I am. One of these times someone's gonna fuck me up bad. Gonna go way overboard. But I can't find the energy to care. I- I'm not suicidal. I'm sure of that. I couldn't be bothered to end it myself, to be honest. But I can't find the energy to go on, either."

    "You can't be that way, Greta! You can't! You have so much to live for. You can't let people hurt you like this!"

    Greta smiled wanly and gently said, "I know you mean well, but you really are very much the hypocrite."

    Jessica had no idea what Greta meant, and said so.

    "Come on, Jess. You've told me about your reckless devotion to Nelson. I admit I'm not devoted to anything, except my need to feel, for lack of a more formal diagnosis. But your recklessness is just as dangerous. You'd do anything with Nelson, and he works on you, too, you've even told me."

    "Not anymore," Jessica tersely insisted, now very uncomfortable.

    "What do you mean?" Greta grabbed Jessica's left hand and shook it, making the engagement ring jiggle on Jessica's finger. "You've given yourself to him, for fuck's sake. He works on you now, more than ever."

    "No. Really, Greta. Not anymore. I mean, sure, I'd let him, if he wanted to, you're right about that. Anything he wants. If it excited him, or even if he just felt like it, for whatever reason. I'm his, for whatever he wants, however he wants it. But he doesn't. Not anymore. He just isn't rough with me anymore, ever."

    "The engagement?"

    "No, it changed before that." Jessica had not told this story to anyone, and did not want to tell it now. But she knew that it had to be of importance to Greta. Perhaps it might even be crucially important to her best friend. "Secret," Jessica demanded.

    "Secret," Greta agreed.

    "I had a deathwish, for lack of a better term. I wasn't suicidal, not at all, which I suppose is what made it so sick. I got this twisted kick out of placing myself at Nelson's mercy. I had this craving to serve him, and to prove myself to him, by submitting to whatever he wanted. But I am over it. He cured me."


    "It is not something that could apply to you. Or anyone else, really. The circumstances were unique, and it couldn't help you."

    Greta crossly said, "Nothing could help me. I am beyond redemption. But I just want to know."

    Jessica scowled at the ground. She did not want to have this conversation. Greta was bad enough already, without Jessica's own demons for further inspiration. "Greta, it's a beautiful day, and we're on a beach, surrounded by buff, available guys."

    "Not that you'd notice."

    "Come on, lighten up. Let's check out guys. We can rate them. It'll be fun."

    "I'll take a rain check on that, and I'll hold you to it. First, tell me how you got over this deathwish of yours."

    Jessica knew that Greta would not relent. And it might help her, though at this point she did not see how. "I've told you that Nelson can have anything. That he can do anything he wants. And he can be very imaginative. But he has no limits, even today, and I occasionally remind him of that fact, just for nostalgia, and to assure him that nothing has really changed. In case he wants to, umm, have a little fun at my expense. The point is that I am a danger to myself, still."

    "Yeah, you've told me that. But you keep saying, 'even today,' and, 'still,' and it's driving me crazy. What happened that made him stop working on you?"

    "You know that we hike. All the time. We're always up in the woods, right?"

    "Yeah, you exercise so much you're gonna die young from the strain. It's weird. So, what of it?"

    "Umm, well that's exactly the point. We did nearly die of the strain."


    "Back in March. Remember when Nelson was in a cast, and I had a shoulder brace and a broken nose?"

    "You said you wrecked yourselves skiing."

    Jessica just looked archly at Greta.

    Greta blinked and gaped, "You didn't?"

    "Secret," Jessica demanded again.

    "Cut the crap and tell me!"

    Jessica looked as though she would not say another word.

    "Okay, okay, secret!"

    "We were out ice climbing early one morning. We crossed paths with another team of climbers. The other team - three college guys from New York - stranded themselves under a giant shelf of snow. They were about to trigger an avalanche, so Nelson crossed over to help them. You might have read about it or seen it on TV."

    "I've been kind of out of the whole pop culture thing for the past three or four years." Greta admitted.

    Jessica sighed. "Anyway, Nelson fell when the avalanche hit, but I braced him on a rope. He says I saved his life, but not even. I was just being a good teammate. But that's how I wrecked my shoulder, by anchoring the rope so he wouldn't fall. Then, above, we got stranded ourselves. I was too weak to go on, but Nelson wouldn't leave me. I... knew I couldn't go on, and... begged him to leave me, and live. But he tied me to himself, and when another avalanche hit, he held onto me and somehow also kept us from getting swept away. Then he carried me down. So he saved my life. And, having been nearly dead - it does wonders for one's clarity."

    Greta could do nothing for a moment but gape and squeeze Jessica's hands. Finally she summed up, "So you saved each other's lives. In one day."

    "It was mostly him."

    "Your whole life is a fucking fairytale."

    "It didn't feel that way at the time."

    Greta shook her head at the enormity of this new revelation. Greta had always known that Jessica and Nelson were almost freakishly tight, but God!

    "And what about those other guys? The New Yorkers. Nelson saved them, too?"

    "Yes and no. That's the other thing. Only one survived. The leader fell eight hundred feet in the first avalanche. On his way down the leader hit another one - Josh-" and she nearly broke up saying the name- "and with steel crampons on his feet he shattered Josh's skull. The third guy survived, but he must be a mess. No one can find him. See, Josh didn't die right away. Gregg was stuck up there with him, on the ice. They were just a few feet apart, and for almost three hours Gregg just tried to keep Josh breathing - and Josh's skull all shattered - and his brain - well, you can just imagine how messed up Gregg must be. He disappeared. Didn't even go home. Fled the hospital as soon as he could stand, and just disappeared. Dropped out of Columbia University. Nelson has tried to get in touch with him, but his parents don't even know where he is. And that isn't even all. We ran into six other people on the way down. They were coming up. Three men and three women. Two of the women took one look at me and turned right around, but the other four proceeded straight up into a hurricane force blizzard and got themselves lost on a slope under the summit, called the Alpine Garden. Because of the ice climbing fiasco, the rescuers were stretched thin already, and it took ten hours to find the four who had insisted on going on up. By the time they got them down, one was so bad that he died three days later in the hospital, and the other three had to have fingers and toes amputated. So, three dead, three mutilated, and one - Gregg Collins - presumably in a gutter somewhere, insane.

    "As you can imagine, Nelson and I have been nothing but gentle and tender to each other, ever since. I do reassure him that he can play with me, or as you would say, work on me, to his heart's content, but I think he just doesn't have it in him. It's hard to get him to even think about tying me up, when we're both having flashbacks of me getting my arms torn from their sockets on the wall of Huntington Ravine. Kind of makes dungeons and racks seem rather lame by comparison. I think I'd just die of laughter if he ever tried to restrain me with silly props."

    "So the sex has gotten rather lame, too, I take it."

    Jessica smiled and gave that trademark bashful blush. "Oh, no. Tender and gentle is very, very nice. Better, in fact. Much, much better, for both of us. After all, I don't like to be hurt. I mean, it hurts, right? I only ever submitted to Nelson for the rush that submission gave me. If, down the road, he comes around and becomes - playful - again, I will give myself over to him completely, and that will be another kind of nice, because it's him I will be submitting to. But the compulsion to prove myself to him - to put my life in peril for him by some dare or some monumental act of stupidity - I think that's pretty much gone for good. Been there, done that."

    "Yet you two still hike, and I take it you'll be back up there again this winter."

    "Sure. I love the outdoors, and so does Nelson. And I'm sure we'll get into scrapes. But not to entertain some deathwish. I'll be fighting like the dickens to live, and so will he. We look out for each other all the time, now - even with things as simple as crossing the street. The mutual protectiveness has become second nature. And from now on we're going to steer well clear of other parties, to minimize collateral damage and reduce the potential for errors of circumstance."

    "Well, you are right. That solution would not work for me. I don't even like to camp, let alone hang off an icy cliff like some idiot."


    "And besides," Greta continued, unperturbed by Jessica's chagrin, "I've never been with a guy who would not have cut loose and bolted on me, and left me there to freeze to death, after getting one last blowjob."

    "Christopher is nice," Jessica insisted, perhaps too obstinately.

    Greta snorted and muttered, "If he ever calls me again, I'll be sure to confirm that for you."

    They held hands for awhile. Jessica realized that Greta had tuned out and must be thinking her own inscrutable thoughts, because she seemed to be staring right through Jessica's eyes. There were several high school aged boys not far away, fighting for control of a tire tube, and magically defying the current to edge their game gradually closer - transparently showing off, advertising. Jessica glanced at the boys, and arched her eyebrows significantly at Greta, who apparently failed to notice. Yet Jessica was mistaken. Greta did notice. No male ever escaped her attention, least of all the interested ones.

    Without so much as glancing up at the boys, Greta registered and catalogued their presence, imagined herself being taken by them, over the dunes, taken and ravished. She had to clear her head of these compulsions, at least for the time being, because she felt embarrassed to be having them in the presence of her best friend. She recalled an all too familiar dream, in which family and friends, in public, attempted to hold normal conversations with her, and attempted not to notice, while she quietly masturbated right in front of them. Greta often caught herself, in public, at school and on widewalks, not only thinking about masturbation, but even catching her fingers as they crept under the loose leg holes of her shorts while she parted her thighs, subliminally offering herself to any male in the vicinity. She couldn't help herself. She must be going mad. Sooner or later she would fail to catch herself at it, and she would be arrested on a sidewalk or in a public cafe or at a library, caught in the act of desperately manualizing her trembling clit in the presence of mothers and chlidren. Would it matter, to the eyes of the law, that she would not have been aware of having been doing it? Most likely not. That excuse did not work with child predators, so why should it work with the most passive and complicit of their supposed victims? Child predators were simply locked away in the sanitorium for a daily regimen of tazers and sodomy beneath pig orderlies, and electroconvulsive therapy to the purportedly evil bits of their fucked up brains. Greta couldn't imagine a reason why she should hope for better. Thank Christ Jessica held both Greta's hands at this point, because she needed to touch herself, in the crowded water where she just might get away it, so badly that it hurt. She forced herself to speak.

    "Thanks for telling me that. You're my only friend, Jessi."

    "I don't believe that."

    "Makes no difference. I will add it to the list of secrets I will never betray. I do hope Nelson finds that one who survived."

    "I wonder whether being found would help him," Jessica mused.

    Greta had to concede that Jessica had a point, because in her experience no amount of revelation and carthasis had ever done any good. "It might dissuade him from killing himself. If he hasn't done that already."

    Jessica ground her teeth and fought back tears. "And what about you?"

    Greta resolutely said, "I told you. It's not like that for me. I know you're afraid for me, but you don't have to be. I'm not suicidal."

    "Greta, come on. Really. I'm seriously asking. I love you, and I'm so afraid."

    Tears suddenly welled up in Greta's eyes. "You love me?"

    Jessica threw her arms around Greta and hissed, "Of course I do, you idiot!"

    This emotional display, and the hug between the girls in particular, had captured the undivided attention of the high school boys, who had dropped the pretense of the tire tube battle and now just gaped.

    Jessica broke the hug and snarled at the boys, "Buzz off!"

    They returned to their game, but in close proximity, undeterred, splashing all the more, hitting the girls with collateral splashes as though they needed to be reminded of the boys' presence.

    Greta rolled her eyes at the buzzing flies and said, "Them, for instance. I registered them long before you did."

    "How do you know?"

    "Because I'm better at hiding the fact. I saw them from more than a hundred yards away, before we stepped into the water. They've wandered so far from their party just to reach us that their Mommies are probably filling out missing person reports."

    "Umm, well you're right. I didn't notice them until they were on top of us. But given my perpetually besotted state, I imagine that would be understandable."

    Greta took another absent glance at the three boys, smiled wanly, and divulged, "Those clowns are fairly obvious."

    "What do you mean?"

    "I mean, to your left there's a man with a beer belly and a balding pate, and he's nearly drowned his daughter three times, from being distracted by us. Then there's the black guy thirty yards away on your two o'clock, watching us while he pretends to play ball. Then there's a guy on the shore, pretending to be on the phone, while he takes pictures. Mostly of little girls with plastic pails leaning over holes with their asses up, but he got a few snaps of you and me as we came out into the water, and he's about to enter the water for more, because he thinks we're a pair of smitten lesbians. And also, the guys with the dreadlocks, to your eight o'clock, signalling to see if we want to party with them, and another guy to your six o'clock, who just got yelled at again for the third time by his wife-"

    "Okay, okay, I get it."

    "In my defense," Greta persisted, "I wouldn't be getting half this much attention alone. You're pretty darned hot yourself, and your bikini looks so pink and so... removable."

    "It's double knotted," Jessica coldly insisted.

    Greta snickered, "The point being, while I may not be suicidal, I am rather self destructive. None of these guys want me for my personality, yet I'm pretty much open to anything. And with my Mom right up there on the beach, watching us and wondering and whispering to my bitchy aunt, it really is a good thing you came and found me, because I would have been picked up by now, right under my mother's nose, if you hadn't come."

    Jessica furtively looked around and asked, "By which one?"

    "Any one. Or any of them, plural. Wouldn't matter. As I said, I'm self destructive. I'm not good for myself. And most guys, when they realize I'm pretty much open to anything at all, well they do tend to take advantage. Because most guys, believe it or not, don't get some anywhere near as regularly as they let on."

    "When you say 'anything at all,' do you mean-"

    "I mean anything. Anything at all. And not just sex. Anything. It is a problem. These nuts on the tire tube - they're kids. Probably get off easy with them. A circle jerk, maybe. Or I might have to swallow for them. But the older guys- the guys who have been begging to put handcuffs on their wives for fifteen years- or the guys who have just divorced and want to work off their frustrations against the entire female or gender- or the guys who've been lying in bed wide awake wacking off to their own daughters for the past decade and hate themselves, one, for having such vile thoughts, and two, for lacking the balls to just sneak down the fucking hall, and three, for their wives' refusal to get themselves killed in car accidents to clear the way for the attainment of all their fucked up fantasies- well, for those guys, it takes more than a handjob or a suck to satisfy them. And those guys- they can make it hurt. Bad. Sometimes it only hurts getting raped. Other times- well, most guys can be pretty sick, when they finally let their fantasies loose in a situation free of repercussions."

    "So, umm, would you try for the high school boys, or the dirty old men?"

    "Doesn't matter. Last one's a rotten egg. As I've said, it's a problem."

    "So you do like being hurt, I take it."

    "No, of course not."

    "Then you think you deserve it."

    Greta laughed. "No. No one really thinks like that. Only in men's moronic fantasies. They sure do make me say it often enough."

    "Say what?"

    "Come on, you know. 'Please beat me, please hurt me, please cut me and fuck me up, I'm a bad girl and I deserve to be beaten.' Nelson's never made you beg for more?"

    Jessica quietly said, "I used to have to convince him to spank me, beause he didn't like to do it."

    "Sure he didn't," Greta scoffed.

    Jessica bit her lip and quietly admitted, "Once he was hurting me, he would warm up to the task, I guess. But he didn't want me to want it. I would have to submit, even though I didn't want it."

    "You say that as though it's ancient history, and he'll never rough you up again."

    Jessica shrugged and said, "The climbing disaster is still kind of raw. It was only six months ago. My shoulders still hurt to this day, when I stop and think about it. And Nelson is still careful with his whole left side - he punctured a lung from three snapped ribs. I suppose we might play more... creatively... again, and if he wants to, that will be fine. I will always have that need to please him, however he wants. But I suspect we'll always be more careful with each other, after what happened. But even if he does get rough - which would be okay with me - it would be just another dimension of our love, and our need to please each other. It would be just another form of play - of lovemaking - but with the pain. For instance: he has even offered to submit to my hurting him."

    "No way."

    Jessica nodded earnestly. "Oh, yes. He has told me that he is at my pleasure, and that he would submit to anything I wished to do to him - to hurt him - if I wanted to. Of course I have never taken him up on the offer. The idea repulses me. I'm just not wired that way, I guess. But like everything else that transpires between us, this dimension - the subjugation and submission - really is entirely reciprocal. And that is why it is okay with me, I guess. My Dad used to thrash me a lot, on any thin pretext, and I am sure he enjoyed doing it far too much, if you know what I mean. And I hated it. I hated him for it. I guess I still do hate him, on some level. But I love Nelson so much. I would do anything, submit to anything. But only for him. I could never be that way for a stranger. That would be rape, plain and simple. Like all those pigs you've mentioned: I would fight to the death if any one of them so much as touched me, because this body belongs to Nelson, and I would be obligated to defend it against the violation, for him."

    Greta glared and said, with conviction, "It's rape for me, too."

    "Yet you walk right into it, knowingly."

    "Yes," Greta sighed, "I do. I do not pretend to understand it."

    "Greta, you're like an adorable little doll. Now more than ever, now that you've let your hair grow out. For most of these pigs, you're a dream come true, and most of them are too swept away by their good luck to really work you over. You've just been lucky that nothing really bad has happened."

    Greta nodded briskly and said, "That is absolutely true."

    "Do these guys even wear condoms?"

    "Usually. I do tell them I'm not on the pill."

    "Usually? You let them cum in you?"

    "I seldom get a choice, Jessi. And telling them I'm not on the pill can be perilous. I'm as likely to be sodomized as raped with a condom. I can usually distinguish between Don Juan and Roman Polanski, if you get my drift, but my judgment is notoriously unreliable."

    "What about STD's?"

    Greta just shrugged.

    Jessica shook her head and hissed, "Sooner or later you're number's going to come up, and you're going to be snatched by some genuine sicko who's going to leave you for dead."

    "I know."

    "That's- you're- Greta, you are suicidal."

    "No. Not suicidal. Just- oh, I can't explain it. Maybe it's apathy. But that's not right, either. This sort of thing gets pigeonholed so conveniently in movies. If only I were as simple as a screenplay. I can't explain it. I have tried. I've put a lot of effort into it, actually. You might be surprised how much. The thing is, I don't even enjoy it. Usually I'm fucking terrified. Especially when they're cruel."

    "Then you enjoy the terror."

    No. I don't. I don't enjoy any of it. Usually I just want to be alone, back in my own bed, under my covers."

    "Then don't do it, Greta! Stop coming onto these perverts and getting yourself picked up!"

    "I can't."

    Jessica exhaled with exasperation. Two seconds later they got bumped, hard, by a tire tube, and a randy high school boy fell right between them, the splash mitigated by lots of contact between skin on skin.

    "Fuck!" Jessica yelled, but Greta just looked down at the spluttering boy with bemusement, already falling into character without even realizing she had done so.

    A second guy came around the side of the tire tube, and the third flipped over the top, all teeth, and said, "Hi. I'm Paul."

    "Fuck off!" Jessica snarled.

    The guy who had fallen between them said, "Come on, hang with us. King of the mountain. Guys against girls."

    "I said fuck off!" Jessica yelled again. She grabbed Greta by the arm and had to drag her away. Jessica caught Greta looking back wistfully, and growled with fury.

    "Admit it," Greta urged, as she was dragged, "they're doable."


    "Our age. Definitely virgins. No STD's. Come on, Jess, admit it. Doable."

    Jessica smiled wryly, and with a pained expression, conceded, "Okay. They're doable."

    "And they would not have left us for dead."

    "I suppose not, but they might have drowned us inadvertently."


    Both Jessica and Greta, reaching the crowded shore, could now just make out the umbrella that marked their site. It looked very busy up there. Greta's aunt and cousins had arrived twenty minutes ago with the lunch. They would have to be getting back.

    Jessica knew she didn't have much more time to bring this conversation to some sort of tentative resolution. "Your Mum begged me, just awhile ago, to tell her what happened to you."

    Greta pursed her lips and kept walking, but asked, "And what did you tell her?"

    "That you must have your reasons for not telling her. She was very angry."

    "Good," Greta spat. Then she added, softly, "You're my best friend."

    Jessica didn't reply.

    Greta remarked, off-hand, "You would be my best friend, still, even if you had told her."

    "You know I wouldn't do that."

    "I know."

    "But maybe you should tell your Mom, yourself. Maybe it would help."

    Greta shook her head. "No. It definitely would not help. Jess, you have to understand that my little ordeal - the part I've told you, anyway - is fairly obvious. It wouldn't take a genius. My whole family suspects. They have enough reasons for suspicion to have done something about it by now, if they really wanted to. I'm not the only niece dear Uncle David has molested, so they've gotten enough hints over the years. But they're all bound and determined to maintain the facade, the semblance of normalcy. We must keep up appearances, after all," she said bitterly. "If I cracked it, over something that happened three years ago, my Mom would only resent it, and my grandparents, too. It would make everything worse, all around. All because of me. And in the end, me being me, I am certain that they would find a way to turn the whole thing around and construe it in such a way as to suggest that I somehow brought it on myself and asked for it. Mommy dearest would be right at the front of that line, believe me."

    "But you're hurting."

    Greta hissed and shut her eyes. She kept walking, and trembled. She said, "That's what I do. I hurt. It's nothing new. And besides, that worthless fucking loser - he's hurting, too. He hurts every day of his miserable fucking life. Prison would have been too good for him, and believe me, he'd take prison in a heartbeat, in exchange for the hell he's in right now. In fact, I'm pretty sure he'd take a bullet to the fucking head, in exchange for the hurt he's in. Yet that doesn't help me, does it? Not one fucking bit. So much for the notion that punishment confers justice."

    Not for the first time, Jessica wondered just how much her Uncle David was hurting, and suspected that Greta had understated the level of mayhem she had inflicted on the jerk with his own spiked brass knuckles. Back in the winter, Grea had said that she had raked the spikes down his face badly enough to render him partially blind. Greta had also said that Uncle David couldn't get it up anymore. Jessica had assumed the sexual dysfunction to have been a consequence of psychological scarring, but now she wondered whether there could be more to it, a physiological basis for Uncle David's perpetuated purgatory.

    All Jessica could say, as they approached Greta's family plot, was, "Thanks for opening up to me."

    Greta smirked and said, "My pleasure. In return, I'm going to hold you to your pledge. You agreed to check out boys with me, and I'm holding you to that. Don't worry, I promise I won't rat you out to your darling love. And you will need the distraction from my dipshit cousins."

    Jessica grinned and put her arm around Greta. Every man in the vicinity noticed. The purported teen lesbians were still at it. "Are they really all that bad?"

    "Oh, you'll see. They're slumming it, just by being here. I imagine this is the first day of the summer that Aunty Val dragged her two spoiled slobs out of the house. An eighteen room house in Weston, by the way. But they spend their summers here on the Cape, in their sixteen room cottage in Falmouth."

    "Gosh. And I thought you were rich."

    "Naw. My Dad works for a living. My Mom's bitch sister, dear Aunt Valeri, married a fucking ultra-left asshole with a trust fund. Marvin Schildt. Inherited his money from a kraut bastard who made concrete for the Nazis two generations ago. Everyone calls him Skip. Even his wife. It's sickening."

    "Why 'Skip?'"

    "So we're all constantly reminded of the eighty foot boat that he pocketed when his Dad attained room temperature. The S.S. Scherazade. Fucking left wing moonbat heats his sixty foot pool with solar panels, corresponds with fucking Ariana Huffington about forcing the world to go green, and putts around the harbor in an eighty foot yacht. Fucking pompous self-righteous sanctimonious dweeb."

    "He must do something constructive with his time."

    "No. Nothing. Has a family foundation, set up decades ago by his Nazi ancestors. How the Nuremberg Trials ever missed them is anyone's guess. Not too surprising though. The fuckers who run this state are purported to have been tight with apparatchiks of the Third Reich back in the day, so Skip could very well also be a survivor of twentieth century war profiteers. His family gives money to halfway camps for little boys, and he gives half-assed investment advice to everyone he meets, as though he came to his wealth by skill on his part. Daddy hates him, and the irony there is that Daddy fixed him up with Aunty Val. Skip and Daddy were floor mates at Stanford, you see."

    "Ahh. And the kids?"

    "High school. Goth slobs. As I said, pasty vampires. Brent is seventeen, and he's never been laid. His sister is sixteen. Wouldn't know a dick if it slapped her in the face."

    Jessica giggled.

    "Jill will ignore us all and not say a word. Brent will be just the opposite. He'll try to talk a good game, and bore us all to death. He thinks Daddy's money is his money, and that the money alone ought to be enough to open a girl's legs. He'll be all over you, by the way."

    "Does he know about me?"

    "I'm sure he's heard the gossip. Poor little Cinderella made good. The whole MIT business is what will make him think you're worthy. Given that you're a poor nobody from a slum, and not even descended from Nazis, that is."

    Jessica held her engagement ring up to the sky, smiled warmly, and resolved, "I'll just have to keep my little adornment conspicuous."

    Greta chuckled, "The dweeb won't get it. One last thing. Aunty Val brought the lunch, so I hope you enjoy chives and paté."

    "Never had them. What does paté taste like?"

    "It tastes like stale cum."

    "Greta, those boys on the tire tube are looking better and better."

    Her friend let out an authentic laugh, the first of the day. "You had your chance."

    They stopped at the towels, and Greta's mother said, "The prodigal returns."

    "Just a pitstop," Greta muttered.

    Anne Westford cast an icy glare at her daughter, recovered, and began introductions. Jessica's instant impression was that Greta had not exaggerated a bit. Aunt Valeri wore a large Talbotts sun dress and a matching hat. Jessica could see nothing but her double chin. The daughter, all of sixteen years, wore an elaborate black costume with three different layers, and held a black parasol. Jessica could not imagine where one might buy such a ghastly thing, and wondered whether the girl might have spray-painted it. Upon the daughter's lap was propped a wicker tray with a double helping of a panini with munster cheese and paté with chives. Then there was Brent, an overweight slob with a gut that overlapped his ridiculously small Speedo. Seventeen years old, with more pimples than body hair, and white creases in the rolls of body fat made him look like an upended zebra whenever he moved. As they had approached, Jessica had watched him staring longingly at Colleen's chest in a way that obviously made Casimir want to beat the daylights out of him, cousin or not. Colleen had been studiously ignoring the pathetic, portly boy, but the lump of breathing swill would not be deterred. But now, with the arrival of Greta and Jessica, he had obviously become sorely conflicted, at a loss as to where to focus, and seemed on the verge of throwing his neck vertebrae out of alignment, with the way his head flung back and forth. Too many nubile females had converted on the immediate vicinity for his own good. His eyes lingered briefly on Greta, and then fell on Jessica herself, who suddenly felt distinctly underdressed in her pink and white string bikini.

    Aunt Cindy's chin raised even higher, revealing her wrinkled nose from beneath the hat, and disdainfully said, "Be a gentleman, Brent, and greet your cousin."

    "Greta. Hi," he grunted, drooling at Jessica the whole time, as he added, "Your hair has grown."


    "You look like Goldilocks," he said, still staring at Jessica.

    "So I've heard. Never met her."

    Aunt Valeri and her pugged nose peeked out entirely from under the hat to make a formal assesment of the object of her dear son's attention.

    "Val," Anne announced, "This is Greta's friend, Jessica Turner."

    "Charmed," said Anne Westford's sister.

    Jessica forced her lips into a small smile.

    "We've seen so much of you on TV."

    "I am pleased to meet you."

    The daughter, Jill, who had not been introduced, said, "You look more like a cheerleader than a brain."

    Jessica clenched her teeth together, and nervously eyed Greta.

    The black-clad bitch's mother airily said, "Yes, well, looks can be deceiving."

    The bitch blurted, "Is it true you're from Everett?"

    "Yes, it is."

    Greta's detestable cousin turned her head toward the beach and would say no more.

    Brent, drooling and smitten, drawled, "Don't mind her. She's in the math club, too, but it won't be enough to put her into MIT."

    Greta sympathetically said, "She shouldn't fret. Money opens doors, too."

    The bitch snarled to the beach, "Math club is easy. Most of the answers are either zero, one, or pi."

    Jessica remarked, "I'll try to remember that. Abraham Lincoln Middle School didn't have a math club."

    "Hmpf," said Jill, as though her point, whatever it had been, had been made.

    Aunt Valeri must have thought this whole conversation rather unseemly, because she hastily said, "Yes, well, whatever your circumstances, it is surely a good thing that people such as yourself are given chances. Do you like paté?"

    Greta snickered.

    Jessica replied, "I adore it."

    The two girls sat crosslegged on their towels. Brent insisted on joining them, the cock in the henhouse. He struck Jessica as reminiscent of Uncle Phil, twenty years younger and somewhat better spoken. He insisted on rambling about math club, and jazz club, and chess club. Jessica did not let on that she played chess. When she absolutely could not avoid speaking, she restricted herself to monosyllables, in a futile effort to avoid encouraging him. He went on and on about his precalculus class, and trigonometry, and limits; Jessica merely nodded sympathetically over his travails until Greta reminded him, in no uncertain terms, that this was a beach.

    Colleen, in the midst of having her kidneys tickled for five minutes straight by randy Casimir, gushed for all to hear, "I think Jessi has a secret admirer."

    Brent haughtily asked the current object of his infatuation, "Oh? And who would that lucky fellow be, Jessi?"

    "It's Jessica," she asserted with a snarl.

    The rotund lad would not give up. Rather like her first boyfriend, Jimmy, from last summer, eons before having met her Nelson. Brent inquired, "Would you mind taking a walk with me?"

    Jessica's eyes went wide. Colleen's head whipped around, too. Greta just smirked.

    Jessica gulped, "I'm comfortable right here. With my paté."

    "But I'd like a word," he insisted, as though his insistences settled every matter with finality. No doubt he had seldom ever heard the word 'no' in his formative years, and perhaps he labored under the misapprehension that Jessica had been brought here by design, expressly for his amusement.

    Jessica just waited, cheeks red. She couldn't believe this was happening. Colleen would never let her live it down.

    Brent said, "It's a shame you don't live on the South Shore. We're back up to the Weston house tonight, but that still puts us too far apart."

    Jessica rapidly demurred, "Brent, I don't date."

    "Neither do I. Ordinarily."

    Colleen cracked up, and Casimir tried to cup his hand over her mouth, but missed, cupping something else entirely, which only put Colleen into deeper hysterics.

    By now almost any young lad, no matter how hopelessly deluded, should have realized things were not going his way, but Brent obliviously soldiered on. Well, Everett is not so very far, and I suppose I could drive out in my 328xi, with incentive."

    Caz tackled Colleen, to no avail. Her giggling had taken her so intensely that she could no longer breathe, and seemed on the verge of passing out.

    This had been entertaining, and Greta had had just about enough, when relief came to Jessica from a surprising source. Brent's own mother suddenly piped in, from under her ridiculous flowered sun bonnet. "Ahh, Brent, honey?"

    Brent's eye twitched, and he turned his head imperceptibly toward his mother, clearly resentful of the intrusion. "Mother?"

    "Dear, take a breather, and open your eyes. What is the young lady wearing, apart from her bikini?"

    "Uh- nothing?" he muttered, as though it were obvious.

    "Not quite, dear. Check the young lady's jewelry."

    Brent saw Jessica's engagement ring, for the first time. His eyes boggled.

    Jill suddenly took an interest, too, with narrow beady eyes.

    "For future reference, honey, jewelry on that particular finger generally means that the young lady is spoken for."

    Brent obviously couldn't get his head wrapped around the concept that lithe Jessica could be wearing a real engagement ring. The rest of his family had the same difficulty. His bitchy sister, who still had not been formally introduced, coldly surmised, "So, done with high school, off to college, and going steady. You sure do work fast."

    Colleen, from underneath Cazzie,laughed even harder, and mocked, "That's not some brat's class ring! Open your eyes."

    Now the bitch sister frowned and peered at the ringmore intensely.

    Brent said, "So she's wearing her mother's ring. Big deal."

    Greta coldly retorted, "It's not her mother's ring, either. It is her very own. Dweeb."

    "There's no need for that," Aunt Valeri admonished.

    Greta sweetly corrected herself, addressing Brent himself, "Pardon me, Skip Junior, you fat dipshit."

    Colleen gave everyone her patented OMG look.

    Aunt Valeri obviously wanted to snatch up her cooler ahd children, and leave right then and there, but Brent was still enthralled, and still determined, because the slovenly, pasty mama's boy still had not gotten the hint. Undoubtedly, Jessica reflected, he must be an identical clone of Jimmy back home, but with money. The kid said, "I don't get it. You're like just fifteen."

    Jessica took a bite of her cheese and paté sandwich, chewed on it with the growing conviction that her beloved Nelson's sperm tasted much nicer, and nodded toward Greta, saying, "So, time to play. What's the rating scale?"

    Greta clapped, smiled happily at Jessica, and turned her back on her mother and Aunty Val, who obviously hadn't though't they had been done with her yet. "Goody, game on."

    Anne interrupted, "Young lady-"

    Greta cut her off, "Jess isn't interested. She's trying to be nice about it, but the dweeb won't get it. Tell him to go swimming or something and buzz off!" To Jessica, "So. Rating system. Nelson's a ten. My dweeb brother is a five, and my dipshit cousin is a one."

    Colleen snarled, "Hey! Cazzie's a ten!"

    "Maybe to you."

    Before they could fight, Jessica briskly said, "Right. Game on." She nodded toward some guys playing volleyball. "Red Speedos. Eight."

    Greta chuckled and said, "I'd say nine." She pointed at an old bastard whose gut hung almost to his knees, and declared, "Two."

    Colleen scoffed, "Two! Come on! Even Brent rates higher than that."

    "Not by much."

    Aunt Valeri demanded, "Anne, I insist you put a stop to this!"

    Mrs. Westford said, "They're just trying to get a rise out of you."

    "They're succeeding!"

    Brent finally stood up and stalked away. Aunt Valeri seemed more incensed than ever, and at that point, the bitch sister, of all people, came to their defense.

    "Mom, give it a rest. He asked for it. She's not interested. Obviously. And believe me, that's no great crime."

    "There's a way to say it."

    The sister retorted, "She tried everything! Maybe you should have said 'no' to the idiot once or twice in his pampered life, because he obviously can't cope with it. And Greta's just defending her friend."

    Greta and Jessica turned to the bitch cousin with expressions of admiration. Jessica made a fresh assessment of the girl. Her age could not be determined by her appearance. She wore a black skirt with swirls of off-black tie-dye. She wore black combat boots, and forest cammi socks. Around her neck hung a pewter ankh. She wore silver rings on every finger, and had three piercings in each ear. A metal stud pierced her lip. Her hair had been shorn over her ears, and had been dyed as black as her lipstick. On her wrist she wore a silly band bearing the family crest of her apparent infatuation, a fictional teen vampire. She might have passed for a college student, if Greta had not already informed Jessica, on their approach from the surf, that the cousin was still in high school.

    Greta murmured, "You haven't come to my defense since nursery school."

    "Because you're a dizzy cunt without a single redeeming quality. But even a broken clock is right twice a day. Introduce me to your friend."

    "Jessica Turner. Jill Schmidt. Jill, Jessica."

    Jill said to Jessica, "I followed your story when it broke. I'm a junior in Weston. I've applied for MIT, early admission. I doubt I'll get in."

    Aunt Valeri cut in, "Of course you'll get in."

    Jill rolled her eyes, and retorted, without taking her eyes off Jessica, "There's no such thing as 'of course.' Anyway, I'm stressed over it. That's why I said those things about math club. I didn't expect you to be so - pretty. Here I am, thinking I'll be all right getting dragged to this fucking beach, because at least I'll meet this amazing heroine I've idolized since December, and she's in college already, on full scholarship, and not just any college but my first choice, so she'll be hip, someone I'll finally be able to relate to. And what do I find? A fricking doll with a perfect tan, wearing a pink candystrip string bikini that makes Greta here look conservative, and you're playing some sophomoric boy-rating game like a goddamned airhead. It's a big kick in the crotch, let me tell you."

    Jessica grimaced and said, "We could talk math, if you'd prefer. But this is a beach, and it's a nice day, and school starts tomorrow."

    Jill nodded and said, "You're right. Of course you are. And I'm torn."

    "By what?"

    "I'd like to just hang with you. And just have fun. But I guess just having fun isn't in my nature. It wouldn't occur to me, except that now I see you doing it, and I can't imagine how you could ever have had fun and still found the time to graduate high school at thirteen and enter MIT. So I also want to ask the question I've been dying to ask since I first heard about you. Especially now. Just to find out if you're real, or if you're just the hoax of the century."

    Jessica chuckled and said, "Maybe fun is the key."

    Jill mulled that one over and said, "You may be right about that, too."

    Jessica suggested, "Why don't you hang with us, and ask your question later, if it's still important to you."

    Both Greta and Jessica simultaneously expected two reactions from Jill. One, that she would decline, with some haughy snub. Two, that she would defiantly tell them that she would rather rate girls. Therefore, it came as a surprise to them when Jill gestured, with her eyes, toward another one of the volleyball players, a six foot-four chiseled godling with a shorn head and a stomach like a stone wall. "Best of show," Jill declared.

    Greta nodded appreciatively.

    Jessica wrinkled her nose and shrugged, "Eight. I prefer hairy chests."

    Greta chuckled, "He'll have one in a year or two. Your problem is that you're into old men."

    Jill cast an eye at the piece of jewelry on Jessica's scantily clad body, and demanded, "So what's the deal?"

    Jessica smiled demurely and inquired, "Is this your question?"

    "No. My question is about math. You're really engaged? That's an even harder kick in the crotch, on top of everything else. I can't even get a date. So, some college boy, I imagine."

    Greta laughed and scoffed, "Not even warm."

    Jill arched a studded eyebrow. "Not a townie. No way."

    Jessica took pity and ended the speculation. "He is older. And settled. And yes. I really am engaged. Have been for two weeks tomorrow."

    Jill skeptically pressed, "How can that even be legal? You're only thirteen."

    "Fourteen. He proposed to me on my birthday."

    "And you said yes."

    "Without a moment's hesitation."

    "It's still, like, totally illegal."

    "The minimum age for marriage is seventeen with parental consent, but there are no laws governing engagement. One can accept a marriage proposition in kindergarten. I'll grant you, social convention is another matter. In Massachusetts, one is supposed to play house with roomies and spread for fuckbuddies, and share venereal diseases until thirty-five, or until the trust fund kicks in, whichever comes later."

    "You're supposed to try women and animals, too, for the mind-expanding experiences," added Greta with a bit of iciness.

    "So, you're going to be engaged to Mr. Right for at least three years."

    "Three years to the day. We've set the date for my seventeenth birthday."

    "And yet you're on the beach with Greta here, rating boycake."

    "Sure. If he were here, I imagine it would amuse him. Nelson - that's his name - is my ten, not because he is objectively perfect, but because he is mine."

    "And you're not tempted to play with the boycake at all?"

    "Oh, no. No, no, no. I am Nelson's. He doesn't share with anyone."

    "What about him?"

    "I don't share, either. He is mine. Every hair, every breath."

    "How do you know? I mean, he's not here now."

    "Oh, yes he is, " Jessica declared with a wink.

    Jill looked mutinous, but Greta assured her cousin, "She's serious. And she's right. His balls are hers. If you ever saw them together, you wouldn't even have to ask."

    Jill studied Jessica for a long moment and declared, "That is absolutely fucking cool. So, has he poked you?"

    Aunt Val and Anne had been muttering to each other, but Jill's last question caught her mother's attention. "Jill, enough!"

    "It's a fair question. She's like, way under age, and this guy is, how old?"

    "Twenty-seven," replied Jessica. "And he doesn't 'poke' me. We make love with each other, at every possible opportunity."

    "Like, for real, with full penetration?"

    "'Full' is a relative term, but essentially yes."

    "Absolutely fucking cool," Jill repeated.

    Greta leaned into Jill and muttered a loud aside, "And he really is objectively perfect. You wouldn't fucking believe it."

    "Better than my volleyball monster over there?"

    "No contest," Greta declared.

    Jessica glowed; being extremely proud of her most precious possession, she appreciated him all the more when others expressed their admiration.

    Yet she also felt a bit discomfited, as she always did, when Greta herself broached the issue of Doctor Nelson Bernard Spencer's intrinsic desirability.

    "So, you had another question for me," she prompted Jill, so as to change the delicate subject.

    "You're supposed to be able to calculate in your head."

    Jessica bit a lip and shrugged noncomitally.

    Greta urged her to stop being modest.

    Jessica quietly demurred, "My mathematics advisor discourages those sorts of performances."

    Jill skeptically demanded, "Why?"

    "Because performances are unseemly."

    Jill pressed, "There's a boy in math club who can multiply five digit numbers as fast as a calculator. Can you do that?"

    Jessica didn't answer.

    Greta answered for her. "Caz and I have seen her do it. Giant numbers that a computer can't even do."

    Jill urged, "How does Matt do it? How do you do it?"

    Jessica, quietly said, "I couldn't tell you how your Matt does it. There are several ways that work."

    "What do you mean?"

    "If he's multiplying five digit numbers, he could be doing it right to left, the same way you do it on paper, holding five partial results and adding them. If that's what he's doing, he'll probably hit a wall if he hasn't already. Meaning, he won't ever be able to multiply much bigger numbers than that."

    "But you can multiply much bigger numbers."


    Greta interjected, "Jess can multiply septillions."

    Jill glowered at the two of them and scoffed, "You're shitting me."

    Greta retorted, "I've seen it."

    Jill demanded, "How?"

    Jessica shrugged and replied, "I was being only truthful earlier when I said fun is the key. Most people could hold enough partial results to multiply five digit numbers, with lots of practice. To go higher than that, it really does have to be fun. And for me it is. I've been practicing math all my life, just for fun. A benefit, I guess, of growing up too poor to afford games. I had to make up games of my own. Of course it also helps to have a big mental scratchpad."

    "What does that mean?"

    "It's what the press call photographic memory. Most people can hold a few numbers in their heads for a few seconds with minimal effort. That's how you remember a phone number long enough to be able to dial it. I have this big multidimensional whiteboard in my head. I can put a great many numbers and pictures on it, and they stick. But I couldn't tell you whether or not it is something I was born with. It is equally likely that it has just grown over the years, as a consequence of all the math practice, because math really is fun for me. After all, everyone seems to go on about multiplication, and I am asked to perform at least once a week, in one setting or another, because people can relate to multiplication. People use it every day themselves. But multiplication is a low order operation. I've been practicing higher order operations, for fun, since kindergarten, so multiplication is trivial."

    "I don't know what you mean by a high order operation."

    "Whole and fractional exponents, for instance, are the next order above multiplication and division. There are orders above exponentiation, but they are hard to conceptualize. Degrees of infinity, for instance, which come into play with set theory. But as far as the low orders go, I've been memorizing times tables since childhood, because they make exponentiation easier. The higher your times tables go, the easier it is to multiply, because there are fewer carries. Someone who knows the times tables up to nine hundred ninety-nine squared would be able to multiply six digit numbers with just three steps. I doubt your friend Matt is doing it that way, because if he were, he would be able to go a lot higher. The point is that multiplication is just a means to an end, if it is fun."

    "Such as?"

    Jessica shrugged and said, "Factoring, for instance. And approximations of irrationals. Such as pi. Since fourth grade, pi has been a favorite game of mine. I used to approximate pi for fun, to put myself to sleep."

    "How? By dividing twenty-two by seven?"

    "No. That is an approximation, and it is good enough for carpentry. But as approximations go, it is poor. There are more effective methods, such as the Leibniz Series. It is a progression that one can use to calculate pi to arbitrary precision. It's tedious, though. Requires a huge mental scratchpad, to do it without a computer. I think - and I could be wrong - that I developed my so-called photographic memory as a child essentially by accident, by playing with pi as a way to tune out the incessant fighting between my parents."

    "How did you ever hear of this Leibniz Series? I'm in college prep calculus, and I haven't ever heard of it."

    "You wouldn't have. Infinite series are only touched upon before the second undergraduate year."

    "So what gives? You said you've been playing with pi since grade school."

    "My fourth grade teacher knew I was bored, so she would leave her old college text books around the classroom, accidentally-on-purpose. Most of the kids would ignore them, but I got to the point of looking forward to them, sort of like an easter egg hunt just for me. She planted a third year analytic geometry text in the C.S. Lewis bin one morning, and I took it home and read it cover to cover. I eventually returned it with a big, big thank-you note, after I had memorized just about all of it. I would also find cool stuff in the library's reference section. Like factorization methods, and prime sieves, that sort of thing. Anyway, now I don't even really think about low order operations. Multiplication and division are second-nature."

    Jill grunted and quietly said, "You really are not just some hoax who lucked out of Everett by affirmative action. You're the real thing."

    Jessica chuckled and said, "I've reached a point where I am not sure what is real, anymore. But if all of this is just an illusion, that's fine by me. I'll take it. Here. I'll leave you with something. A way to keep up with your friend, Matt."

    Jill smiled for the first time that day. "Okay. Hit me."

    "You only need your times tables up to twelves. I have a hunch this is what he is doing, or he would be much more impressive. First a small one. Twelve times fourteen: it is equivalent to twelve times ten, plus twelve times four. The partial results are easy. Then you simply add them together. Try it."

    Colleen and Casimir had inexplicably disappeared when the subject had turned to math, but Greta and the parents, who had been listening breathlessly, were already lost.

    Jill replied, after a few seconds' thought, "One hundred sixty-eight."

    "Good. The point is, it works for numbers of any size. In principle. It would be too unwieldy for septillions, but for small numbers it works great. And the partial results are easy, because they're all congruent to ten."

    "You've already lost me."

    "Sorry. Number theory. I've been doing a lot of that lately. Okay, I'll try to explain with a demonstration. A bigger one. Two hundred fifty-four times one hundred fifty-seven. It's the same as twenty-five thousand four hundred plus twelve thousand seven hundred plus one thousand four hundred plus three hundred fifty plus twenty-eight. That's just five numbers to remember and add up, which most people can handle with a bit of practice. And it is a lot faster than going right to left, like kids are taught to do on paper."

    Greta muttered, for Jill's benefit as well, "That is still more than I'll ever remember in my head."

    Jessica shrugged, "It does take practice, like anything else."

    Jill resolved to practice, but she also held the secret conviction that she would never be able to multiply five digit numbers that way, like Matt. All the same, she said, "Jessica, thanks. For what it's worth, you've redeemed yourself in spades, and almost restored yourself to the level at which I had idolized you prior to this morning."

    "Thanks, I think."

    "You'd restore yourself entirely if you lost the candystripe bikini."

    Jessica laughed at that and said, "I do prefer being naked, but going in the buff would not be fair to your brother at all!"

    Jill, to the amusement of everyone, even the parents, looked mortified, and said, "I meant that you'd change into something less ditzy."

    Everyone laughed.

    Jill concluded. "But you're not ditzy. Not at all. And I apologize for implying as much earlier."

    "It's alright. I initially took you for a lesbian."

    No one knew what to say to that, least of all Jill.

    Greta snapped, "Can we go back to the boycake game again?"

    Jessica enthused, "Yes, let's play. Jill, you have to play, too. Humor us and suffer for your art."

    Casimir and Colleen returned from wherever, and Colleen asked, "What are we playing?"

    Greta replied, "Boycake."

    "Goody," said Colleen.

    The girls rated beachbums. Casimir, who had just gotten his pipes cleaned by Colleen in the deep water, laid in the sun and munched on potato chips, unperturbed by Colleen's apparent enthusiasm for the boycake game. Casimir could afford to act charitable.

    At some point, Brent returned, looking more surly and despondent than ever. Casimir made a brief, half-hearted attempt to involve him with a foam football.

    Once again, within thirty seconds of the spoiled boy's return, Mommy came to his defense. "We don't believe in football. It can damage adolescent growth plates."

    Just as well, Casimir thought.

    Colleen giggled and nuzzled Casimir's neck, and said, "Your growth plates look fine to me."

    "Thanks, doc," replied Casimir, and attacked her kidneys.

    Aunt Valeri had been muttering with Anne all the while, on an entirely different subject. Greta caught enough snippets to realize, eventually, that they had been trading proprietary gossip about their mutual baby brother, the twenty-four year old loser who lived in their parents' basement to this day, dear Uncle Dave. When Greta made the connection, her temples and ears flushed red. She ostensibly played the boycake game, but listened in as well. Uncle Dave had gotten into some kind of trouble again. Police had shown up at ther granparents' house and had seized all the computers. Uncle David had been caught cyberstalking again. Greta scowled and ground her teeth together so hard that they hurt. Just as she was about to storm away, or snarl at them to change the subject, or kick sand at Aunt Val to get her to shut the fuck up, relief came from an unexpected source.

    Jill lashed, with shocking bellicosity, "You don't know the first thing about your own brother, Mom, so don't pretend you do. Just because he got his face fucked up in a bar fight, you all think you can judge him."

    Everyone gaped silently at Jill, Greta most of all. Her eyes filled with tears, thankfully concealed by her sunglasses. Great. She, Goldilocks the boytoy, newly inducted freshman varsity cheerleader, had something in common with her nerdy, goth, vampiric loser of a cousin after all. Greta jumped up and kicked sand across the food as she stalked off.

    Jessica tried to follow.


    "Go away."

    "Please, Greta-"

    "Get the fuck away from me! Just leave me alone."

    Jessica raced to catch up, and got ahold of Greta's shoulder.

    Greta wept, "I've hated that loser cunt all my life, but she's good enough for David. Great. Just great."

    Jessica pleaded, "You don't know that he and she-"

    "Oh, please!" Greta collapsed and sobbed. Jessica crouched and held her. Greta cried, "Why did I ever think I was special? Even to him! That fucker! I should have killed him when I had the chance."

    Jessica rocked Greta in her arms.

    "Why me, Jessi? What's wrong with me?"

    "You're a beautiful person, Greta."

    "I'm a worthless whore. I'm a fucking furniture girl, nothing more."

    Jessica blanched. She had never realized that Greta felt quite so badly of herself, nor had she ever had an inkling that the deep dark secret beneath the Dymetrix sales department could have been out.

    "I'll be okay. Just- go back. I'll join you in a while."

    Jessica wanted to follow, but the revelation had paralyzed her.

    Greta escaped. She wandered down to the beach, followed the long row of volleyball courts, played the boycake game, rated them as she walked by with her bouncing ringlets. The boys and men rated her, too, and she lingered at every net both to rate the boys and to put herself on show. It would have been so easy to ingratiate herself to one of the players, or even a group of them. To wager herself on one of the matches, her body to the winning team, to do with as they wished. Greta lingered and watched a game between two local trios. The guys appeared to be of college age, but could just as likely be local losers - Cape townies who maybe tended bar at nightclubs for pocket money and hung out on the beach all day. Most of them looked old enough to shave. Maybe two or three might be old enough to buy their own booze. With luck, one might have his own place - a real apartment of his own, and not the basement of his mother's house. Greta could get herself fucked properly, not just a quickie for once, not just five minutes of pleasure for the goddamned mister, but something for herself, as well. Not happiness, or contentment, but something, if only just the sensation of pressure, just enough pressure to ward off the pain that always burned her from inside like hot charcoal shoved up her uterus.

    Sure, the beach bums were just local losers, ambulatory driftwood wasting their youth upon a trashy shore, but Greta wasn't the only girl whose attention had been drawn. These guys were popular, desirable, hawt. They even had groupies. Other girls - older girls, seniors in high school, or maybe even older, college girls, women. Good looking women, too. A court adjacent to this one seemed to be hosting a revolving women's match, and the two genders intermixed between the courts. The women looked as good as the men. Tall and buff, with lean, cut physiques and deep tans. On closer inspection Greta realized that the men and women were dressed very well, for townies. They wore expensive designer sunglasses, fancy brand name sandals, and water shoes. The women wore Speedo swimsuits just like hers. A group of the women had registered Greta's presence by this time. They stared at the strange interloper with the slender frame and blonde ringlets. Greta stared right back, assessed her competition. Definitely out of high school. Like Jessica, they probably had classes, scheduled to commence this week. College classes. One last fling at the local beach with all their old pals. They would all be partying later on, either here on the beach, or they would all pack into cars and drive into the city, to a college dormitory, or perhaps to an off-campus apartment, to drink and fuck. Maybe they'd spin their asses and cunts away on a wheel of fortune, or hold a slave auction. The girls all seemed very smug as they assessed Greta, looked down their noses at the little piece of jailbait who had stopped to drool open-mouthed at their guys. Little did they know, that Greta had played all their games, too, had taken those games farther than these stuck-up little tarts could ever have dreamed. With satisfaction Greta realized she had been drawing the attention of the guys, too, who were having trouble keeping their eyes off her, and were missing easy shots and blocks on both sides of the net.

    Then one of the guys - the best looking of the possee, six foot two with a deeply muscled stomach and enormously thick legs, grinned straight at her with thirty-two pearl-white, ramrod straight teeth, and said, "Cooler's over there, grab one and hang out."

    The fourteen year old soon-to-be-freshman had just been offered a beer by a college guy.

    All the other guys openly checked her out now as they played, and the girls looked mutinous. The women wanted to tear her flaxen hair out by the roots. She knew the look, but they'd never get the chance, because Goldi had been offered a beer, had been invited to hang, and the guys would protect their new toy from the crows as they fucked her and raped her and broke her, and it would be so easy now, to strut her pert bum between the guys' and gals' volleyball courts, while the guys cheered, and to chug a sixteen ounce plastic cup of cheap swill while they watched, and to let a stud refill the cup and pour it down her upturned throat, and the guys would all marvel at how she could swallow the beer without choking, and calloused sets of fingers would creep up her trembling thigh, and baritone voices would inquire as to her name, to which she would reply with her simpering soprano, "My name is Goldi, and what you're doing is really nice; I love when men do that to me, feel me up and put their hands on my bottom; it reminds me of when I was a baby and my uncles would pick me up by my bum and lift me up until I could touch the ceiling and walk me around the house singing to me, crooning Up, Up and Away in my Beautiful Balloon, and fly me with their fingers up my panties, while my Mum and aunties laughed, and my most favorite uncle of all would fly me all around the house, and carry me down the halls, in and out of the rooms, even the dark unoccupied ones, and into the closets, and whenever he turned a corner into darkness he would lower me, and grope me, and rub my bum on his front, and I'd beg him to take me back to my Mom and my aunties, and sometimes he would, he'd carry me back out into the hallway and the light of the party just in time to stop himself from making my panties all wet from his stuff, but he'd sing again, and carry me around, and my other uncles and my aunts and my Dad would take pictures of the pretty Goldilocks and his charming uncle playing Up, Up and Away, and the game would resume, and we'd go up the stairs, up to the bedrooms, alone in the dark again, and each time we went into the dark he'd rub against me more and more, and get closer and closer, and his big purple thing would be sticking up out of his rhinestone belt, it felt so hot and angry, and he'd say, 'Yeah, keep singing you little slut, you little fucking whore, you're going to get it proper one day, you know it and I know it; I've wanted it all your fucking life, and you should know, because you have, too, you don't fool me for a minute you sexy little cunt,' and sometimes he'd manage to get me downstairs for another lap, but inevitably the game would end, and he wouldn't make it out to the light in time, and the splashes would soak me from my tailbone to my shoulders, and he'd groan, 'Yeah, yeah, cunt, yeah, whore, just wait, just you fucking wait until me and all my friends get it in you,'" and the present hour's epiphany of male perfection, the six-two beach bum on the volleyball court, took Greta out of her reverie by stopping dead in his game to regard her. 'Maybe not,' he thought, 'maybe Goldilocks doesn't want to have a beer and hang after all.' But Greta's ambivalence had nothing to do with cold feet. It would be so easy to ingratiate herself to these guys. Not just the superb specimen who had made the offer, but to each and every one. Greta understood the rhythms and drives of the male animal. Men were not complicated. But then again, in their defense, nor were women complicated. Well, at least, not those women who by dint of some combination of luck or virtue somehow managed to achieve adulthood without having encumbered themselves with needless inner conflict. All animals, through every epoch, had been designed to kill, eat, and fuck. People were animals, both males and females. The human brain, irrespective of its propensity for needless encumbrance, served evolutionary advantage by making the human animal a superior killer and fucker. The human brain made fucking sweeter, and thereby imparted incentive. Anyone who had ever seen the ejaculation of a dog would be bound to conclude the vile beast barely felt it at all, and perhaps distracted itself with just enough rudimentary pleasure to prevent itself form chewing through its mate's neck. Human animals fucked more effectively, concomitant with their superior utility at killing and reveling in the violent death. Men lived to fuck, and women did, too. To the extent that females experienced conflict and complication it could be derived only from their foreknowledge that they might be burdened with the consequences. After all, fucking did have a base purpose, videlicet, to bring new spawn into the world. Unlike most animals, that took their regular rapings with grace and obliviousness, women knew what they were in for, knew, as they took that fetid slime into themselves, that it carried a fucking curse, that with significant probability their lives would change forever and for the worse, that they could very well become utterly dependent on the fuckers that ruined them, that their bellies could swell and distend like gaseous bags filled with heavy, sickly cancer; their breasts could swell, ache, burn, and for the rest of their brutal lives there would be nothing but the awful subjugation, giving themselves over to the mercy of some piece of shit who might feed them or not, clothe and shelter them or not, water them or not, and fuck them senseless through the duration of the ordeal, past all utility or need, spewing them full of their fucking poison with obsessive compusive indifference, twisting their nipples through full revolutions and crushing their fat guts against their pregnant whores' drum tight bellies and the putrid parasites that sweated within, and that was why - the only fucking reason why - good girls found the fortitude to say 'no' once in awhile, because all animals fucked, all else being equal, but Greta was not a good girl, neither good to herself nor good for anyone, and it would be so easy now to give herself over to these superb male specimens on the volleyball court, to crash their little party and drink herself sick with their fucking slime in every hole; all she had to do was strut to that cooler, and drink herself drunk, and let herself be taken, and for Greta there would be no conflict, no complications, little or no chance of repercussions, because she was no good for herself , of no good to herself or anyone else, because when a pretty blonde blue-eyed goody-girl plays Up Up and Away with her cool, worldly, handsome, hair-chested, tattooed, nose-pierced uncle - when she allows herself to be played with and carried one too many times up out of the light and into the darkened bedrooms, and down out of the familial din to the quiet of the basement and its humming computer lit up by the glowing Internet cable and chattering with a motley assemblage of cruel and jaded anonymous misters, when a goody-girl allows herself to be taken that far out of the light and the comfort of the familiar by some gorgeous fucking bastard who convinces her that she is the most special fucktoy on earth, well, there's just no way of foreseeing where that Beautiful Balloon is going to take her, and Greta had long been fascinated by the sweet smelling pipes on his basement bedroom shelves, and the old tattered magazines under his bed, riddled with faded Cyrillic and grainy black and white photographs of bearded misters and lascivious traitorous mommies and transfixed little girlies just like Goldi, and all the odd belts on his wall, and leather wrist bands, and leather collars adorned with mysterious metallic contrivances whose function eluded her, and had Greta not asked for everything that had happened, by sneaking down into the cellar to get glimpses into the illicit trappings of her idol's mysterious life? Had he not caught her down there innumerable times, up on tip-toe, perusing the shelves to inspect the numchucks and octagons and Chinese stars, and the razor sharp samurai sword he had picked up for three weeks' pay, and the beveled hunting knife with a boning saw on one edge and blood gutters down the sides, and the steel police handcuffs he had once let her try and then had refused to take off for a whole hour while he tickled her, and fondled her, and groped her, and threatened to bring dear father down to show him, saying, 'What will your dear Daddy Max think, hmm, when he sees his little blonde angelcake handcuffed to the bed like some slutty little whore with a wet pussy, hmm? You think dear Daddy Max will be mortified? Think again. Big man Max with his fancy Stanford science degree and his judicial doctorate degree, he's been around the world just like his little angelcake is gonna be, all those fancy college fucks think they're worthy, and that's all your father is, a miserable pseudointellectual wannabe-libertine who never got his dick wet before my dumbfuck big sister spread for him and whored herself just to get her dumb twat married to a dick with a law degree, that's right, your stupid whore Mommy sold herself for a fucking wad of cash and had the gall to strut down the fucking aisle dressed in white and tell herself it was all for love, and you're gonna be a stupid little whore just like Mommy, I'm gonna see to it personally while I fuck you up silly and send your fucking pictures from here to Singapore so every swinging clap infested dick on the whole goddamned earth lines up for your fucking gash, and your dumb fuck Daddy is just another fucker in line, so go ahead angelcake, yell for Daddy and see if he'll come running down to help. You think he'll take those fucking handcuffs off for you, or do you think he'll pull your scrawny little legs apart and shove his fucking half-limp prick up your slimy little gash? Go ahead, whore, go ahead! Yell for Daddy! Yell for Daddy to save you! Right now! Or say Please Uncle Dave please uncuff me so I can kiss your beautiful prick! Come on, say it! Beg for me to let you kiss my big fucking prick with your filthy little whore mouth.' Sometimes it would all be in fun and he'd eventually let her go and show her the other things on his wall, like his deck of playing cards with faces of the presidents, and all his books about the world economy and the evils of property, and a book about how to sharpen razor blades by storing them overnight inside glass pyramids, and books of wisdom and the secret meanings of numbers, and books of palmistry, books with pentangles, books about ritual sacrifices, and then the pretty ring with silver snakes, and the brass knuckles with half inch razor spikes on top, that Uncle David sometimes used to fuck up stupid pimps, and the cocksheath, a ghastly leather thing perforated with anterior-aligned wire needles,custom fitted to his own cock, that he sometimes had to use to fuck up stupid braindead whores, it went in easy as you please, because the barbs pressed back against the leather as he pushed the thing hard up the the dirty wet hole, but that bad boy motherfucker didn't come out again without shredding the whore to pieces like she deserved, and he'd say, 'How would you like that, hmm, angelcake? Doesn't that sound like fun? How's that for birth control? That badass cock catching my hot splooge and keeping you squeaky clean while I rip your filthy little slut belly to pieces so you never feel good or feel pretty anymore, hmmm, angelcake? Well that's what happens to whores who pass their sell-by date, they get fucked up and fucked up good, because they're no use to anyone once the mister's done splooging them, and whores don't get to feel pretty or make babies or have friends, they sleep on the fucking floor on a mat tied to the footboard by a leash strung through whatever's left of their filthy clits, and they live on piss, shit, and cum until the mister doesn't feel like feeding them anymore, but don't worry, don't cry, you're my little angelcake and you're a pretty dolly, you've got a few good years in you and I won't be done with you for a long time,' and he'd go on in that fashion until she couldn't cry anymore, and then her cool uncle would get bored, and sometimes release her to give her the full guided tour of his personal hell, but other times he wouldn't let her go, and he would keep her handcuffed for what felt like hours, until people elsewhere in the house finally registered her absence and undertook a search. Yet none of those happy memories posed complications for Greta as she stood there in the baking Labor Day sun at the volleyball courts and returned the intrigued gaze of the Oakley-adorned Adonis who had offered her a cold beer out of the communal ice cooler; for Greta the only considerations were minor issues of logistics, and even those did not amount to much. There was her dear beloved Christopher, of course, who hadn't been in touch with her for two weeks, since Jessica's birthday party, and had most likely headed off to Andover Academy by now for an entire semester without ever having contacted her to say good-bye, despite his promise to write to her, and despite Greta having demeaned herself by writing several preemptory letters into her little black diary, empty replies to empty conjecture, on the unlikely chance that he might surprise her by keeping the promise, since he had never really given her anything since last January but an occasional poke and a sore belly, yet he had not even bothered to dump her two weeks ago, so maybe she could find a way to forgive herself for waiting around the house all day yesterday, three doors from Christopher's, and waiting on her bed all night long, wide awake, waiting for him to come over so she could give him his glorious sendoff, but he had not come, he had left her waiting all night long wide awake, clutching her shins and slowly rocking herself, but Andover really wasn't so very far away either, and maybe they had not left yet; maybe they would not leave until tonight, and Christopher might come tonight, around dinnertime, and what if he did come over for dinner, to surprise her, and ring the doorbell, only to hear from Dear Mum that she had disappeared at the beach and had not come home with them, 'because my wretched daughter is a useless deceitful shiftless little slut who never learned her lesson last year after whoring herself out to a locker room full of middle school trash, and Christopher you seem like such a nice boy and I hate to tell you this because I like you, but it is because I like you that I must say, as much as a small part of me must still love my own daughter, she reallly is no good for you or anyone else, she is deceitful and dirty and vile, and Christopher you deserve much more in your life than my daughter could ever give you, because as much as a small part of me does still love her, she won't be able to offer you anything but some filthy disease, so please just go, don't look back, it will be best for you in the long run, and your leaving will serve Greta right,' but even this logistical consideration seemed of little consequence to Greta as she weighed the pros and cons of carrying her stupid twat to that beer cooler, because her beloved Christopher had to be a lost cause regardless; he might be just about as dense as her impenetrable brother Cazzie, but he also had to be convinced of her obvious worthlessness, or else he would have come by for a free fuck more than once a week on average since school had let out in June, so that left just one very minor consideration, namely the likelihood that if these college guys dumped her in a trunk and trundled her off to some Boston dorm or frathouse to pull a train, there was no fucking way she'd ever get a ride back to Winchester in time for curfew, in time for school tomorrow, with all its pressing responsibilities, not the least of all being the Faustian bargain she had struck with the athletics department in exchange for getting a varsity cheer letter; more likely these fuckers would just chain her to a bedframe in the attic for a few days to be shared like a communal piece of meat, which of course would be just as well with her, and probably far preferable to getting fucked up by a bunch of balding, sweaty middle aged high school teachers, but she would definitely end up grounded for life, if and when she ever found her way back home; in fact she'd probably come back to changed locks, and Greta knew that she did have to somehow get through four years of high school in order to move on to whatever glorious fate awaited her. Not much of a complication at all, really, which left the one remaining consideration, that being her best friend on earth, and if she had to be honest, her only friend, really, namely Jessica Turner, who had tagged along with them and would be disappointed with her, if they did not return together. And that was it, in the final analysis, just that one last minor impediment to getting herself abducted to be a frat whore for the weekend. Because that other complication, the one she had begun with and had summarily dismissed in the course of her deliberations, the complication involving the consequences attributable to her femininity and its capacity for encumbrance, had been effectively negated by her hip, cool, mature, worldly uncle and all his sophisticated opinions and bohemian philosophies, and his infatuation-inspiring je ne sais quois, because when the time came, inevitably, to dispense with all the talk and speculation, and to do what they had both wanted, equally, over all those rosy formative years, well, how could Greta ever have thought that the consummate occasion would ever have sufficed with mere tenderness? How could she ever have imagined that she would prefer to have been taken, and made into a woman, in the ordinary, provincial fashion? Any schoolboy could have opened her with his prick; didn't she want more? Didn't she expect more, for so memorable an occasion, between such bohemian libertines as they? And Greta did have to concede, on reflection, that when she had finally opened up back on winter vacation, at Wildcat Ski Area, and had shared her deepest secrets with her very best friend, well, that she had left a few details out. But minor details, after all, mere nuances that could easily be dismissed as tangential to the greater enormity of her forced deflowering by her own uncle, a sophisticated authority figure whom she had always revered and worshiped and adored. But little did she know at the time, that those innocuous details would reverberate through the rest of her life, leaving consequences that would chase her like echoes, and to this day in the silence, when she waited around in the darkness past midnight for visitations by erstwhile semiboyfriends in need of a quick screw, she still heard his brash mockery, the easy power and cruelty mixed with reasoning, the combination of persuasiveness and rebuke, her terror at the overwhelming compulsion to simply accede, the insidious persuasion that she still heard ringing in her ears this very day with a clarity that belied the passing of years, 'Fuck, angelcake, don't you get it? Four hundred twenty of my buds are watching through that fucking webcam, and what are you gonna do? Tell me we gotta let 'em all down? What, you think we're just ordinary, we're just rutting dogs? Any fucking schoolkid could just bust your gash with his prick in the goddamned playground, you silly twat, and here I thought - all those guys, all my buds - thought that you were special, hell, I even thought we were special, but you know what, if that's all you want, just some fucking schoolboy to bounce you on the see-saw, hey, fine, just get the fuck out, go back to the party, stop wasting my fucking time, I'll just go jerk off like I always do when you show up and give me blue balls and then run off with Mommy and Daddy and leave me high and dry,' to which she could only sob, knees to her chin, curled on the bed, glancing furtively at the lens of the webcam and trying not to imagine four hundred twenty pairs of eyes staring back with expectation as they stroked themselves, and all the while her best uncle stood over her and mocked, as always, threatened to fuck her up with his belt for being such a dumb little twat, and Greta loved him so much, her very favorite uncle, who had played with her through childhood and had been the very best at the Up Up and Away game through all of her living memory, and why could he not see that she was just afraid, and shy, and embarrassed by all the strange misters watching, and why couldn't they just throw a blanket over that stupid webcam or shut it off or something, and couldn't he understand that all she really wanted was to be held right now, because she had never done this before, and since she had never done it before, how could he be so mean as to accuse her of wanting their most sacred act to be merely ordinary? But he spoke so maturely, and used words she didn't understand, and he could be so persuasive, and she didn't really know what provincial meant, but he threw the word out like a barb, flung it so hard that it made her hurt, but couldn't he see that this, what they were about to do, meant every bit as much to her as it meant to him? Couldn't her beautiful Uncle David see that she wanted so much to please him, to be good for him, to be a woman for him? Yet here she was, naked on his bed, with the party going on upstairs, right over their heads, her own Mom and Dad and big brother elsewhere in the house, laughing and talking elsewhere, oblivious to her terrible peril, as she offered her virginity to his formidable manhood, which he had taken out of his pants and which Greta's mind magnified to colossal proportions with the dark lens of her terror, and why did he think that her submission to his beautiful manhood could ever have been insufficient to prove her devotion to him? Why did he think he needed to 'plow the road,' as he had so cruelly put it, with that awful thing? That horrible thing he had made himself in Grandpa's woodshop just for her, just for this special occasion, that thing he had named, the name he had etched down the length with a hot soldering iron, "Greta's Cunt Wrecker," that horrific oak cylinder, as long and thick as corn on the cob, roughly filed into a cone on a grinding wheel, with a jagged iron cap, held securely to the apex by finishing nails, and with four long brass woodscrews pointing up out of the top? She had been curled up on the bed, gaping at it in horror and stupefaction, and he been growing more irate and strident, with each passing minute, with his cruel demand that she beg for it in her useless hole. All girls hurt the first time, he had said; all girls have to bleed, he had said, with such persuasive authority; he had been showing her present to his buds online all week, he had said, through all the phases of its construction, he had said, so that all his online buds could fully appreciate the build-up right along with him, and enjoy the anticipation of its presentation to the dumb twat, and revel in her first glimpse of the ghastly thing, and her tearful mewl of horror at the unveiling, he had said, and how could she just disappoint everyone now, when he and his buds had been looking forward to seeing her stupid gash bashed to shit all week long? How could she just turn up her nose like some kind of stuck up little bitch and fuck up all his preparations for their special moment? 'But I'm so afraid,' she had cried, 'I'm so scared, please don't use that thing on me, I want you, just you, please, David, please!' And he had reasoned with her, in his persuasive, sophisticated way, as he had scraped the wood screws slowly across her incipient breasts, her ribs, her belly, had explained that it would hurt one way or another and she would have to bleed one way or another and he had to open her up good if she expected to take his whole fucking prick properly, and the whole time he fondled her virginal cunt, and got her wet, and convinced her with artful persuasion that her wetness meant she wanted it, whether she realized it or not, and dipped his fingers repeatedly into the vaseline to splay her vaginal lips nice and wide so the screws would seat properly into her hymen for the deep ripping plunge without catching on the delicate petals of her labia minora, where the fuckers would snag and prevent the full penetration that he needed to give her, and then she felt the sharp points of the brass between her legs, and he had to warn her that 'if you don't fucking hold still it'll be a lot worse, and I swear to Christ you'll be in a world of hurt afterward when you take my fucking dick,' and Greta couldn't believe how bad she already hurt all over, even though he hadn't really even started yet, apart from dragging the horrible thing across her torso, and she flung her head about, and craned forward in search of the source of the hurt, and the bloody score lines appalled her, the burning cuts that crossed each breast, met at her sternum, and etched down to her belly in the shape of a 'Y,' and Greta began to cry with terror at the sight of blood welling up and dripping from the score lines in her skin, and her beloved Uncle David mocked, 'Those fucking screws weren't sharp enough, so I ground the tips down to needles; it'll go into you much easier this way," and now, before she could summon the courage to protest, before she could beg one more time to take her with himself, the part of him she loved most, to beg her beloved uncle, please not to really use that horrible thing and ruin her, before she could so much as think, she felt the ghastly wooden thing pushing at the thin taut ribbon of her hymen, whose elasticity resisted upon the needle sharp points for just a moment before snapping back and puncturing itself upon the invading screws, whereupon Greta let out a wail that might have been loud enough to have been heard by the party upstairs, so he angrily clamped a hand over her mouth, gripped Greta's Cunt Wrecker in a fist, and punched it in, all eight of the inches exposed above his clamped fist, punched it into her belly all the way. And pulled it out, and punched it in, and out, and in, out, in, all the way, twisting, pressing, grinding, tearing, all the way, while her terrorized eyes wet one hand and her bleeding vagina soaked the other, and then he ripped it out, and flung himself between her legs, with two fists clamped so tightly over her face that she couldn't breathe, and bored himself into the sopped mash of flesh and blood he had made of her incipient femininity, 'Yeah,' he said, 'yeah, yeah, yeah, engggh, enngghhh, enngghh, yeah, you fucking piece of shit, you fancy fucking Daddy's girl, pretty little angelcake whore! Ennghh! Take it, angelcake! Enngh! Take it! Engghh, all the way, whore, all the fucking way! Take it all, or I'll tear your fucking clit off with my teeth and really give you something to cry about, you fucking stupid little twat,' and he had not let her breathe in so long that her vision filled with black stars, and she went dizzy, and all she wanted to do was die, but death would not take her, and all the while she stared at the reflection of her own anguished eyes in the webcam, as four or five hundred best buds stared back and soaked their keyboards with ribbons of filthy slime. He picked himself up off her body all too soon, and she curled herself into a ball, groaned that she hurt, begged for help, 'Please help, I hurt, I hurt so bad, please help me David, oh god it hurts so bad,' and her beloved Uncle Dave coldly advised, looking more at his five or six hundred best buds than at her, 'Don't act like it's a big deal, angelcake, there are three billion pieces of smelly twat on this earth, and every last one of 'em has either been fucked or soon will be, so grow up.' In the aftermath, Greta had tried to hide her injuries as best she could, from her Mom and from everyone else, but eventually her mother had observed Greta clutching her belly one too many times and had dragged her to a gynecologist, where Greta had insisted on being examined alone by the doctor, thankfully a female, who had inserted the speculum with some foreboding, given the way Greta had sobbed at the mere contact, and the doctor had taken just one glance, had gone into cold tremors, and with a distraught voice had cried, 'I must report this to your mother, stay right there,' to which Greta had snarled, 'fine, bitch, go ahead,' and the moment the appalled doctor had left the examination room, Greta had tried to escape, and they had caught her by the waist, halfway out of the window, and then the questioning had begun, but she had already planned her alibi. 'I did it to myself,' Greta responded to her mother's grief and rage, and her mother wailed, 'with what,' and Greta replied, 'a power drill.' Their unquestioning acceptance of the alibi stood as a testament to the mastery of Uncle David's art. Thus began the biweekly sessions with the retinue of psychiatrists, and for the full duration of three years and several subsequent episodes in Uncle David's basement bachelor pad the specialists got from reticent Greta not a single word. So, when Greta had poured her little heart out to Jessica last winter, she had left out the minor details of her deflowerment, and other consequences, just minor tangential points, really, such as the sharp burning pain that now accompanied vaginal stimulation or contact of any kind, due to the nerve damage that made her entire uterus feel like being impaled by a hot soldering iron through every waking minute of every fucking day, and other mere trifles, such as the appalled gynecologist's prognosis that Greta would have perhaps a one in ten thousand chance of ever conceiving and successfully bearing a child, not a big thing really, in view of the fact that the girl couldn't imagine ever wanting to curse an innocent newborn baby to this wretched life, and other irrelevant little trivialities, such as the fact that beloved Uncle David had never cleaned off Greta's Cunt Wrecker, and her blood had permeated the oak and left it the color of rust; or his cruel predilection for putting the vile totem on prominent display on his bookshelf full of necromancy and thaumaturgy whenever Greta came over for family gatherings on birthdays and holidays; or the other tiny detail, just a little inconsequential point, which really meant nothing to anyone, that on the evening when her beloved Uncle David posted their most recent consummation on the Internet for all his buds, not two hours after having soulfully promised that the filming would ever and always a secret between them and would be solely for them, and asked all his buds what they would like to see him do to her next, and when all his good old buds replied, by text, that they wanted to see him use the Cunt Wrecker on her again, but this time up her asshole like bitch dogs deserved, and when her beloved Uncle David responded with, 'well fuck, guys, that sounds like a great idea, why didn't I think of that,' and when he gamely, playfully dragged her downstairs from the party with her sperm infused crotch to read the email thread and asked her what she thought about his best buds' cool fucking idea, well... Greta had not been entirely truthful when she had told Jessica Turner that she had raked his spiked brass knuckles across his face. No, not quite... it had happened somewhat differently, but what were details, after all, but distractions from the essential point that beloved Uncle David had robbed her of her womanhood, and of her ability to feel pretty, and to feel loved, and to feel useful, and to be of use to herself or to anyone else, ever again, because in light of the enormity of her loss, did it really matter that she had kissed him, from his head to his crotch, and had undressed him with her playful nibbling teeth, and had drawn him in so that he would let his guard down, and had smiled into the webcam for all his best buds, and had told all twelve hundred of them, live and on camera, that she was ready to take her most special toy again, this time up her dirty rectum, as deep as it could go, because all filthy whores have to bleed out of their asses, and had spread herself, and had shown his thirteen hundred best buds her chewed up cervix, and had told them, with her acquired talent for sophisticated persuasiveness, that she wanted her anus ripped apart from the inside out, so she'd be able to heal with a permanent gape and have to wear a plug up her ass for the rest of her life to hold her shit in, but at least she'd always be ready to take cock up her dirty shitter from now on like a good whore, and then she sucked her beloved Uncle David's straining cock on camera for all his best buds, and reached up to the shelf, and grabbed Greta's Cunt Wrecker with its blood-red oak and razor sharp needle point tips, and raked it down her own belly, grinding her teeth through the pain, to show everyone that she had grown up to be a big girl, and knew how to bleed like a good whore now, and the sting of the cuts felt like nothing as compared to the ever present burn in the pit of her guts, a mere distraction really, but boy did it ever impress good old beloved Uncle David and all his fourteen hundred very best webcam friends, because evidently Greta was ready to play more enthusiastically this time, and then she pressed Greta's Cunt Wrecker into her own vagina, points first, and pushed it in for fun, ripping herself and bleeding for all her beloved Uncle David's admiring and envious pals, and made herself bleed until she dripped red, and pulled it out, and then pressed it to her own virginal ass, hard enough to hurt, stabbing the points into her own unyielding pucker, hard enough to stick herself, her back to the camera, so everyone could watch the violent deflowerment of her ass, and she urged her beloved Uncle David to come up underneath and do the honors while the whole world watched through his fucking camera, and then as he crouched under her spread thighs, she gripped Greta's Cunt Wrecker in two tight fists, tensed every muscle in her arms, and stabbed the thing up into his right eye with all of her strength. And twisted clockwise. And twisted counter clockwise, and he fell back howling,dripping ocular fluid down his pathetic face. So she staked him in the mouth to shut him up, cracking his front teeth in the process, but hell, just a detail, just a detail. And raked the razor sharp screws from his mouth to his cheekbone, ripping his stupid fucking grin to pieces. And laughed at his lopsided scream as she tore the cartilage of his nose into a gaping mess. And straddled his bloody face, and humped her bloody clit to a fantastic climax on his torn nose while she raised and plunged the lovely homemade fuck toy up and down, over and over, into his belly, and his dick, and his fucking balls, tearing and twisting and wrenching to the rhythm of her intrauterine contractions until even she had had enough fun for one day, and leaned over his gasping, twitching torso, and made an honest attempt to clean up all the mess by licking up the blood, and tasting the raw meaty gore in her teeth, and chewing on bits of warm pale meat, and swallowing inconsequential little pieces of her beloved Uncle David, until she could stand the raw uncooked cannibalism no more and vomited all over his perforated urethra and mashed, permanently ruptured nuts. Ahhh, details, details, details, she mused. So many decisions, both then and now. To have tortured him for hours longer, or not. To have killed him slowly, or not. But killing him, she had decided in the end, would have been too merciful. Why should beloved Uncle David escape his agony, when she would have to go on, with the ever present burn, the constant pain that would mock her perdition and ruination, a testament to her essential uselessness? Decisions then, decisions now: Greta really wanted that beer, wanted so much to be a fucktoy for all these dumb college pigs at the volleyball court, wanted to spread and get herself raped, to divert herself from the burn with happy contemplations of all the ways she could return the favor someday, long after they had let their guard down, long after their memories of ganganging the shit out of stupid little Goldilocks had been relegated to a happy memory, but Christopher might not have gone back to school that morning, and might come by later for one last throw, and she would disappoint Jessica if she disppeared now, and if, by some off-chance, these moronic lummoxes failed to find some dumb pretext for trundling her off into a trunk, her beer breath would be impossible to explain to dearest Mommy, and Greta was on Mommy's shit list already, for the whole cheerleader business, and well, life was always just so fucking complicated, and to this day Greta could find herself amazed by the capacity of seemingly minor little details to echo through her entire tedious unending lifetime. Well, there would be other opportunities for loving male companionship, there always were. It was so easy to pick up detestable scumbags and ruminate on their violent ends while persevering their stale breath and dripping sweat from underneath, now that she had grown her pretty blonde ringlets out and had learned how to pretend to enjoy having her core reamed out by mindless fucking dick, and had drunk human blood, and had acquired a taste for raw meat, and had transformed herself into a hot, wet, delectable, amoral, psychotically homicidal little piece of filth.

    One of the dumb fuckers had offered Greta a beer.

    "Umm, thanks anyway, but I really can't hang. School tomorrow. Thanks, though."

    "Maybe next time," the guy replied.

    "Umm, sure."

    "We're here every weekend."

    Fuck. Not college guys after all. Townies. Thank Christ, narrow escape. Oh, well. Both she, and they, were much better off. "Yeah, okay. See you, then."
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  13. #13
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Dear readers

    Pardon the messy first paragraph in the last excerpt. Formatting errors caused the typos, and given the length of the post, it was not editable. My apologies. After the first paragraph, it should be cleaner.A.P.
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  14. #14
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Book Two: Beauty - Progress Update

    Status Report, in response to your avid and kind PM's.

    The final draft of Book Two, Beauty currently stands at 564,000 words. Total word count, on completion, will be approximately 850,000 words, so the book is officially 75% complete!

    Estimated ETA: Late March 2010.

    I feel as though I am working hard on it, yet I stand in awe of you, the readers. Some of you have contacted me to tell me that you have read Book One, Nascent (503,000 words) on marathons of 36 hours straight. Impressive, most impressive. But, please. Get outside. Get some sun. Enjoy the day. Relax. Breathe. Repeat.

    Love, Hugs, and Kisses,
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  15. #15
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Since storysite voting/comments are down....

    This simply can't wait. To the esteemed reader who entered this in my novel's comment/feedback section....

    2009-12-09 03:09:12
    OMG....winter of 2010....I've been awake for 36 hours reading this on my cell phone from start to finish!!!!! I can't wait months.... AWESOME!!!!!! Just loved it!!!!!!! ALL of it!!!!!

    Okay, thanks for all the exclamation points. My ego needed them. But please tell me you did not read this on a cell phone in your car!

    It is nice to have fans, but I don't want the police finding my filth on your
    iPhone when you wrap your car around a tree! Have some common sense, people!


    P.S. If and when this site ever fixes the Comments system, I will copy this response there, as it amuses me exceedingly.
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  16. #16
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Book Two: Beauty - Update

    Had a bit of a setback over the weekend.

    I cut 60,000 words from the final draft (approximately 400kb of content). That material is gone. I didn't like it, so it had to go.

    The deletions leave big gaps in the storyline. The 60,000 words that I have deleted have to be replaced.

    No comments at this point on how it affects the schedule. I know exactly what I want to do with the gaps, so I may be able to go on a binge and replace the material without a big loss of time.

    Therefore, I am still shooting for late March. Updates to come. Who would ever do this for a living? Not I, my friends, not I.

    Aesexual Pseudonym

    P.S. I have more excerpts, if you, the readers, want to see them. Just shout. With a book this size, I can even do requests (action, sweetness, nastiness... heck, I can even do science fiction (really) and poetry (seriously).
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  17. #17
    Интеллектуальные крестьянских
    Sexual orientation : seeminglysatisfied's Avatar
    Join Date : Oct 2008
    Location : Where poppies and daisies grow
    Posts : 13,048


    I'd love to read more. Definitely. The way in which you describe and analyze each minute detail has me reading and actually understanding the psychological and emotional, among other things, of the situation.
    Моя любовь, мой цветок; AAlways in my heart

    A man who won't die for something is not fit to live.
    Martin Luther King, Jr.
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  18. #18
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Thanks!

    Quote Originally Posted by seeminglysatisfied View Post
    I'd love to read more. Definitely.


    Thanks so much for the encouragement. This thread gets tons of reads, and has five happy stars, but people do not post on it. I suppose that is a good thing, as so many threads here tend to fill up with spam... maybe people are just bashful. Whatever. I will find an excerpt to add. Something with action, as that appears to be what people like.

    aesexual pseudonym
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  19. #19
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Book Two: Beauty - Excerpt with sweetness.

    The last two excerpts have been rather dark, so here is one with sweetness. Nelson, Jessica, and Teddy (Nelson's grandfather and one of Jessica's best friends).

    Codes: Romance, Mf.

    WARNING: Major spoilers. Previous excerpts have only hinted at the trilogy's overarching themes. This excerpt touches on them. Therefore, read this only if you absolutely cannot wait a few months. (I know, Pandora's Box.) This is an unreleased draft. Please pardon minor errors.

    Jessica walked with Nelson in the somber procession toward the sea, a procession that might have been distinctive, from the perspective of an outside observer, for its lack of clergy. No minister attended to appease the living with empty assurances. Teddy had cared nothing for eternity's empty siren song. That was not what his life had been for. If he could have been said to have failed in one obligation to this life, the failure would have been his wasting a hundred years without having succeeded in prolonging himself. And now, the price, to be cast unceremoniously into the sea, struck his survivors as fitting. Nothing awaited, least of all some halo-adorned Santa Claus, doling out vouchers for eternal consolation while some bombastic calliope trumpted obscene arias at the recently departed faithful. Teddy had always held in contempt the human condition's weak infatuation with pointlessness, and Jessica, his kindred spirit, concurred.

    Upon news of Nelson Spencer's engagement to Jessica, Teddy Claremont had assured the girl that he would battle impending death heroically, and survive three more years, in order to be present at her wedding to Nelson, on her seventeenth birthday. In the interest of lending support, succor, and solidarity, Nelson and Jessica had gone up to Maine at least twice each year, on extended visits. Once each winter, and once each summer, for at least three days on each outing, they took time out from their lives to attend Teddy's long journey.

    Jessica enjoyed the winters most of all. Neither cold nor snow would keep Teddy inside. He would simply bundle up. Workmen would clear the herringbone brick walk with snowblowers. As long as the sherry did not freeze, Teddy would insist upon being wheeled outside. He could not stay out there long on the coldest days; the medical equipment would give up long before he did, and when the red alarm lights started to flash, accompanied by shrill beeps, Nurse Amelia would stridently insist on taking the party back into the weathered, cedar clad coastal house.

    One of the most memorable visits occurred on the winter following Jessica's late summer engagement to Nelson. She had just recently begun her third semester at MIT. Spring break, early March. The air had warmed up to an unseasonably balmy forty-two degrees, which meant Teddy would be able to remain outside on the promontory for several hours. Nurse Amelia had cranked his meds and hydration that morning, in the anticipation of an extended foray out of doors.

    For this occasion, Genevieve came outside, too, bundled in a heavy fur coat, and she walked down to the beach to watch Nelson climb up and down the hills of porous slush that had accumulated along the tideline.

    Nelson and Genevieve, each in his and her own way, intentionally left Teddy and Jessica alone together. Nurse Amelia hovered nearby and fretted silently, crosslegged, with a Jane Austen novel open between her mittens.

    Jessica had been going through the drawers in the chest beside Teddy's deck chair and sun umbrella. She smiled at the books and ICM journals, castigated him upon the discovery of the extra dry sherry and apertif glasses, and intoned, "Ohhh, a game," when she found the Gō board and bowls full of pretty convex stones in the bottom-most drawer. She reverently pulled the old wooden board out and set it upon her lap, followed by the two bowls of amethyst and quartz stones.

    "What is this, Teddy?" she asked.

    "A very old game."

    Jessica took off a mitten and felt the stones. Nurse Amelia's head had come up out of her Jane Austen novel, and she quietly watched.

    "Is this as old as chess?"

    "It is older. Chess is what this game became, after the Holy Roman Empire and four hundred years of imperialist navies mangled it."

    "Could you teach me?"

    "Not today. When you come back this summer."

    "It has more rules than chess, then?"

    "No. Fewer. But it takes much longer to learn. A lifetime, really."

    "You don't need to blackmail me to have me back, Teddy."

    He just smiled.

    She pledged, "This summer I will come back for at least a week, just to learn this game, and play with you every day. If you will have me."

    "You will have my undivided attention for as long as you deign to stay."

    Jessica knew that there had to be some other reason, beside wheedling another visit out of her, for deferring the game for five months. She carefully set the board aside, stood up, looked down toward the frozen cliffs along the tideline, and spotted Nelson, a hundred yards away, tumbling down a ten foot slush pile on his back. She grinned and had to fight back the almost overwhelming compulsion to leap off the wall, run down the ice-locked strand, and join him. Nelson delighted Jessica with the mere act of being.

    Jessica sighed with the sensation of contentment, took a seat beside Teddy, picked up the stones, and scrutinized them with the whorls of her ungloved fingers.

    "So, he began, "You have gotten me thinking."

    She pursed her lips apologetically, and he laughed, "That's not a bad thing. The sunset is seldom sufficient entertainment to keep me breathing."

    "Teddy, you and I should have a moroseness contest."

    "I would win," he averred.

    "These days you are correct. I have been giddy since my birthday. But you are morose, and I have compounded it by making your head work."

    She had not put her glove back on. She had been handling the stones with her left hand, yet Teddy recalled, from previous meetings, that the girl was right-handed. Genevieve's ring gleamed like ice in the sun. He realized, without effort, that the girl felt discomfited by having it out of her sight, even when a mere glove obscured her adorned finger.

    "It becomes you."

    Jessica smiled and gazed down the beach. Nelson had been exploring tidal pools in the transient slush ponds. Suddenly he looked up and waved. She waved back, and uttered an involuntarily effusive squeal of happiness that Teddy easily overheard, not to mention Nurse Amelia, who attended obsequiously nearby. Teddy chuckled, evoking a blush to Jessica's cheeks. She said, "I suppose you must be thinking that I am not a becoming mathematician."

    "Oh, they're not all as stodgy as I am. Not anymore. I suspect in time you will fit in rather well."

    "So, tell me what I've done, and what you've been thinking about."

    He leaned back in his chair and said, "When I first met you, two Christmases ago, I recall that you had told me you intended on growing up to be a nanoengineer."

    "Yes, well, I was inspired by Drexler and classical nanotech."

    "Hmm. And then you went off to your first semester of school, while I boned up on quantum theory and electrodynamics - an armchair level of aptitude, mind you, in the hopes that I would be able to hold a conversation with you next time we met. Did I not, Nurse Amelia?" he called out, craning his head back.

    Nurse Amelia glanced up from Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennett to confirm, "You studied out here every day, old man. I have the rheumatism to prove it."

    Jessica grinned at their familiar affection, the patient and his nurse, almost like siblings.

    Teddy resumed, "So, there I was last summer, thinking that I was prepared, when you showed up in July on the whippersnapper's arm, having just completed your first semester of survey courses, and hit me with ten questions, from the outer fringes of my knowledge, and I've wondered not only at your apparent rush to skip past the pleasures of the undergraduate experience, but also at your evident change of interest."

    "Well, I am in no rush, per se. It is just that I've always hated not knowing things."

    "That is why you will fit in just fine with the predominantly male, predominantly stodgy fraternity of mathematicians. You are going to hit the scene as one of our secular religion's latter day rock stars."

    She smiled and said, "So much for fitting in. All the same, you are right about the second part. I have had a change of interest. Not so much a change of goals, as a new path to attainment."

    "Well, that comes inevitably for most. You were bound to be inspired by new books. And I would upbraid you for your fickle dedication, changing stream after just two semesters - it usually happens much later - but I suppose there is poetic justice. You've apparently chosen to abandon so-called classical nanotech. It is not often that a field acquires the term classical before it even matures. But then again, nanotechnology has always been, and remains to be, the ultimate vaporware."

    "Teddy, I have not abandoned it. I have just come to realize that I can't approach the subject the way everyone has been. I only wanted to get into it as a means to an end: to grow up and compete against the Chinese by building more efficient factories. I realized, after reading a bit more, and by being exposed to more, that my goals were naive in their first formulation. I was, after all, just thirteen."

    He smiled at this. Whereas now, she was just fourteen and a half. Yet he indulgently observed, "Not so naive, really. Most kids your age still think they're going to grow up to be teen TV stars, whereas you've been busy discriminating between the merits of various paths to world domination."

    Nurse Amelia coughed into Jane Austen.

    He continued, "So, being older and wiser, am I given to understand that you no longer wish to conquer China?"

    "Oh yes, I do. I'm going to kick their scrawny butts, Teddy."

    He roared with laughter, and poor Nurse Amelia's eyes darted this way and that.

    "But here's the thing," she explained. "We've gone down multi-billion dollar dead ends with what they now call 'dry,' 'classical' nanotech. Now everyone has gone 'wet,' and they go on about working in cytoplasmic substrates, and they package little molecules called vectors into analytes and moieties the way we've done with aspirin since who knows when, and they think themselves clever, while they throw 'dry' and 'classical' around like insults with inveterate contempt."

    "And you, meanwhile, are convinced that wet nanotech can't work?"

    "Sure it can. It's been working for billions of years, inside of us. And that's the whole point. Our fickle attention comes down to money and greed, every time, and lost in the equation is the progress of the race. The New England biotech industry is fueling wet nanotech in the local universities and teaching hospitals, and dry nano is dying on the vine. So, I guess I've reached the conviction that I'm not so much changing interest as coming full circle. I am committed to the spirit of my original plan, and to my original goals. But I can't pursue dry nanotech the way Drexler and the classicists did. Their critics were right. We can't make machines atom by atom, by grabbing them and placing them with tools made of other atoms. Atoms are too sticky. The electrons bounce around, and it is impossible to achieve the necessary precision. I have to find a way to overcome the stickiness factor, in order to proceed."

    "That is what wet nanotech claims to do, according to my superficial understanding, " said Teddy.

    "Sure. And it does, after a fashion, just as our own DNA overcomes the limitations, after a fashion. But wet nanotech is constrained by its own medium. Automated wet nanotech does work, and it is all around us. And, look. It is slow, error prone, and limited. Dymetrix will never build a better plasma screen with wet nanotech. Even macro fabrication and x-ray lithography will always do a better job. So, here's the rub, Teddy. No one is going the dry route anymore. Maybe it is beyond us, to overcome the stickiness factor, in time for the next round of venture financing. But I could give a damn about financing. I'm just a lowly undergrad," she said with a wink, "and I have a few years to do nothing but dwell on this puzzle, and for that I'll need more math. A lot more math. In fact, my materials minor can take a running leap, as far as I am concerned. The engineering department won't be pleased to hear that I've decided to pursue all math, all of the time. But I've a hunch Professor Filmore will be tickled in September when I tell him."

    "I expect you are right about Filmore. He is, after all, your mathematics advisor. But why all these esoteric branches that have more to do with superstring theory, cosmology, and quantum gravitation, if your goal is to be an engineer?"

    "It comes down to a hunch that I have. It came to me one night when I was dreaming of beating the Asian Rim at its own game, by manufacturing toys and other disposable junk,crappy gadgets by the trillions, and to do it a hundred times cheaper than their cost to feed and house all their slaves."

    Nurse Amelia could no longer pretend to be reading Jane Austen.

    Nelson, down on the beach, had returned to Genevieve, and he appeared to be showing her various shells that he had found, and had no doubt launched into an expostulation of the Golden Ratio.

    Jessica explained that, "The thing about toys, especially the crappy Chinese ones that fall apart so easily, is that they're built from crappy plastic that is made to crappy tolerances. Yet the parts are extruded from forms and pressed from dies that are approximately a thousand times more precise. And those tools are made by milling machines that are precise to a thousand degrees more. And those machines are calibrated with surface plates and verniers and laser micrometers that are precise to yet another order of magnitude. So, it seems to me that we, collectively, have run afoul of a similar requirement. To build with precision on the nanoscale, we need tools that have precision to the pico scale, and those tools must, in turn, be calibrated on the femto scale."

    "Jessica, you're a precocious young woman, but you're talking about engineering with individual electrons and quarks."

    "Exactimundo, Teddy. See? That's why you and I are kindred spirits. You get me, implicitly."

    "Jessica, the tools you're talking about are also made of electrons and quarks. And they move around and change shape, trade electrons. What is more, those tools are too fuzzy. We can currently focus a probe sharply enough to nudge a lithium atom. But to move an electron, you would need to sharpen a probe with enough energy, comparatively speaking, to trigger a nuclear blast. Electrons have been nudged in particle accelerators, but no one has ever found a way to control the movement, much less thought of a way to assemble a subatomic machine with precision. And that is to say nothing of the quarks in a proton or neutron, which, by the way, are theoretically impossible to separate."

    "Well, that theory would have to go right out the window with the notion that quarks are just point particles lacking intrinsic structure. Otherwise the whole thing is a non-starter, Teddy."

    "Miss Turner, you are concentrating on your actual classes, yes?"

    She sighed and observed, out of the corner of her eye, that Nelson and Genevieve had begun their return, and were picking their way carefully among the slush pools and ice floes.

    "Teddy, I didn't say it would be easy. Evolution has hit a dead end. Feynman was definitely correct when he said there is plenty of room at the bottom, but DNA can't go any smaller than proteins. Not only are they gigantic, but ultraviolet kills them. That is why wet nanotech is a dead end. Its substrates are too big, too slow, and too fragile. But I have a few years, stuck in school, to crack the stickiness problem and the fuzziness problem and squash them like bugs, and for that I will need to learn a lot more about the math of the super-small."

    "Superstring theory."

    "Yeah. I know string theory comes in a zillion flavors, and now they've all been subsumed by matrix theory and all this new hologram bullshit, but I am starting with the fundamentals."

    "I assume, then, that you have read the seminal work on classical string theory."
    Nelson and Genevieve approached the stone stairway that led up toward the semicircular promontory.

    Jessica said, "I've read just about all of the papers by Veneziano, Susskind, and Schwartz, if that is what you mean."

    "Nah, nah, not those derivative bastards." He dug an old paperback novel out of his second drawer, saying, "The authoritative Bible of string theory, Hermann Hesse's Magister Ludi. Should entertain, as well as inform. The protagonist, the good Joseph Knecht, should strike a chord."

    She perused the cover. "I like the title. The Game Master."

    "You've apparently found time to learn some Latin."

    "Compulsory foreign language requirement. You're right; this will entertain me. I have always loved games," she replied, and tucked the dogeared paperback into her coat pocket just as Nelson came up and wrapped an arm around her waist. A novel? The seminal work on mankind's progress toward grand unification? What could Teddy be playing at?

    But now, she remembered something else. She had been nuzzling her cheek against Nelson's arm, without even having been aware that she had been doing it. Now she pulled away and looked up at him with a peeved expression. "Sir, you've told me that chess is the king of all games."

    "It is," Nelson affirmed, simply.

    "Huh. Teddy here says it was derived from Gō."

    "In fact it is not clear which game came first. He may be right. Not that it matters. The first music was played with bones on animal hide, but I'm not trading in my piano."

    "Nelson, you're impossible."

    "Just making a point."

    "Consider it made. Do you know Gō, or not?"

    "Enough to be dangerous."

    "Forget it, then. Teddy will teach me this summer. Then I'll teach you."


    Nurse Amelia, by now frantic and quite unable to conceal her anxiety behind the pretense of reading the tribulations of Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth, insisted that the party move inside.

    Nelson helped Genevieve up the slick herringbone path.

    Jessica walked with Teddy.

    Nurse Amelia, who pretended not to listen, attended the machines behind the self-propelled wheelchair.

    "Miss Turner, you're not going to be satisfied with merely conquering the Chinese, are you?"

    "A means to an end," she replied briskly, "a means to an end."

    He chuckled and said, "Some say America has already reached and passed its zenith. They just might be wrong, with you in the wings."

    Jessica tacitly replied, "Don't know, don't care. Never cared much for politics, to be honest. Countries and borders are simply the scaffolding on which to build. Limited time, lots to do."

    Nurse Amelia no longer pretended to fiddle with the machines. She looked straight at
    Jessica, who appeared not to notice.

    Teddy said, "When you say, 'a means to an end,' if you don't mind, what end?"

    "Higher, Teddy."

    He nodded sagely.

    "I tried to explain it to my cousin Colleen once, and she didn't follow. But you know exactly what I mean, don't you, Teddy?"

    He looked at her, as he rolled in his chair, and replied, "I told you what it means on the day I first met you. 'You are what comes next.'"

    Jessica nodded and said, "Me, and anyone else who would like to come along for the ride. In case I am not being clear, Teddy, you are officially invited."

    She whirled back and glared at Nurse Amelia, who shrank back in shock.

    "Don't you dare let him die on me," Jessica warned.


    Later that night, in a guest room facing the ocean, Jessica stepped into Nelson's embrace, felt him unsnap her bra, and whispered, "Finally." At fourteen and a half years of age, her little breasts were growing in earnest now, and sore just about all of the time, except for those happy occasions when her beloved Nelson kneaded, massaged, licked, suckled them until she felt like she needed to sing. Regrettably he could not soothe them every day, but when they were together, perhaps three days per week on average, he graciously devoted several hours of his diligent attention to Jessica's achy breasts, and to nothing else in the whole wide world. He started by unclasping her bra, which these days unsnapped in front, and which on this particular night consisted of small white silk cups framed by pink piping and straps, one of many pairs that he had bought for her this past Christmas. As the straps slipped off her shoulders, his huge hands came up and cupped completely around each silver dollar sized aureole, and gently squeezed, evoking tiny sighs that started in her toes and worked slowly upward For the next half hour or so - the process of Nelson's devotion to his fiancee's secondary sexual characteristics was governed by timepieces as seldom as possible - he would do nothing but gently squeeze them, to promote circulation. Once she had gently chided him that his hands, squeezing and kneading her growing breasts, appeared to do more for his circulation than for hers, to which he had replied, "The effects on me are admittedly more immediate, but the benefits to you are longer lasting." Jessica squirmed on his lap, softly groaned with the sensation of Nelson's godly Maleness as it apparently tried to bore a hole right through his boxer shorts and her panties, and just put her head back against his collarbone to kiss the underside of his square jaw and lose herself in the tranquil pleasantness. Her breasts were sore and achy just about all of the time, but they apparently did have a lot of growing to do. Her nipples were puffy, impressively conic caps upon their small hillocks, and her aureoles extended outward, looking disproportionately large on her narrow ribcage. Mummy, who was absolutely cool and great about straight answers with respect to feminine changes, had assured her that her nipples only looked oversized now, but that her breasts would grow into them, and that by her sixteenth birthday she would be quite pleased with the results.

    "Good," Jessica had replied, "because I want my Nelson to be able to enjoy them for his full gratification, and squeeze them all the way around himself, and use them hard until he soaks my entire face." Then, Jessica had looked up at her mother's ashen expression and inquired, "What? Too much information, Mummy?"

    Mummy had quietly replied, "I am happy that we can talk about anything, dear."

    "Me too, me too."

    Jessica swore she could hear the seam on Nelson's boxer shorts ripping. Or maybe it was her panties. The point being that Nelson did not find his present duties entirely tedious. All growing girls, Jessica reflected, should have such a man to attend to their growing breasts, and pleasure them, and love them, and the girl indulgently pitied those bereft girls who did not.

    He gently lowered Jessica onto her back. This took a long time, because he held her torso up only by her little breasts, and he held her several inches off the covers, only by her breasts, for entire revolutions of the clock's minute hand. The ache, as her breasts pulled upward while gravity tried to pull the rest of her down, felt both alarming and delicious. She could have put her arms down to relieve the strain, or could have mitigated the pressure somewhat by exerting her lower back muscles to hold herself up, but she just relaxed, let herself go limp, allowed half her weight to be absorbed only by her aching bubbies, and idly wondered, as she rubbed a cheek back and forth on Nelson's powerful forearm in supplication and murmured that he was most cruel, what it would feel like if he were to grip her sore boobies really tight and lift her right off the floor. He probably would not ever have done that to her, even if she had begged for it. He had told her many times that these devotional periods were for promoting the firmness and shapeliness of her breasts, and no doubt suspending her in mid-air by her mammaries would have defeated those purposes. But, like so many other fantasies that Jessica nurtured purely for illicit entertanment, the notion of being lifted right off the bed by her breasts, and held aloft with her feet dangling, was sure fun to think about. Presently she felt her shoulder blades come to rest upon the covers, and now Nelson's tongue made contact with her left aureole, and made slow wet circles around her nipple. She inhaled deeply; her eyes rolled back in her head, and she cradled Nelson's head in her hands while gently running her fingers through his short dark hair. She also felt his glorious Maleness, which had come up out of his boxer shorts and now brooded with impatience upon her thigh. Jessica knew that something would have to be done about that, eventually, a looming puzzle which no doubt would put her on the receiving end of its solution. Her panties would have to come off, and Nelson would have to ensconce himself deep inside her tummy, with all the force of his formidable authority, where he belonged. But it might be a long time before that happened. Nelson loved to lick and suckle her breasts, and he did not appreciate being rushed when he demonstrated this fact. Ever since their mutual near-death experience more than a year ago, one of the welcome implications of their declaration of their lifelong indebtedness to each other had been Nelson's insistence on what he had since deemed to be his principal reason for existence, namely to make Jessica's body feel as good as it possibly could, at every opportunity, for as long as he continued to draw breath. Sometimes they would still play hard, on the whims of one or the other, but never dangerously, and always with the promise and anticipation of a mutually pleasant resolution. But on most occasions, such as this one, they merely skipped the rough play and went straight to the pleasantness, which in the final analysis, suited her just fine. Nelson still kneaded one swollen nipple, while he suckled the other. His mouth had latched onto her nipple by now, and he gently pulled on it as he sucked, as she imagined a little baby might do while drawing milk. He usually took care to avoid biting with his teeth, she supposed for her benefit, to promote the illusion that his mouth might be breastfeeding. He had promised Jessica that someday she would spend years of her life growing babies and breastfeeding babies. Their own babies, their very own. And Nelson always kept his promises, big and small,and the girl could not believe her good fortune, to be so blessed with this life, and with so much more to anticipate.

    He had not even traded his talented mouth over to her other patiently waiting nipple when he heard Jessica tugging her panties down. He admonished his young fiancee that lovemaking could wait, to which she replied, "If this isn't lovemakeing, I don't know what is. And plus, my panties are sopped. I'd rather get something else sopping wet, while I'm at it." He chuckled. No arguments there. He curled his back to prod the knob of his cock up into Jessica's glossy black pubic hair, which had started to come in back over the fall. She had offered to remove it for him so she would still look like a little girl, but he had simply replied, "Don't you ever dare." He had once assured her that he would always love her just as she was, only more, and he had been nothing but truthful. And if Jessica had to be honest with herself, she had to concede that she liked the changes that her body had been undergoing. She wanted larger breasts, and to be taller, and to have pubic hair, like a woman, because the cumulative effects of her body's transformations all made her worthy of, and appropriate for, her Nelson.

    Perhaps an hour and a half after they had entered the room, Nelson gently cupped a hand over Jessica's mouth, because she might cry out, which might alarm Genevieve and the nurse, this being a small house, and drove himself into Jessica's innermost core perhaps a bit too roughly, and sighed over the teary girl, who kissed, kissed, kissed his stifling palm.

    "Mmm, you're as tight and delicious as ever."

    Jessica rolled onto her elbows, lifted her bum up, and rammed herself upward into his lap as he crouched over her and pounded her back into the covers. They lost track of time, as they exerted themselves to their utmost, in their mutual effort to combine. Yet at some point, the timelessness did collapse, and the clocks resumed, as her protean lover emptied himself into her. Jessica sobbed into the sheets, awash in transcendence, as she felt the clocks and the earth begin to move again.

    She laid her head on her own forearms, gazed blearily at the ring on her finger, and sighed, "Thank you for loving me, Nelson."

    "How could I not, Precious Princess?"

    Even now, a year and a half after they had met, she liked to tease, just a little bit, by calling him her most excellent homework helper, even though she had not ever had much need of a homework helper, and needed one now less than ever. Now, spooned together with his beautiful Maleness deeply seated inside of her belly, yet resting like a recumbent dragon, he asked her, as she thumbed through the novel that Teddy had loaned her, whether he was helping her with her concentration.

    "Shhh, Sir, shhh," she replied.

    Apart from the fact that she had entered her third year of college, and apart from having been engaged for more than six months now, and apart from her declaration that "squashing China like a bug" was, to her, simply a means to an as yet unarticulated end, Jessica really had not changed much, and they, as a couple, had not changed much, either. They still played, still teased, were still entirely themselves together, if only more intensely, and more comfortably, since Jessica had been growing steadily, had been making their age disparity progressively less obvious to casual observers. They even hiked and climbed more intensely, if perhaps also with a bit more caution, after their shared near-dearth experience last winter. In that episode, last March, they had been caught up inadvertently in the blunders of another climbing party. Two members of that party had died, and the third had dropped out of Columbia University and had supposedly gone into seclusion. Nelson and Jessica had nearly died themselves. Yet they still climbed, ranging all over northern New England, from Chocura to Katahdin. Now, however, Nelson helped Jessica with her concentration.

    Except for when he meddled, and gave her the impetus to chide him.


    "Shhhh, Sir."

    "Why a novel, Miss? You haven't read a novel in the past year, to my knowledge."

    She looked back at him, puzzled. "I don't know. Teddy gave it to me, and he seemed insistent that it matters. You are right, though. I haven't read a novel since Anne of Green Gables. And she was an idiot, so she put me off the whole enterprise."

    He groaned and had to ask why she considered precocious Anne Shirley to be an idiot.

    "Oh, please. Hawt, smart, soulful Gilbert finally proposes, after six years of pulling her pigtails, and Orphan Annie chooses poetry? What a moronic little cunt."

    "Poetry does have its qualities, Miss."

    She sniffed, "Not a one that we didn't transcend just fifteen minutes ago, Sir."

    He had no argument for that.

    She did feel her lower belly cramping deliciously, however, with the swelling of a most welcome intruder, and for retort her lover and fiance gave her fraught cervix an authoritative push.

    Jessica giggled softly, with bemusement, and with a bit of the usual alarm.

    He whispered, "Not helping your concentration?"

    "Oh, it is, Sir, it is, but perhaps the wrong kind."

    He pulled out a bit, and pushed again.

    "Hold on, Sir," she pleaded desperately, "for just a minute."

    He chuckled and pushed a third time, harder.

    There was no sating him, ever. She sighed with happy acceptance of her fate, to be Nelson Spencer's perpetually encunted wife. Once they were married, he would have to truss her to his chest, and simply carry her this way, deeply impaled, everywhere he went. Or at the very least, he might contrive to transport her in a mechanical palanquin, which would follow him at arms' length, always within reach, should he have need of her. Nelson's insatiability for her body presented her with a heady challenge, and she luxuriated in its futility.

    "I like the title. The Game Master. And its subtitle, too. The Glass Bead Game. Teddy says this book will aid my investigations, and I am going to read it tonight, despite your insistence to help, Sir."

    "It may take more than one sitting, Miss, with or without my distractions. Hermann Hesse is somewhat more mercurial than L.M. Montgomery."

    "Have you read this novel, Sir?"

    "Years ago. And I can see how Grandfather would find it apropo to your evolving interests."

    "Is this glass bead game in fact Teddy's game, Gō, Sir?"

    "The book is allegorical, of course, Miss. But yes, Hermann Hesse's writing was informed by Far Eastern influences, and it has been speculated that Gō may have inspired the glass bead metaphor."

    "Teddy insists that this book is the seminal work on string theory, which strikes me as odd, since the whole tawdry enterprise is generally credited to Veneziano, and to have been revived and perpetuated by Schwartz; nowhere in my investigations have I seen reference to this mercurial German novelist."

    "I don't want to spoil the book for you, since you appear to be insistent on reading it. But I would suggest it is more a metaphor of grand unification in general, and that insofar as string theory goes, Hesse might have caught the jist with a poignance that Veneziano and Schwartz never could. Hesse was not a scientist, and he wrote the book in a more innocent era, decades before the implications of quantum theory could be generally appreciated, so the allegory is quaintly deterministic. All the same, I would agree with Grandfather that the travails of Magister Josephus captured the spirit of a quest that persists among mathematicians and physicists, in a more necessarily abstract incarnation, to the present day."

    Jessica frowned, stopped flipping through, resolutely turned to the first page, and begged, "Okay, Sir, stop that now. I have to read this and concentrate."

    Nelson chuckled behind her, pulled back just briefly, and then did his very best to spoil poor Jessica's concentration.

    He had been correct. The book did require more than one sitting. But they were here on the Ogunquit coast for three full days, the first half of Spring Break, and they would be going on to ice climb Katahdin's Knife Edge on the latter part of the week. All of the next day, Jessica sat with Teddy and read the book, while he sipped dry sherry and played Gō against the indefatigable sun. Nelson occupied his time with jogging along the coastline, and even spent an afternoon antique shopping with Genevieve, while Jessica immersed herself in the glass bead game.

    Late in the afternoon of their third day, in the warmth of Teddy's sitting room, Jessica closed the book and set it down. Nelson had been dead on target when he had suggested that this book, at least from Teddy's perspective, represented the human quest for a deterministic interpretation of everything. The scientific world had split into two camps just shy of a century ago, into one side that believed that nothing could be known with certainty, no matter how hard and how cleverly one tried, and another camp that dismissed such fatalism as ignorance arising from gaps in understanding. The first camp resigned itself to the indeterminism of the world and built a stochastic edifice riddled with constants and built-in probabilities to compensate for all the gaps. This camp even built its mathematics around the expectation of indeterminism, and became exceedingly clever at it, producing formulae that described the observed world with an accuracy that Newton could only have dreamed of, when he had come up with his laws of gravity and motion, and had left inconsequential details such as time out his calculations. The second camp, a diminutive band of iconoclastic, rebellious atheists, declined to feed at the trough of the government's big science funding, and went into hiding in the hills and caves. The second camp readily acknowledged the gaps, yet so detested not knowing things that they would rather have subsisted on the fringes, and have kept their heresies to themselves, than to have exposed themselves and to have brought the opprobrium of the rigid, rather stodgy ivory tower down on their heads. Teddy had been just such an iconoclast, all his life, which explained why he had willingly relegated himself to classrooms. One time, on his third quest for tenureship, he had declared himself, once again, unrepentant, and had refused to recant. "I need not remind you, gentlemen," he had said to the panel of his peers, "that Lord Kelvin in 1894 had claimed virtually all of physics to be known, and an essentially enclosed book, and that, prior to Yeager's flight of insanity in 1947, aviators had believed the sound barrier to be unbreakable. Yet now you expect me to uphold the notion that the energy and momentum of a particle cannot simultaneously have known values, irrespective of the presence of humans to measure them, and that in defense of this claptrap I should appeal to a Standard Model that assumes particles to be Euclidean points having neither width nor structure. And when my students protest Niels Bohr's dogma that any unobservable structure might as well not exist, I am enjoined to reply that a bear can't possibly shit in the woods unless I am there to smell it! Codswallop, goddamn it!" Teddy would have to await a fourth round, three years later, before finally making tenure, at which time he would contritely recant his intolerable iconoclastic views, at Genevieve's insistence, in obeisance to the imperatives of the almighty dollar - but with fingers crossed behind his back. And now, here, in the presence of the next generation, he took heart in the fact that Jessica Elizabeth Turner had no need of his contrarian diatribes. She needed no conversion, because she and the venerable old gentleman were, in fact, kindred spirits, separated coincidentally by eighty-three years, and here, now presented with the deterministic and stochastic camps, she chose her side without hesitation. Jessica's choice came down, ultimately, to a characteristic that had defined her, all of her life: she had always hated not knowing things.

    "You are absolutely correct, Teddy, that this book should be required reading for anyone who endeavors to waste his or her life trying, with futility, to load God's dice. That reputable mathematicians and physicists have wasted decades divining the stars in tea leaves is unconscionable. The notion that the presence of an observer makes it impossible to know both the location and the strength of a moonbeam insults me to the core, yet our physics goes even further, by filling the gaps in knowledge with games of chance and unexplainable numbers. It is not to be borne, Teddy.
    "We think ourselves so clever, now, in the new century, yet today's physicists are no better than medieval barbers, cauterizing knife wounds with boiling oil, because prior to the invention of the microscope, they had no idea that flesh is composed of cells. Physicists are nothing more than alchemists and thaumaturges, spinning their little webs of deceit and masking the innumerable gaps of their ignorance with Joseph Knecht's pretty glass beads. The gaps cannot stand, Teddy. They must not. We must squash these intolerable gaps like bugs."

    That evening, after having spent the afternoon in close, quiet conversation with Teddy, and after having reflected upon her impressions through dinner and early evening, Jessica said to Nelson, "The hell with applied materials, Sir. I have to drop my nanoengineering minor and focus entirely on the math. Too many roadblaocks and detours around all the subatomic features that we don't know anything about. Enough of this immeasurability bullshit. Enough hocus pocus about cats in windowless rooms that are both alive and dead. Bohr, Schrödinger, Heisenberg, and their ilk have controlled the board for far too long."

    "What do you propose, Miss?"

    "I propose that we play the glass bead game ourselves, Sir. You and I."

    "And Teddy, of course."

    "Yes, of course, he's already been invited, though his participation will necessarily be confined to the waking hours, since we will be playing in rather compromising positions. You, me, Teddy, and anyone else we can find. But we're going to have to tear down quite a bit of the edifice. I think it's time to kick Heisenberg and Bohr downstairs with poor Sir Isaac Newton. The glass bead game is on, but now the time has come for Round Two."

    Nelson held up a palm, and they high-fived.


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  20. #20
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Book Two: Beauty - Update

    Quote Originally Posted by aesexual pseudonym View Post
    I cut 60,000 words from the final draft (approximately 400kb of content). That material is gone. I didn't like it, so it had to go.

    The 60,000 words that I had cut last Saturday have been entirely replaced by 30,000 new ones. Economy of scale, and back on schedule. Bully for me.


    P.S. As always, if there are not enough excerpts on this thread, drop a line. Got about twenty of them on deck, but I am lonely, suffering from post-binge blues, and would love to hear from anyone who might be reading all this stuff.
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  21. #21
    Porn Surfer
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    Join Date : Nov 2009
    Posts : 30


    Well, you have got me wrapped around your finger (writing fingers that is) and as much as I convinced myself not to come spoil your next book I just couldn't help myself reading these excerpts during winter break. You are killing me. MARCH!!! how will i survive until then! Glad to hear its coming along so well truly you have outdone yourself and these short scenes have gotten me writhing in anticipation. Ive become a dear admirer of your writing and witty intelect you cannot begin to imagine. Seems my colleagues share my views I couldnt believe he read your entire story on his iphone he just couldnt put it down. I know his pain lol.

    Enjoy the holiday! I'm asking Santa to bring an earlier release date to your next book, I hear miracles do happen!
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  22. #22
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Oh, no!

    Quote Originally Posted by Silentnight123 View Post
    Seems my colleagues share my views I couldnt believe he read your entire story on his iphone he just couldnt put it down. I know his pain lol.
    My little den of iniquity has apparently been infiltrated by the Kendall Sq. crowd. Do you mean to tell me you know the, ahem, person with the iPhone

    I had thought about doing a follow-up to the last excerpt, in which Jessica and Teddy get neck-deep into math. Cool stuff. Tensors, Spinors, Young Tableaux, Feynmann Diagrams, Groups E6-E8, and Lie Algebra. (Jessica's been busy.)

    On reflection, I have to bear in mind that this is a filthy porn site, and people are here for sex, not math. Therefore, an excerpt with sweetness-times-two, coming right up.


    P.S. The excerpt will have a cameo from Shrodinger's tabbycat. But no equations. I promise. Meow.
    Last edited by aesexual pseudonym; 12-20-2009 at 10:37 PM.
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  23. #23
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :

    Default Book Two, Beauty: An excerpt with sweetness times two.

    This excerpt features two ordinary teens, Colleen and Casimir. These characters are a challenge for me, since I've been neck-deep in the personas of two teen geniuses for the past year (Jessica and Greta). Let me know whether the Colleen and Caz characters work. Thanks!

    Synopsis: A few weeks after Jessica's betrothal to Nelson, Colleen and her parents ride up to see Casimir play football. After the game, Casimir rides back to Colleen's house, for a planned double date with Nelson and Jessica. This excerpt opens as they pull into Colleen's driveway. Warning: spoilers. Unreleased draft material.

    Codes: Mf, mf, romance, consensual.

    Double Date

    Colleen's Daddy pulled into the narrow concrete alley adjacent to the house. Mom and Dad stepped out of the car, but Caz and Colleen were in no hurry to include her parents in their own post-game celebration.

    "I'm makin' sandwiches," Colleen's Mom promised.

    "We'll be right in," said Colleen.

    Her Dad barked, "Git yer ass outta the car, Missy," and gave Casimir a resentful glare to punctuate the command.

    The boy moved to unlatch his door, and Colleen pulled him back in, panting and looking extremely hungry for more than sandwiches.

    "Mom understands," Colleen explained, as she gently pulled Casimir into the warm humid depths of the back seat. "She'll herd Daddy in and plant him on the couch."

    "What does your Mom understand?" Casimir asked. Being the bright young man that he evidently was, Casimir could also be remarkably dim at times.

    Colleen patiently explained, with both her voice and all of her wiles, "Mom understands how much I need you now."

    There were limits to Casimir's capacity for incomprehension. As far as need went, he possessed the benefit of empathy, and understood Colleen's need all too well. Casimir pulled Colleen into a kiss, pushed the hem of her clingy top up over her taut hollow tummy, over her ribs, up over her breasts, and abandoned the process of undressing her to lose himself in the distractions that her incomparable C-cup breasts presented. Colleen's grapefruit sized tits looked disproportionately prominent upon her slender ninety pound torso.

    "Are you sure it's safe here?" he gasped between her nipples, momentarily undecided as to which enticing nub to attend first.

    "It's safer here than my room," she reasoned. Luckily for both of them, her reasoning sufficed.

    He abandoned himself to Colleen's unassailable logic and latched onto a breast, sucking the entire ripe strawberry top into his mouth. His brain instantly took him back in time, all the way back to his own infancy, and he imagined himself a helpless baby with its mouth joined to the warmth, safety, and comfort of its mother's breast.

    Colleen worked on his shorts carefully, and she soon discovered that he had eschewed underwear. She guarded his beautiful cock with one hand as she unzipped him with the other.

    "Mmm," she intoned," stroking his rock hard erection, "your beautiful manly cock, all mine, all mine, all mine!" Colleen pulled her nipple out of his mouth, an outrageously audacious move that drew his masculine ire for all of the five seconds that she needed to scootch down, wrap her firm warm grapefruit sized breasts around his cock, and squeeze the lovely globes together until her nipples met at the other side. Then she used thighs, ass, and her entire torso to stroke his cock with her sweaty freckled tits.

    "What if your Dad comes back?" Casimir gasped.

    "I could stop," she playfully threatened.

    "No, I'm just asking."

    "Mom would never let him."

    If women could be said to be the den of iniquity, mothers and daughters joined in conspiracy could justifiably be equated to temptation incarnate.

    Casimir pushed two hands down the back of her denim shorts and cupped the firm curves of her muscled ass. She moaned with happiness. Colleen loved the sensation of Casimir's big strong hands upon the undersideof her ass. She loved his hands upon her body, and the forbidden, intimate regions of her body most of all. She loved his beautiful cock, and his balls, and the slippery elixir that his balls produced just for her. Her intimate familiarity with his rhythms assured her that he would be cumming soon, perhaps between her tits and all over her jersey, which would suit her just fine. Or he might manage to get his manly cock inside her body somehow, which would be all to the better. She didn't care how, or where, inside of her he did it. Anything he wanted to do, anything at all, would be just fine with her.

    "You're not wearing panties."

    "Uh huh," she agreed.

    "Your shorts are all wet."

    "They've been wet all morning."

    "Fuck, you're so hot."

    "Uh huh."

    "I need you so bad," the young man admitted.

    "Me, too," the girl said, as she crushed her sweaty milkglobes around his cock and bounced up and down on him.

    "I mean I need to be inside you," he explained.

    "Hold on," she said, all too quick to oblige. Anything Casimir wanted, anything, anything at all, Colleen would provide. She unsnapped her shorts and pulled them down to her knees while he scootched down onto the back seat and laid upon his back. Colleen barely got her denim shorts down to her knees when he took her by the waist and pulled her down insistently onto his cock.

    "Hold on, hold on! I'll help!"

    She reached down and aimed this wooden fencepost up toward her hot, dripping opening. He sensed its heat radiating upon his cock, and groaned with hunger. She slammed herself down upon him and winced as he filled her.

    "How do I feel?" Colleen asked, almost like a taunt.

    "Incredible. Absolutely incredible," the appreciative boy replied. He asked, "Am I doing okay?"

    "Your cock is perfect," Colleen replied. "Beautiful and perfect."

    "I want to eat you," he declared.

    She giggled happily.

    Casimir took her by the waist and tried to lift her off him.

    She clamped her thighs down and protested, "No, no! Not yet. Later on. Maybe. First let's do this."

    "We're gonna be stuck with your stupid cousin all afternoon," he griped.

    "Jessi's not stupid." The understatement of the century, she knew, but it needed to be said. She continued to bounce on his trembling, throbbing cock.

    "You know what I mean. I need to eat you. I want to taste you." He had begun to go down on Colleen for the first time just two weeks ago, on the offhand suggestion of his sister, of all people. He had become quite addicted to the taste of Colleen's gushing cunt, and the girl did not mind in the least.

    "You need to cum, Cazzie."

    "So do you," the considerate lad replied.

    "I can wait," she said dismissively, effectively ending the discussion. "Besides," she added as an afterthought, "I bet I could cum just from doing this to you."


    "I think I could," she mused.

    "That would be so fucking cool! Could you Colleen? Please, please cum on my cock. That would be so cool."

    His enthusiasm for the plan, and his need to pleasure her, seemed to light an afterburner in her loins. He just looked up at her and lost himself in her amber eyes, her soft pale freckles, her cascading red hair, the huge firm breasts atop her chest.

    "I just don't think I can hold back."

    "You shouldn't." Colleen said. "It isn't healthy for boys to hold back. If you need to cum, just do it. Don't hold back. Don't even think about it. Don't think about anything."

    "I want us to cum together," he insisted.

    "You're so sweet."

    "I love you, Colleen."

    "I love you, too, Cazzie! Mmm! Mmm, oh, Cazzie, I'm so close!"

    "Me, too! I can't hold back!"

    "Then don't, Cazzie! Cum inside me! Sperm me, Cazzie, fill me with sperm!"

    "You, too, Colleen, you cum too! What can I do?"

    Colleen giggled and bashfully murmured, "My clitty! Tickle my clitty, please!"

    He immediately complied, and tickled her slippery pink nubbin just how she liked best. He improvised a bit, too, by craning his head up for her breasts. He latched on with his mouth and teeth, and she leaned into his head, moaning happily and cooing like a bird.

    "God, Cazzie, God! Oh, Christ! Goddamn it, Cazzie, my clitty, faster! Faster!" She redoubled the pace of her bouncing atop his lovely erect pole. Her thighs burned with the strain, but she didn't care, and barely acknowledged the sensation, which became buried deep beneath the bursts of kaleidoscopic light and pleasure that blossomed in her head and swept through her veins.

    "Here I come, Colleen, fuck, my sperm, fuck!"

    "Yes, Cazzie, fuck me! Fuck me, Cazzie, cum in my belly!"

    The teen girl's orgasmic contractions overtook her without warning, and his persistent attendance to her nipple and clitoris, which he maintained long after she herself would have given in to the pleasantness of the climax, propelled her far beyond the mere sensation of orgasmic release, to the point at which she achieved a sense of weightlessness, and sucked his masculine sperm up into her body with the power of her contractions.

    "Oh God, Colleen, I'm cumming in you! I'm cumming!"

    "Yes, Cazzie, do it in me! Do it deep!"

    "Colleen I love you so much!"

    "Me, too, Cazzie, me too! I'm cumming too, oh God, oh Fuck!"

    The teenagers bathed each others' loins in slippery wet heat. She collapsed atop him, deeply seated upon his pole. Their clothes were sopped in sweat.

    "Did you really get to cum, too?" he insisted upon asking.

    "What? You couldn't tell?"

    "Girls are pretty good at faking it."

    She snapped, with a touch of annoyance, "I'll never fake it with you, Cazzie. Ever. I'm either cumming, or I'm not, silly boy."

    "Okay," the silly boy replied.

    "I'm still cumming now, for your information, mister."

    The boy could feel her vaginal muscles clamping rhythmically upon him, milking him from within. The process fascinated him.

    Colleen said, "Girls' orgasms are different. Boys suddenly go off and shoot all at once, and then the climax drops right off, like a spike. Girls hit the top and linger. My orgasm doesn't drop off like a spike. I sit at the top for awhile and get a nice long look around."

    "So you're still cumming now?"

    She giggled and said, "Not so much. Not as intense as it was at first, but even better in a way. It feels like a warm glow, from the inside out, and it fills me from head to toe, like every little bit of me tickles. Sort of like every nerve in my body is all slippery and spermy."

    "So it still feels nice."

    "Very nice," she assured him.

    "I'm so glad," he said.

    Colleen kissed his nose.

    His head dropped back with blissful exhaustion, and Colleen rested her head on his chest.

    He said, "It sucks being in different schools."

    "Yeah," she agreed.

    He looked pensive, and she didn't understand it. She asked him what could possibly be wrong, after they had just orgasmed together so beautifully. He apologized for his mood, and she giggled. She kissed his nose again. He tickled her sides. She writhed and laughed. His lovely cock nearly slipped out of her body, but she pressed herself down upon him most insistently She asked him, once again, what he meant by his remark, besides the obvious, namely the fact that they could not be together every day.

    Cazzie explained, "Every time I looked up into the bleachers this morning, half the guys up there were looking at you."

    She kissed his nose again and whispered, "Jealous, jealous."

    He insisted, "Half the guys on the football team want you, too."

    "Says who?" she demanded.

    "They do," he replied. "In practice, on the game bus, in the shower. You can't imagine how fucking twisted it is, guys coming right up naked in the shower with hardons and asking me if I'm still steady with you."

    Colleen suggested, "So just say yes, you are."

    "I tried that," he fretted, "and I think it just increases the challenge. There are guys on the team, I swear to Christ, who are ready to hitchhike down to Everett and climb through your bedroom window. And those guys live all the way out in Winchester. I'm trying to imagine what the Everett guys must think every time they lay eyes on you. I can't fucking stand it."

    "Completely different," Colleen airily said.

    "What do you mean?"

    "The Everett boys don't give me a second glance. I'm just another girl. It's different for all your friends. It's the novelty. Because I'm a new face. There's a hundred prettier girls right in their own school that they don't bother looking at, because they see those girls every day."

    He scornfully griped, "You're so full of shit, Coll."

    She kissed his nose again.

    He accused, "How many guys have asked you out in the past week?"

    She admitted, "Just two."

    He slapped both hands over his face and muttered imprecations under this breath.

    Colleen smiled craftily at his jealous pangs, flattered in spite of herself, but she put on an injured expression and asked him, "I said no both times, duh. And besides, do you really think it's any easier for me?"

    He insisted on being told what she meant, and sounded as though he didn't have a clue.

    Colleen explained, "Most of the cheerleaders want you."

    "Most as in who?" he asked.

    "Most as in nearly all, with the possible exception of your own sister. And even her, I'm not too sure about. But that older blonde, especially."

    "What blonde?" he asked, with feigned indignation, knowing all too well whom she meant.

    "The captain. The one who looks like your sister, but with tits. You know which one, you jerk."

    "Cheri Donner," he admitted.

    "Yeah, her, doofus. She never took her eyes off you, the whole game. She wants your bod," Colleen accused.

    "You're a hundred times hotter than her," he insisted.

    "Yeah right," she snarled.

    "And even if you weren't," he went on, "it wouldn't matter. I love you. I don't love her."

    "Love!" Colleen scoffed, "I'm just fourteen. You're fifteen. Don't give me this crap about love."

    "I do love you!" he angrily insisted.

    "And I love you, you silly doof! But we're kids. If that Cheri person begs you to jump her, our love won't amount to hill of beans."

    "Oh yes it will. And even if it didn't, you're ten times prettier than her."

    "Bullshit," she coyly challenged, yet reveled in his assertion.

    "Coll, the cheerleaders are all jealous of you. They know they don't have a chance."

    Colleen said, "It was bad enough last year, before the summer, before we really got heavy. Now, being in two different schools, so far apart, after all our time together this summer, it just really sucks. I'd like for us to be just for each other, like steadies."

    Casimir frowned and said, "Well, we are, aren't we?"

    She looked down into his eyes hopefully and murmured, "Are we? Are we really steadies?"

    "Hell, yeah. Coll, I don't want anyone else."

    "Neither do I, Cazzie. I only want you. I could say no to anyone on earth, as long as I know you're mine."

    The boy reasoned, "Okay, then. Well, it would be a lot easier for me, being at a different school and everything, if I knew we were only for each other."

    "Let's promise, then," Colleen suggested.

    Casimir readily agreed, and said, "I promise I'm just for you, and I only want you."

    Colleen replied, "I promise I'm yours, and only yours, as long as you want me."

    "Thanks, Colleen. I love you."

    She tried to kiss his nose, and found his mouth instead.

    Several minutes later they broke a very heavy kiss at the sound of knuckles on one of the fogged windows. Colleen's mother warned, "Either get outta that car, or yer Daddy's comin' down with his belt in his hands."

    Colleen grinned and said, "Time for our hot double date. But we have to go up for Mom's sandwiches first."

    "They must be all dried out by now. Think they're any good at this point?"

    "They probably weren't too good to begin with," Colleen admitted.

    Colleen munched on a semi-stale sandwich and looked out into the backyard from her kitchen. She had the view to herself. Her Mom had gone upstairs to see Aunty Carol, Jessica's Mom. Daddy had plopped himself down on the couch for a short nap, and would remain there, inchoate (check), all afternoon. Casimir had taken a detour into the bathroom to straighten himself out and wash up. Colleen had decided that she enjoyed feeling and smelling as though she had just made love to Cazzie, and so had elected to eschew the trip to the bathroom. Presently he came out into the kitchen, set his sandwich on the table, and then rummaged around in Colleen's cupboards for a tall glass, which he filled with milk. He shut the refrigerator, gulped down half the glass of milk, and emerged with a milky upper lip. She glanced at him, smiled, and returned her gaze to the window. He came up behind her, set his glass down, wrapped his strong warm arms around her tiny waist and asked her, "What's up?"

    She nodded to the window and whispered, as though their voices might disturb a hummingbird in the lilacs, "Look at that."

    They looked out at Colleen's winsome young cousin, Jessica, demure and fetching in a light blue knee length sun dress, a matching blue hairband that gathered her waist-long brunette tresses, and obsidian sunglasses. She had set up a folding card table in the tiny, freshly mowed back yard. She occupied a folding chair, and leaned back upon it. Across the table sat her six foot-eight fiancé, Dr. Nelson Spencer, on his own folding chair. Jessica propped her sandal-clad feet up on his lap. He idly caressed her bare ankles. They had a chessboard between them. Every once in a while, one or the other would move a piece. They conversed continuously.

    Casimir observed, "They talk more than any other two people I know."

    Colleen nodded, but said nothing.

    Casimir speculated, "Do you suppose we talk enough?"

    She frowned, bemused, and inquired, "Enough for what?"

    "I don't know. Would we be closer, if we talked as much as they do?"

    She chuckled and asked, "Would you rather have talked in the car twenty minutes ago?"

    He kissed her neck and admitted, "I suppose not." Then he thought about it and added, "I suppose they're the weird ones, huh? They have the whole house pretty much to themselves, and they could be getting themselves laid, but they'd rather be out there talking and playing chess."

    Colleen smirked and assured him, "Oh, they've been laid."

    "How you can you tell?"

    She winked and said, "I just can. She has that melted look."


    "Yeah. Like all her bones have melted and and turned to butter. And him, too. No stress, no pressure. They've both done each other great, not too long ago. Now they're just glowing, all melted. No more than an hour ago, would be my guess. Anyway, I like watching them."

    He looked out the window, along with Colleen, and rapidly became bored, as evinced by the way his hands crept up her waist to her breasts. Colleen didn't mind a bit that he fondled her breasts, nor did she mind that he really didn't have a clue as to why she found it so pleasant to spy on Jessica and Nelson together. She did get irked, however, when he asked, "Why do you like looking at them?"

    "Boys," Colleen groaned in a martyred fashion.


    "You have to ask why? Just look at them. They're so perfect together that it's almost unreal. It's like watching a real live fairytale. It almost feels that way, watching them together in a room full of people. But catching them alone - which is rare - is ten times better. I almost don't want to go out there."

    "Looks like she's set out chairs for us."

    "Yeah. She thinks of everything. She's like about fifty steps ahead. It's spooky sometimes. Well, I suppose we should go out there and join them, but it's more fun in here."

    "You're telling me," agreed Cazzie, who had slipped his hands under her shirt and had begun to work on the clasp of her bra.

    "Get out of there. My Dad's right around the corner."

    "We'll be quiet."

    She giggled and said, "You're impossible. Half the neighborhood probably heard us in the car. Come on, grab your sandwich and stuff."

    She led Cazzie out into the back yard. Jessica waved absently and remarked, "About time."

    "What's that supposed to mean?"

    "Your car pulled up nearly an hour ago. Been busy consoling Cazzie for his defeat?"

    Casimir snorted, "We won, for your information."

    Nelson high-fived Casimir.

    "Congratulations, Cazzie," Jessica amended.

    Cazzie and Colleen took the remaining two seats and watched Jessica and Nelson play chess.

    Nelson gave Colleen a roguish grin and inquired, "So Caz didn't suck?"

    "Not according to my Dad. He got a touchdown and everything."

    "Oh!" Nelson exclaimed, looking sincerely impressed.

    "Daddy said it's rare for sophomores to get touchdowns, because of all the poltiics, and the juniors and seniors having to get most of the playing time."

    Jessica and Nelson both looked at Colleen, and then at each other, smiling. Obviously, Colleen was very proud of her Cazzie.

    In the time it took them to complete those opening pleasantries, Casimir had wolfed down his sandwich, rinsed it down with the remainder of his milk, and had become bored . He hopped off his chair, ducked under the porch, and rummaged around in a plastic chest. Colleen and Jessica groaned together, because they knew what he was looking for.
    Soon enough he emerged, triumphantly announced, "Oh yeah," spun on a heel, and threw a weighted styrofoam football at Nelson's head.

    Nelson took his hands off Jessica's feet to catch the ball, and then hit Casimir at a sprint.

    Colleen yelled, "Watch out for the tomato poles!"

    Casimir complained, as he fired a bullet back to Nelson, "This yard is too small."

    "Then go home! Go to your own yard!"

    Nelson started to stand up out of his chair, and Jessica griped, "Please, Nelson, don't encourage him. He already got to play football today."

    Nelson chuckled, "You mean Colleen gave him his hour out in the pen?" He extricated himself from the chair, leapt over the back of it, and fired the ball at Casimir, who had made a dash for the rickety gate that led out to the concrete driveway.

    Jessica's feet, which had been warm and cozy on his lap, hit the grass with a perfunctory thud. "Damn it, you're all the same, at any age."

    Nelson threw the ball at a leap. It passed through Casimir's hands and over the gate.

    Casimir groaned with mock injury and launched himself through the gate.

    Colleen observed, "They're going to end up out on the street."

    "Good," declared Jessica.

    Nelson chased after Casimir.

    "Oh, Nelson, damn it, act your age!"

    He gave Jessica a big devious grin, but kept going.

    She nearly melted, but managed to complain, "Colleen and I have had nothing from the men in this house but pizza and football all our lives! You don't plan on carrying on the tradition, do you?"

    The boys - both the fifteen year old and the twenty-seven year old - disappeared behind the side of the house.

    Colleen took Nelson's chair and stared glumly at the chess board.

    "You might as well move for him," Jessica said.

    "Yeah, right. So Jess, what are we gonna do today?"

    Jessica toyed with one of Nelson's knights and asked, "What are you up for?"

    Colleen grinned and admitted, "Fucking."

    Jessica gave her cousin a toothy smile and said, "I thought you got plenty of that in the car."

    Although Colleen and Jessica had been close all their lives and had been best friends for as long as either one of them could remember, they were also like sisters, and the fraternal bond could be a complication for activities such as double dates. The natural possessiveness that so often arose between sisters had been complicated in their case by the cramped quarters in which they lived, and their meager circumstances. Neither girl had much of anything that they could call their own, and so when it came to boys - or in Jessica's case, men - they did not share well, and each girl jealously guarded what was hers. On the one hand, they enjoyed doing things together, and a double date on this fine autumn day should have been a natural, almost inevitable outcome, especially given that Nelson had a car, and could arguably have driven them just about anywhere. And yet, Colleen had nailed the essence of the difficulty with her suggestion as to an activity for the afternoon. What the girls wanted most was sex, and in that respect they needed privacy. Jessica did not want Colleen seeing Nelson without his clothes, and she wanted Nelson seeing a naked Colleen even less. Colleen had similar insecurities concerning Casimir. Their respective anxieties tended to complicate the mechanics of double dating. They could hardly find a quiet, secluded place to park, with one couple in the back seat and the other in front, in conformance to the usual ritual.

    "What about you two?" Colleen asked.

    "What do you mean?"

    "I mean, when did Nelson show up? Have you had time to play more than chess?"

    Jessica grinned and said, "Nelson helped pick out my dress."

    "Wearing anything under it?"

    "A thong. Have to. I'm kind of soggy down there."

    Colleen smiled and said, "That's nice." She nibbled at the remains of her sandwich, while Jessica toyed with chess pieces. Colleen suddenly perked up and asked whether Nelson would be willing to take them on a drive. Jessica said that of course he would, provided he and Cazzie could be dragged from the football game. The girls listened ruefully at the din that emanated from the street. By the sound of it, Casimir and Nelson had enlisted every boy in the neighborhood for pick-up football.

    "What do you have in mind?"

    Colleen replied, "It's a nice warm day. I was thinking we could head up Revere Beach, toward Swampscott, and check out Nahant on the way." Colleen referred to an island, just north of Boston, that was connected to the mainland by a causeway built upon a narrow jetty. The picturesque island provided upscale bedrooms for several thousand Boston commuters, and had almost no native industries to speak of, apart from several excellent wedding facilities. Colleen went on to impart that she had been asking around, and had learned that there were a few other scenic conference and party spots in nearby Marblehead and Salem. They could do some scouting around; Nelson could chauffeur, and Cazzie could take a nap.

    The suggestion sounded fine to Jessica, but she had an observation to make, and she couldn't let it pass. "I've been engaged for less than a month, and Greta has already insisted that you have to be my maid of honor."

    "No way," Colleen demurred. "We're as good as sisters, and always will be. Greta is your girlfriend, your best friend. Best friends are harder to come by than sisters. Greta has to be your maid of honor."

    "You two might as well both be my sisters. You sound exactly alike. Ahh, well. I did tell her I'm not deciding for two years. Maybe I won't even have a maid of honor. Just sisters and friends, with no pecking order whatsoever."

    Colleen dismissed that notion with the rather cruel remark, "That would never work. Someone has to be in charge, or it will just become a big mess. People order themselves into ranks. It's a natural thing. To prevent ourselves from cutting each other's throats."

    Jessica assessed her dear cousin with appreciation and said, "That is very perceptive."

    Colleen shrugged, "I learned it in J-ROTC."

    They agreed that they would have to break up the touch football game that had manifested itself out on the street if they ever wanted to make it to Nahant Island that afternoon, but they also agreed to give they guys a half hour. They sat back in their chairs and silently enjoyed the sun.

    Eventually, in keeping with Colleen's observation with respect to the propensity of people to gather and organize themselves, the girls were drawn out to the front of the house, whereupon they laid their eyes on a remarkable sight. Casimir and Nelson, neither of whom lived in Everett, let alone this particular street, had enlisted what looked like every boy in the neighborhood, and half the men, as well.

    Jessica and Colleen stood on the crumbling cement steps of their triple decker and watched, in stupefaction, a scene that had never played out on their street in all their lives. Casimir and Nelson, in the past twenty minutes, had gathered and organized the boys of the neighborhood into teams. They played a hybrid version of touch football, using the long, narrow street as a field and the parked cars as natural hazards. The game caused a din that could be heard over the rooftops, and as curious boys gathered, they were enlisted into the game. Casimir had on his team Jessica's first summer boyfriend, Jimmy, and several of Jimmy's sidewalk crew. Nelson's team included Sammy, Colleen's first boyfriend. Jessica's seven year old brother, Tommy, joined on Nelson's side. Their cousins, Paulie and Phil Jr., joined Casimir. Uncles, aunts, and neighbors gathered to watch on the sidewalk. Sammy's twenty year old brother joined one of the teams. The ranks swelled further, to the point that Nelson could no longer be called the oldest player. Colleen and Jessica traded bemused glances at the spectacle, whereby their men had descended upon their neighborhood and had magically transformed it into a playground. Their fathers, Billy and Mikey, walked down the front steps with a six pack each.

    "What the hell's going on out here?" Jessica's Dad asked.

    "Touch football," Jessica replied.

    "They're gonna bust a windshield," Mikey warned.

    Colleen said, "It's a foam ball, Daddy."

    Their fathers grumbled for a few minutes about the unsuitability of the street as a field, the unbalanced teams, the danger to the cars, but they gave up on protests and ended up rooting alternately for one team or another.

    "Say," Jessica's Dad said, squinting with his bleary eyes, "Is that Little Man out there?"

    "Yes, that's Tommy," Jessica replied, "Playing for Cazzie."

    "I'll be damned."

    Jessica's Mom wandered down the steps and put an arm around Jessica's shoulder. "What's keeping you on the sidelines, hmm? Don't tell me football's for boys. That never stopped you from doing anything before."

    Jessica looked down at her powder blue sundress, which she wore with nothing underneath but a spaghetti string thong, and shivered, saying, "One game, Mom, with Jimmy and Nelson in it. Too weird."

    Her mother scoffed, "As though Jimmy ever meant anything."

    "Well, he didn't. But still. Too weird. There's weirdness for Colleen, too, with Cazzie and Sammy out there."

    "Besides," Colleen piped in, "my breasts are incompatible with football."

    "You and your stupid breasts," Jessica muttered, not a little bit envious. "Anyway, we'd rather just watch. Besides, we're waiting patiently. We've thought of something to do with the guys."

    "Mmm. You two might have a long wait."

    Colleen and Jessica had to agree, but they did not mind, in the least, the transformation that their men had wrought on the neighborhood. All too soon, Nelson and Casimir would lift their enchantments, and the street would become mundane and ordinary once more. Jessica and Colleen did not want that to happen any more than the rest of the neighbors.

    Inevitably the teams' respective ranks diminished, as the adults exhausted themselves and the younger kids lost interest, until Cazzie and Nelson could safely break ranks themselves and rejoin their partners on the stoop.

    Jessica teased, "So, have you two gotten that out of your systems, or is this just halftime?"

    Nelson said, "We're open to alternatives. Aren't we, Caz?"

    "Sure," said Casimir.

    "Colleen has an idea for a roadtrip."

    Jessica and Colleen explained their plan to scout locations for wedding receptions. Jessica's mother paled. The fact of her fourteen year old daughter's betrothal had not really hit home until that moment.

    Nelson remarked, "Miss, I think I might have overestimated the amount of time you would need to plan for the wedding. We're not choosing centerpieces today, I hope."

    Jessica grinned and said, "Are you hinting that you want the ring back for a couple years?"

    "Naw, keep it."

    "Thanks, Sir. Don't worry. We're only windowshopping. You and Cazzie will be bored out of your skulls, no doubt."

    "We'll be busy ourselves. Admiring the view."

    Jessica smiled. Nelson often made a point of telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she was the most beautiful thing in his world, but his offhand, spontaneous comments, such as the one remark he had just made, convinced her of the utter truth to his claim.

    Nelson said, "We should plan on dinner tonight. I have just the place in mind. It will be cool and windy, by the time we get there, so you two will need sweaters."

    Cazzie ran inside for a bathroom break, and the girls went in for sweaters and purses, leaving Nelson alone outside with Jessica's mother.

    "Nelson, I've been meaning to speak to you. The opportunity hasn't come up."

    "Uh oh."

    She chuckled and asked, "What are you expecting me to say, I wonder? I suppose the options are endless, given the circumstances."

    "They are. I guess I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I literally robbed the cradle a few weeks ago, and before you could retort, I ran off to Shanghai for ten days."

    Carol said, "Well, you've no need to worry on that score. I could not possibly be more pleased. From the day Jessica was born, my only wish for her was to end up with someone both devoted to her and deserving. Someone she could love and respect without effort. Someone like you, Nelson."

    A lump caught in his throat, and he had to consciously swallow. "Thank you, Carol."

    She said, "I wanted to speak to you about something else. Jessica tells me that you are going to let me give her the wedding reception."

    "That's right."

    Carol inhaled deeply, and shut her eyes. She bit her lip, and looked up at him. "You have no idea how much that means to me."

    "Jessica convinced me of its importance to you."

    Carol nodded and warned, "It won't be fancy. It can't be. We simply don't have the means. Please explain to your parents that we will do the very best that we can."

    "No explanations will be necessary. My parents love Jessica nearly as much as I do. The setting will not matter to them in the least. We are all family, now."

    Carol cast a wary eye at her husband, who was engrossed in drinking and yelling at the remnants of the touch football game. She took Nelson's hand and squeezed tightly in two of hers. "Thank-you, Nelson. For everything. But for loving Jessica, most of all."

    The remaining players officially called time-out, so that the neighborhood could collectively gape at the spectacle of the mechanized transformation of Nelson's Arctic white BMW from a coupe into a convertible. Jessica pulled her seat forward to allow Colleen egress into the back. Casimir simply leapt over the side of the car.

    "Hey, moron," Jessica yelled, "watch the paint!"

    "It's Nelson's car, not yours. Relax."

    "Everything that Nelson has is mine; he's already said."

    "That's right," Nelson agreed.

    "Yeah," Jessica snarled, doubly emboldened, "and I love this car. It has doors. Use'em."

    They drove up the parkway and out to Revere, and then north up the coast. All the way, Casimir earnestly tried to understand why Nelson had not gone pro.

    "I don't fucking get it," Casimir insisted, despite Colleen's earnest attempts to distract him. "You have the height, the strength, the speed. You were hitting me from fifty yards, at a run, with a fucking Nerf ball. I bet with real pigskin you could drill bombs for sixty, seventy yards."

    Nelson shrugged and gave Jessica's hand an extra tight squeeze as he drove.

    "I just don't get it," Casimir persisted. "It's such a waste of raw talent."

    "Football was never really my thing, Caz. In high school I was tutored just about every afternoon. I didn't play sports at all. Apart from jogging, and weight training, and intramural gymnastics in the winter."

    Casimir was beside himself. "That's just- just, so wrong. It's just not right. I mean, here you are, a natural. So you don't like football. Okay, whatever, it's weird, but I can almost handle it-"

    "Hey!" Jessica interjected. "My Nelson is not weird."

    Colleen protested, "Sure he is, Jessica. Just as weird as you are. But I'm with you two on this one. I don't get the point of football either."

    Casimir muttered, "I'm surrounded."

    Colleen hugged him, nuzzled him, kissed him. "You were fantastic today, Cazzie," she assured him between kisses. "It's my fault I don't get it. Football looks like mostly standing around to me. Lacrosse was a lot more fun to watch, though I nearly went crazy watching it. That sport was far too dangerous, Cazzie. You nearly gave me ten heart attacks. This football business looks a lot safer, but boring, too."

    Casimir made a perplexed, disgusted face at Colleen, inducing Jessica to crack up at the two of them. "So N-Man, for sake of argument, forget about actually liking football."

    Jessica frowned at Casimir and said, "Stop right there. What did you just call him?"

    "I don't know."

    "You called my Nelson N-Man."

    "I did?"

    "Don't do it again. His name is Nelson," Jessica asserted.

    "Okay, okay! So, like, dude-"

    "His name's not dude, either."

    "Jess, for fuck's sake, shut up!"

    "And my name is Jessica!"

    "Jessi, I swear to Christ I'm gonna jump out of this car!"

    "Go ahead!"

    Casimir gave Colleen his most injured look and demanded, "How can you stand living with her?"

    "Not many people can," Colleen conceded. Why do you think I'm questioning N-Man's sanity for proposing to her?"

    Jessica shrieked, "Colleen! His name is Nelson!"

    Colleen and Casimir rolled together in the back seat.

    Jessica griped, "Why is everyone picking on me? Why?"

    Nelson muttered, "I'm not."

    "You're a dear. But they're impossible. Who invited them?"

    Casimir peeked over her backrest and replied, "You did, Miss!"

    Colleen cracked up and high-fived him.

    Jessica wailed, "They're like Twiddledum and Twiddledee!"

    In the process of their bickering, Nelson had pulled off the shoreline drive onto the Nahant Island causeway. Jessica pointed to a turnoff to the long, narrow beach that ran along the jetty. They hopped out of the car, took off their shoes, and walked barefoot onto the narrow strand to watch kites fly against the backdrop of the Boston skyline.

    Casimir eventually had the opportunity to finish his thought. His mind had been on football all along. Colleen and Jessica wandered off to contemplate the merits of the beach as a potential location for an outdoor reception.

    Casimir asked Nelson, "Can they even book a beach for a wedding reception?"

    "I doubt it. They certainly can't serve alcohol here. I doubt they're thinking about much more than the view. They have years to get around to the practical aspects."

    "Huh. Well, let's just say, for argument's sake, you hate football as much as Jessi does."

    "This again," Nelson sighed.

    "It's important."

    "If you say so."

    "What I mean is, even if you hate it, why would you not play pro, if you could?"

    "Because I'm not a football player," Nelson explained with a sincere effort at patience. "I'm an engineer and mathematician. That's what I've wanted to be, since I was twelve. When I decided what I wanted to be, I didn't know I would eventually stand six-eight and weigh two hundred sixty pounds."

    "So, like, you knew what you were gonna be, way back then?"


    "You are weird. You are so like Jess. You are just like Jess. Coll says Jess is the exact same way."

    "Jessica and I do have more than a little bit in common," Nelson conceded.

    "Yeah. So I've noticed. But you hit a growth spurt later on, right? Say around fourteen or so. At that point you must have known you'd grow up to be a fucking football monster."

    "Look. Even if I'd known I would end up this tall, that wouldn't have made me change my mind. You have to understand, I was already working hard, at your age, to be what I wanted to be. When I was your age, I probably wasn't much better at math than you are."

    "Come on. Dad says you have a doctorate in math."

    "I do. But it's applied math, the practical math used by engineers. And I had to work hard to learn it. I am not a natural at theoretical branches of mathematics, the way Jessica is. Because I had to work hard at it, I needed to give it full dedication. I couldn't take time out to gamble on the chance of qualifying for a football career. Even if I loved the sport, and I didn't, I already knew enough about statistics and probability that I would not have dared to go that way."

    "Come on," Casimir scoffed, "seriously! At six-eight, and slabbed the way you are, you would have been a shoe-in!"

    He chuckled and said, "Maybe, at college level anyway. Until I broke a knee, or tore a ligament. Even physically qualified athletes have less than a one in ten thousand chance of getting through college healthy enough to go pro for a year or two. And of those, less than one in a hundred stay in the game long enough to make a career of it, and of those who do, most die a couple decades short of normal life expectancy, due to all the wear and tear."

    "Yeah, N-Man, but all that money. You're like all stuck on the risk, and you're not thinking of the reward."

    Nelson grinned and indulged young Casimir. "How much does a Pro Bowl quarterback make per year? On average?"

    Casimir shrugged and said, "I don't know. Eight or nine million a year. The good ones."

    "Okay. And the best ones make that much for maybe five years, right?"

    "Yeah," Casimir said with a shrug, "give or take. Some make that much for ten years."

    "Sure. But now you're talking one player in ten million, as in the Bill Gates of football players. For every Tom Brady or Peyton Manning, there's about ten thousand wannabes. So forget the impossible, and let's just consider the merely improbable. Let's assume I might have had a one in twenty thousand chance of making it to the Pro Bowl and playing at the top of the earning scale for, say, five years. I'd make about fifty or sixty million for my career, right? If I hit it big on a one in twenty thousand chance?"

    "Sure," Casimir conceded, "I guess."

    "Okay," said Nelson. "Now think about a math student, five foot six, one hundred sixty pounds, can't run a mile in less than eight minutes, can't bench more than two thirds of his weight."

    "You're talking about a skinny stick."

    "Yeah. The kind of kid a tough jock like you stuffs into a locker for fun. Now imagine that skinny stick earns his Ph.D. in math, with a bachelor of science in electrical engineering and a few business courses as electives along the way. Know what his odds are of earning a million year by the time he turns thirty?"


    "Less than one in fifty."

    Casimir gulped.

    "And he doesn't have to bust himself on a gridiron and wonder if the next play will be the one that sends him out on a stretcher and ends his career. He - or she, for that matter - can earn in the seven figures, right up into his seventies and beyond, if he eats right and spends a half hour each morning on a treadmill to keep the arteries clear."

    "Shit," said Cazzie.

    "I'm twenty-seven, Caz. Know how much I made last year?"


    "Not as much as a pro quarterback. I'm still a junior manager at the company. But my stock in the company increased in value by six and a half million bucks. My Dad is pushing sixty, more than twice the age of a peak pro quarterback, and he made twenty-five million bucks last year."

    "Holy shit."

    "And he didn't have to worry about torn ACL's, or a wrecked rotator cuff. You're fifteen, right?"


    "How tall are you?"


    "Okay. And you're pretty fast. Still growing. But you'd have to grow five more inches to have even a snowball's chance in hell at being a pro cornerback. You'd have to be about thirty percent faster, too. So, you could spend every waking minute for the next three years eating raw eggs and working out in a weight room to build up enough muscle mass to take a hit in college, and you could spend every waking moment of four years in college working up from fourth string to first in the hopes that you'll stay healthy long enough for a pro scout to notice you and tell you it's okay to hitchhike down to Florida to try out against fifty or a hundred other guys for a single third string corner slot. Then, if you get the slot, and they actually let you dress up with fifty-two other guys, you'd sit on a bench for a couple years and work out solo every waking moment, competing against seven figure first stringers with personal trainers and personal physical therapists in the hopes of staying healthy long enough to play in the big arena just once, so you can start paying off all the bills that have accumulated over the past eight years. Maybe, at some point in the last two years of your career, you'll pay off enough bills and finally net enough money to buy that Porsche you've had your eye on all your life.

    "You can do all that, and hope to win five or six lotteries in a row, and most likely die young in the process, or you can learn some math."

    "Fuck," said Cazzie.

    Nelson gave the kid his most roguish wink. Jessica and Colleen were coming back.

    Nelson ventured, "Can I ask you something?"

    "Is it about math?"

    Nelson chuckled and asked, "N-Man?"

    "It's nothing. The guys on the team call me C-Man, because Casimir is a mouthful, and Caz is hard to say, too."

    Nelson grunted. Jessica skipped into his embrace, shivered into his warmth, and kissed everywhere she could reach. Nelson found himself thinking that she must be chilly on the breezy shore, and had to fight back a sudden urge to warm her up right there in front of Caz.

    Colleen ran at Casimir in a sprint, breasts heaving with the exertion and casting out a haze of warm steam, and she launched herself in mid-air to tackle him into the sand.

    Jessica took her beloved Nelson's hand and said, "I think we'd better leave them alone. She couldn't stop talking about Cazzie's dick and how delectable it is." She called out to Colleen, "Hey, yo, Coll! Nelson and I are gonna take a spin. We'll be back for you."

    Colleen waved, on top of Casimir, without looking at them.

    Nelson said, "I almost feel like I should rush to his defense."

    Jessica chuckled, "You'd need a crowbar. As you well know, Sir, we Turner girls can be rather insistent."

    "I do, indeed," he said.

    He helped her into the car, started it up, and activated the seat heaters. They embraced over the console and watched the sun's descent, reflected on thousands of windows across the Boston skyline.

    "So, Miss, is this beach on your list of locations?"

    She dreamily replied, "Who knows? I won't be making lists for years. I'm just gathering material for my dreams, that's all."

    "Anywhere else you wanted to see, while we're here? Cazzie and Colleen are going to be awhile."

    Jessica replied, "Colleen and I found a couple places on the island itself."

    He nibbled on her ear, planted a long lingering kiss on her temple, and put the car into gear. They crossed the remainder of the narrow causeway, and drove first to a little country club located roughly on the center of the island, a conference facility situated on an expansive tree-lined lawn and surrounded with picturesque gazebos. They parked in the lot, left the engine running, and resumed their kiss.

    Jessica wondered whether the place had ever been used for golf, as its name suggested, and Nelson speculated that it might once have been a small equestrian club.

    "This entire island would barely accommodate eighteen holes of golf," he explained.

    "I've never asked, Sir. Do you play golf?"

    "Never. Detest it, to be honest. Bores me to tears."

    She chuckled and snuggled into him. "Not even for business?" she pressed.

    "I have a stocked bag with top-shelf Calloway drivers and Ping irons with carbon shafts," he replied.

    "Woosh," said Jessica, sweeping her palm over her head.

    He laughed and said, "It means I am both well attired and well accoutered for golf. Like the typical Tahoe skiier. State of the art gear and five thousand dollars' worth of clothes, but can't handle the bunnyslope. That's me, on the golf course. I suck at golf, and it's all to the good. In business golf, etiquette dictates that the client must always win, by a wide margin."

    "But it can't be good if you look ridiculous."

    "I look great on the golf course," he insisted. "I hold my chin up and take my drubbing like a man."

    "Well, okay then," she said. She unclipped her seat belt and climbed up onto his lap, and they snuggled while the sun continued to descend. She admitted that she somewhat envied Colleen, who at that moment was making love on the beach with Cazzie.

    "We'll have to arrange lovemaking for later," he promised.

    Jessica grinned up at him, not only because he had promised to make love to her again, but also due to the way his warm fingers enclapsed her firm little breast through the powder blue sun skirt. His other hand cradled the bottom of her ass, and caressed her buttocks through the single cotton layer. He groaned into Jessica's mouth, and murmured, "You are so accessible in this dress."

    "Not as accessible as I'd like to be," she whispered. She winked at him, reached under her skirt, and pulled the soggy thong up off her thighs, over her knees, down her calves, and off her ankles. She reached forward, popped the console's storage compartment, and tossed the thong inside.

    "Jesus Christ," he groaned.

    "Now I'm accessible."

    "That's for sure. Uh, we're supposed to be heading to a restaurant."

    "Better make it seafood," the nearly naked girl advised.

    They drove on to another conference facility at the west end of the island, a picturesque place overlooking a rocky cliff. Jessica decided immediately that she really liked this place, and wanted to take home a brochure to show to her mother. He helped Jessica back into her sandals, and they walked in together. The lobby, promenade, and ballroom bustled with waitstaff, caterers, decorators, florists, and musicians. A maitre'd greeted them in the lobby and explained that a wedding reception would be commencing within the hour, that Jessica now had the opportunity to witness the pandemonium that precedes the bride's grand arrival, so as to ensure that she experiences nothing but perfection. The fourteen year old girl tried to envision her own arrival at this place, an hour hence, impeccably coiffed, adorned in diaphanous white and a thousand beaded pearls. Her imagination failed her. The maitre'd handed Jessica a thick folder with a color booklet, sample menus, and price lists. He persisted in looking at Nelson as he addressed them, and seemed reluctant to let his eye linger on Jessica for more than moments at a time. He must have been justifiably anxious about her apparent age. He asked them whether they had set a date, and Jessica replied that the anticipated date would be three years hence.

    "This facility typically books solid eighteen months in advance. Now would not be too soon to reserve the date. You would lock the prices at today's rates. They typically go up by five percent per year."

    Jessica put on her best poker face and asked him how much the reception for that evening had cost. The maitre'd replied that, excluding the musicians, flowers, and bar, the cost had come in at approximately twenty thousand dollars. Jessica swallowed without blinking, and thanked him. Then she asked one more question. "Do you have accommodations for smokers?"

    "The building and grounds are a non-smoking facility, miss."

    She nodded and thanked him for his time.

    Back in the car, Nelson guessed, "Concerned about whether your Dad will be able so sit through the reception without sucking down a butt?"

    "To hell with my Dad. He has to come. I'm concerned about our guests, Sir. We're not holding this party anywhere that your Dad can't light his pipe."

    "That stipulation rules out just about all of Massachusetts, Miss. Three years from now, it just might disqualify the whole country."

    "If it does, it does," she replied dismissively. "We'll just take the reception to Canada. This whole damned country is becoming an insufferable hell hole, before our very eyes."

    He chuckled, pulled out, and forced himself to concentrate on the road. Nelson always found Jessica to be almost unbearably, irresistibly sexy when she acted like an enraged kitten. He asked his amorous fiancée whether she thought Colleen might be done with Casimir by now.

    "Oh, they're on round three by this time. She tells me he has nothing like your control, Sir. Not that she's criticizing. He is fifteen, after all, and he can go repeatedly. According to Colleen, of course. I wouldn't know, personally. And also, she tells me that he's been expanding his repertoire.

    "Oh, really?"

    "Yes, Sir. He's branched out into oral pastimes, and Colleen reports that he is improving at an alarming, albeit satisfying, rate."

    "That old dog," observed Nelson.

    "Indeed. Apparently he's been getting some coaching from his sister."

    "Huh?" Nelson blurted.

    Jessica burst into mirthful giggles and explained, "Verbal coaching only, Sir."

    "Ahh, that's okay then, I suppose."

    "Mmm. It seems Greta has been giving Cazzie pointers on ways to further amplify Colleen's already disproportionately effusive libido. Mostly just pointing out the glaringly obvious, I suspect, such as the fact, little known to men of the male persuasion, that tongues are meant for more than just talking. Anyway, Colleen reports that Cazzie has some natural talent, and he's putting all his best effort into practice."

    "I'm happy for her, then."

    "Me, too, Sir, me too."

    "You sound just a shade envious."

    "Yes, Sir, I confess that I am. You have not used your lovely tongue on me in all of five hours."

    Nelson pulled off into a sandy cove. On Jessica's arched query, he explained that the air had cooled, and that he should put the car's top up. "Besides, we should give Casimir more time to practice."

    "That is very considerate of you, Sir."

    He took Jessica by her pert little bum and upended her over the console, pushing her powder blue skirt down toward her body. She clamped her slender thighs around his stubbly cheeks with a moan as he commenced with nibbling at the sparse, shiny black pubic hair that had begun to appear above her cunny.

    "No, Sir, no," she fretted half-heartedly, "aren't we going out to dinner later? You'll make me too soggy!"

    "Don't worry, Miss, I won't spill a drop."

    "That's my line, Sir." Jessica's protests devolved into soft blissful moans as she abandoned herself to her fiance's artful tongue, and caressed his thick dark hair, and watched the diamond and platinum adornment upon her finger gather and amplify scattered remnants of twilight. Jessica felt her vagina clenching rhythmically on thin air, deep in her tummy. She needed her beloved Nelson's maleness in her belly so badly that she could barely stand it, yet his present activities put the girl in a genuine quandary, because she simply adored the way his talented lips and tongue set the universe into motion, like a kaleidoscopic wheel, with herself at the center of its tumbling crystals. Jessica lost all sense of up and down, and wavered peacefully, a dustmote caught upon a draft, anchored to the earth only by Nelson's assiduous tongue and gentle fingers. She cried out and did not hear herself doing it; she relaxed her thighs, crossed her ankles behind his head, and lost herself beneath the powder blue dress, which had fallen all the way back to her head. His fingers found her firm, spongy breasts and squeezed. He did break one promise, though he might have been excused: he did, in fact spill quite a bit. Then again, she drenched him, from his neck to his forehead. He just went right on devouring her from the outside in, drenched though he was, and she couldn't take it any more.

    "Love, oh my love, I need you in me, Nelson, please!"

    "Just once in my life," he said with a peeved tone, "I would like to pleasure you, just for you."

    Her tone amused him. She begged, "You can pleasure me, just for me, by filling me up with your beautiful gigantic Maleness, way deep inside."

    "That would not be just for you," he continued to argue, as he pulled the dissheveled girl up over his lap.

    "It's been hours. I miss Him. Inside, Sir. Behind my bellybutton."

    "Miss, I'm sold, okay? You shall have what you want, as always, and I'm not complaining. It's just that you're missing the point."

    "Okay, fine, then. So just don't enjoy it," she suggested.

    He pulled Jessica right up over his lap, between his chest and the steering wheel. Her ankles were still wrapped around his neck, so he bent her in half in order to fit the mouth of her vagina over his desperately erect pole. He carefully seated himself inside her hot wet opening, gripped her firmly by the waist, and pulled her down. Jessica uttered something between a sob and a sigh as he pummeled his way into her slick hot guts. The powder blue sun dress fell back down her body and draped over their laps.

    "How is that, Miss?" he teased, just a little, "Better?"

    She struggled to catch her breath, bit her lip, and said, "Each and every time I marvel at how full you make me feel. It is so, so nice."

    "I'm in my favorite place," he provided.

    "I'm glad," Jessica whispered. "For as long as I live, a day won't pass when I won't want this."

    The sun went down in their sandy cove, and gradually disappeared behind the ramshackle rooftops of the City of Sin. Jessica had drenched his shorts by the time he had emptied himself into her tummy. With typical incredulity, he wondered how such a slender little thing as she could gather sufficient moisture to cum so copiously. She must have summoned every drop of spare moisture in her lymphatic system, from the tips of her toes to the hair on her scalp, and gathered it into the warm slippery bath that drenched his waterlogged cock. Jessica hummed to herself with idle contentment, still seated firmly upon his jutting cock. She had extricated her legs at some point, and had folded them at the knees, so that she now embraced him in a squat, her entire body curled up snugly around his torso. She thought back on a conversation that she and Nelson had been having earlier that day, and on reflection she realized a new appreciation for the topic's significance.

    Back in the yard, at the chess board, when Colleen and Cazzie had been spying on them from the kitchen, Jessica had been telling Nelson about the commencement of her second semester in college, and specifically her opening day interview with her academic advisor, Dr. Filmore. She had gone into Kendall Square on Tuesday to get her assignments for the term, and she had told Dr. Filmore about her impressions on a book she had read over the summer. "The book itself is of no importance," she had said, "just a lay primer on quantum mechanics. Anyway, it went on and on for a whole chapter on Shrödinger's Cat."

    "Ahh," Dr. Filmore had said, "Erwin's infamous thought experiment."

    Dr. Filmore and Jessica had referred, of course, to a hypothetical experiment, first proposed by Erwin Shrödinger, which had been intended to demonstrate not only the mechanics of superimposed quantum states, but also the power of seemingly inconsequential subatomic quantum events to impose themselves on the everyday world. According to the experiment, one would place a necessarily docile tabbycat in a black box, together with a lump of radioactive cobalt, a decay detector, and a glass vial containing cyanide gas. Once one closed the lid of the box, events inside would be a mystery. In the absence of an observer, the cobalt would both decay and not decay, according to the rules of quantum mechanics. The two states - decayed and undecayed - would both exist at once, superimposed, in the absence of an observer to force the cobalt to choose one state or another. The detector would both register the decay and not register it, and would both signal a trigger apparatus and not, which would both break the cyanide vial and not; which would both kill the tabbycat, and not. Hence, for as long as the lid remained closed, the states within the box would be superimposed, and the cat, according to Erwin Shrödinger, would be both alive and dead. Only when an observer opened the lid, whilst wearing a gas mask, of course, and looked inside, would the the superimposed states collapse and resolve to either one or the other. The observer would either hear the meow of an emancipated and rather indignant tabbycat, or would look down on a rather gruesome corpse.

    Dr. Filmore had called this the infamous thought experiment, because it had stumped the greatest minds of the 20th century, and had purportedly once reduced Einstein himself to stuttering in apoplexy. Even into the 21st century, the paradox of Shrödinger's cat had the power to illustrate the perplexing apparent absurdities of the quantum realm.

    In the yard that afternoon, over the chess board, Jessica had recounted to Nelson that Filmore had wanted to know her take on the whole business. "I told Filmore," Jessica had told Nelson, "that as long as men dominate science, no real progress will be made. Men thrill in their capacity for needless complication, and they are so busy admiring themselves and their ridiculous inventions that they fail to see the glaringly obvious."

    Filmore had wanted to know what the best minds of the twentieth century had missed. Nelson, in the yard over the chessboard, had wanted to know, too.

    Jessica had replied, "Obviously, Shrödinger could simply have asked the cat."

    Filmore had wanted to know how, and so had Nelson.

    "He could have knocked on the box. He would have heard the cat's meow, or not, and would therefore have learned whether or not the cat had died."

    Nelson had retorted, "But then Shrödinger would have been observing the contents of the box. Same thing as opening the lid, at which point the states would no longer have been superimposed."

    Jessica had grinned and had said, "Men! Damn it, you're all the same. Filmore told me the exact same thing."

    "And did you have a comeback, Miss?"

    "Of course. I told him that the observation happens long before one knocks on the side of the box, because the cat is an observer, too."

    This response had left Nelson speechless, just as it had left Filmore speechless.

    Jessica had continued, "One observer is as good as another. It's not like the cobalt administers an IQ test to the cat to determine whether it qualifies as an observer. For that matter, the cobalt doesn't administer a Turing test to determine whether the cat is or is not sentient. In that respect, the decay detector is an observer, too, and is no more or less privileged than the cat in the box, or the idiot standing outside of it. I'd even go one step further. When the cobalt decays it emits radiation, which the walls of the box absorb. The cobalt does not conduct tests to determine whether the walls of the box are capable of reporting that absorption to some device, such as a cyanide vial. The walls of the box, by virtue of their ability to absorb the radiation, are observers, too, no more or less privileged than the detector that is connected to the cyanide - or, for that matter, the rods and cones in Erwin's eyes."

    Dr. Filmore, on the interview, had wanted to know what conclusions Jessica had drawn from her observations. Nelson, at the chessboard that afternoon, had wanted to know, too.

    Jessica had replied to Nelson, "I told Filmore that the universe is rife with functionally equivalent observers, from end to end, and everywhere in between. Hence, all waveforms are collapsed in practice. There are no superimposed states, and there is no uncertainty, in practice, on any scale, apart from that which men contrive for purposes of confusement. Finally, any apparent superimposition can be explained by mechanics, provided the systems are examined with satisfactory precision."

    "Poor Dr. Filmore," Nelson had said.

    "Yes," Jessica had agreed, "He told me he can't believe I'm thirteen. I told him that I am not, and he wished me happy birthday. Nelson, he does not know quite what to make of me." She had fretted at the chessboard, at the conundrum that she herself presented to just about everyone.

    Now, in the car, the conversation came back to the fore, and she resurrected it to make yet another observation.

    "I really do believe that the so-called thought experiment is a load of bull, and the cat is either alive or dead. By extension, I believe that the cobalt in the box has either decayed or not. Shrödinger can take a running leap, for all I care. The paradox merely illustrates a gap in our understanding of the way the world works. But all the same, Nelson, I feel just like his cat."

    He caressed her back, from the base of her spine all the way to the back of her neck. His fingers felt dreamy.

    "You're changing the subject, Sir."

    "I didn't say anything."

    "You don't have to," she accused. She cuddled into him.

    "Are you saying you're both dead and alive?"

    "No. I'm saying I'm both an adult and a fourteen year old kid. I am in both states at once, superimposed, like Shrödinger's tabbycat. On the one hand I am a college student, perplexed by summer reading that I've undertaken a couple semesters ahead of the official syllabus, dabbling in quantum mechanics. I am betrothed to you, my love, and we have just been scouting locations for our wedding reception. On the other hand I am just a girl, barely fourteen, out on a double date with my fourteen and a half year old cousin and her ultra-hawt jock boyfriend. Half the time I feel like the adult, my dearest Nelson's fiancée. The rest of the time I still feel like the fourteen year old, especially when I get caught up in my teen friends' silly tribulations. My good friend Greta Westford in particular. I have been thinkng about Greta quite a bit lately, to the point where, I confess, you and she have been getting almost equal time."

    "The horror," Nelson said.

    "Seriously, Sir! It is infuriating, the way her petty dramas have consumed me. From what little I know of her life, she seems to be embroiled in much more than the usual amount of teen drama. And I don't just mean the furniture girl business, or the cheerleading, either."

    Nelson asked for clarification as to what she meant, and whether she often talked to Greta.

    "That's the thing," she said. "We don't talk much at all, fortunately. She can be rather depressing. She has been texting me entries from her diary. The thing reads like a versified suicide letter. I know she imperils herself for kicks. She has always been into anonymous sex, and now with Christopher Albrecht out of the picture her life has apparently become a wild, crazy ride. Sir, whenever I think about Greta, and the shambles she has made of her life in just fourteen years, I think my lucky stars that I have you."

    He snorted and stared out the window. She asked him what was on his mind. He needed time to answer. She cuddled him and looked up at him until he was ready.

    "You never did tell me what Greta confided to you. The event that broke her."

    She took his chin and gently pulled his gaze from the window. "It is true. I couldn't even tell Greta's own mother, even when she begged. But I have no secrets from you, Sir. I will tell you now, if you wish to know."

    "No, no. That is not what I meant. Of course you would tell me. But it is a confidence between yourself and your friend. What I mean is that it must have been a severe event, for you not to have shared it in passing."

    She nodded briskly, shut her eyes, and said, "Retelling it would take effort. It is not a pleasant story. Even what I know of it. She held a lot back. These days I realize she held back a lot more than I had suspected at the time."

    "Okay. So we can surmise that Greta's perdition is, in a sense, justified. Now you say that you're lucky to have me. Maybe you are. But can you begin to imagine how Greta would see you, for whom just about everything has gone right? And please understand, my love, I don't mean to imply that you have been lucky. To the extent that there is such a thing as luck, you have made it for yourself, all of your life. Greta has no more luck conferred upon her than you do, but she is trying to make her way in life with fewer intrinsic gifts as well. She is making the best of a comparatively paltry collection of faculties. No doubt she feels trapped within herself. That feeling of entrapment would be difficult for one such as yourself to understand. For you there are no horizons, or if horizons exist, they are too distant to pose constraints. Greta is, well and truly, the cat in Shrödinger's infernal box, at the mercy of a lump of cobalt and a dangling vial of cyanide gas. Unlike the cat, Greta knows it. Try to imagine that."

    Jessica set her feet down upon the seat and pulled herself up off her beloved Nelson's beautiful cock, with some wistful reluctance, to hitch herself up and gather his head into her breast. Nelson had rarely ever exhibited somberness or melancholy in all the time she had known him, and when he did, it caused her physical pain, and activated a maternal compulsion to offer him comfort and succor. She wrapped her arms around his neck, cradled his head, and kissed him.

    "What is it, love? Why are you sad?"

    "Not sad," he whispered into her neck. "Happy. Happy, and immensely fortunate."

    She hugged him tighter. His arms wrapped around her back, and their hearts, in proximity, achieved perfect synchronization.

    Nelson whispered, "To you, Greta can only ever be an enigma. But I think I can almost understand her, in my own way. Mind you, I've suffered nothing like her upheavals. I've only suffered the mundane variety of benign heartbreak. And yet, look at what became of me."

    "What do you mean, love? What are you saying?"

    "Come now, Jessica. Use that legendary memory of yours. Surely you remember who I was - what I was - when we first met."

    Jessica scowled and trembled with distress, and whispered, "I remember, from our first meeting, that I found you honorable, and considerate, and beautiful. I remember having been smitten from the moment I walked into my living room and beheld you. I will never, ever forget how good you were to me, a complete stranger whom you owed absolutely nothing, and I have been thanking you, ever since, for your goodness."

    Nelson caressed the beloved young woman's back, and cradled her head. "Yes, you have. But you have judged me by an unfair measure. You have not judged me by my acts leading up to that day, or by my intentions for going to your house in the first place."

    "What happened before does not matter," she insisted.

    "But it does, love. Don't you see? In the two years leading up to that day, I had done reprehensible things, with a succession of women. Vanessa. Pam. Sara. Laura. Others. I acted abominably, and used them, treated them as objects. In the two weeks leading up to our first meeting, I treated you no better, though I did not even know you. Those first notes, and the crass, improper gifts... and the pictures... the pictures especially, which any dispassionate observer would adjudge to have been procured from you under duress and coercion."

    "Nelson! Darling, please. None of that matters. We have been through this. You negated all of that, within fifteen minutes of actually knowing me. Please!"

    "Jessica, to this day I am nothing but the vile, broken monster that you, in your limitless goodness, endeavored to tame."

    The young woman trembled against him, shook with anguish. "Nelson, how could I not? How could I not have loved you, after how wonderful you were to me, and how beautiful I found you? You mustn't punish yourself for your behavior, neither on that day, nor in the months that came before. Wendy Rosenthal had hurt you, had broken your heart, perhaps to a degree of severity that you, yourself, could conceivably inflict on my own heart. I have no idea what I would become, were that ever to happen. Or, for that matter, perhaps I, myself, could inflict a comparable pain on you, were I to hurt you the way that Wendy had hurt you."

    "Oh no," he bitterly scoffed, "there is no comparison. Were you to leave me now, you would break me with finality."

    Jessica shuddered, and accepted his declaration. "Well, there you are, then. As we have said a thousand times, we are at each others' mercy. The point is that Wendy did a job on you, and that is what defined you. And yet, from that day forward, you looked for me. Not me, personally, Nelson, but someone, a woman, a companion to help you become whole again. How could you have known, when you first acquainted yourself with me, through my rather twisted and broken matchmaker of a mother, that I would ever be more to you than Laura, or Vanessa?"

    "Jessica, I did not come to your house that day for you. I came for Vanessa. A school aged version of Vanessa. For a photograph of an eighth grader standing at a bus stop." He buried his head in his hands, and his anguish inflicted a searing pain behind her forehead. They had been through this. She had told him, in no uncertain terms, that she had never begrudged the particulars of their crass and unseemly first flirtations, that she had made the conscious decision to keep those first tasteless notes, in her box of most precious things, as a reminder of how far they had come. Why, oh why, did those memories still plague him?

    She leaned back against the steering wheel, looked up into his eyes, and gently caressed his cheeks. "Nelson. Dearest Nelson. I know that you did not come to my house that day for me, as I am. How could you have done that? We did not know each other. You knew me only as a little tenement-bred tart who had posed nudie shots for a stranger at the behest of her twisted mother. But you did come to my house receptive, and ready, to see me as me. Given what little you knew of me - the horrible, reprehensible things you knew about me, to this day I am at a loss as to how you did it. I recall having offered to change into my underwear, and to let you fondle me, and to do aerobics for you. You declined those offers, my darling love, without a care, and told me that my eyes alone sufficed. I felt so overcome that I nearly fainted, and would have done so, if I had not been sitting down. How you ever saw through that terrible first impression I made for myself, I will never understand. Nelson, I do not think that any other man on earth could have done it. Only my predestined best friend, soul mate, and husband could have done it, Nelson. I've been thanking you, every day, for letting me destroy my pictures. Don't you see? The pictures were nothing. It was you - you, Nelson - your capacity to see me, the real me, and see incipient beauty, when everyone else in my life had seen nothing but a nerdy, needlessly bookish freak - for that, for you, I have been thankful. And now, together - only ever together, as one, Nelson - are we nascent beauty sublimated."

    He shuddered, sighed, bent his head to her shoulder, inhaled the deep fresh aroma of her hair. "You are persuasively making my argument that I do not deserve you." He still sounded anguished, and his pain tore at her like nails.

    She smiled, reassuringly, softly laughed, and said, "Oh, no. We deserve each other, Nelson. We were destined to deserve each other, from birth. Maybe that is why Wendy hurt you, out of frustration over her incapacity to complete you. Maybe that is why you treated those furniture girls dismissively, because you knew, in your heart, that somewhere I sought you. You know, Nelson, everyone characterizes me as this driven, obsessive-compulsive genius who has always known exactly what she wants and how to get it. But I really am rather lucky that you found me when you did. I was in a precarious state myself, trapped in a neighborhood where just about every available choice is a bad one. My Uncles could have ended up with those pictures. I could easily have ended up, at best, the most mathematically inclined shift supervisor ever to have earned a dollar raise within ninety days of employment at the local McDonalds; or, I could have ended up the most cerebral, resourceful underaged pole dancer in the locked VIP room of the local strip club. With those lovely pictures out there, my fate could easily have been even worse. I know I have said that timing has often worked against us. Then again, perhaps we found each other in the bare nick of time."

    He snatched Jessica up into his arms and did his best to devour her with the most passionate kiss she had ever received, which, given the succession of kisses they had shared, was saying something. At some point, in the course of their mutual soul-searching, she had somehow become separated from his enormously godly cock, a condition she rectified by hoisting herself up by his shoulders to slam herself back down upon him. He crushed her in his arms and wrung tears from her eyes with the pounding force that he exerted upon her receptive femininity. Yes, she reflected, with the one operational corner of her mind, here, once again, lay the expression of the dichotomy, the fourteen year old girl who loved a man, loved him as a woman; together they shared occasional tribulations, yet resolved their travails together, with maturity, and emerged ever stronger. Jessica did feel in many ways like a little girl, yet she felt mature, too, and strong, and ready for him. Oh dearest god, she thought, was she ever ready for him.

    "I can't hold back," he warned.

    "Don't," she breathlessly whispered. "Fill me, love. Fill me. Mmm, Nelson, dearest Sir, fill me up."

    They embraced and basked in their heat. The sun had gone down completely. Jessica wondered whether Colleen and Casimir would have noticed, yet, that the day had ended. She articulated the question, and Nelson agreed that they should be getting back at some point, but Jessica seemed to be in no hurry to climb off his lap.

    Their thoughts came full circle, and returned to Greta, Jessica's best friend, who flailed blindly through life, a danger to herself and everyone in her proximity, a fragmented person, shards held together by gaffers tape, well and truly broken.

    "You would not believe the few fragments she has shown me of her diary, Nelson. She came to my house a couple weeks ago, uninvited, wearing a cutoff shirt, and she had written a horrible inscription on it. She had hitchhiked all the way to my house, wearing it, and had arrived in a shambles, covered from head to toe with evidence of abuse. I gave her clothes of my own, and kept the shirt. I doubt she would recall that I still have it. It is horrible."

    "Horrible in what way?"

    "The shirt bears an excerpt. From her diary. The whole journal, from what I can surmise, is a giant poem, or a series of poems, like a twisted fable. She has only shown me bits and pieces of it. The shirt says, 'kiss me hold me feel me grope me/ hurt me kick me beat me rape me."

    Nelson paled and asked, for clarification, "She hitched all the way to your house, wearing that?"

    "Yes. And by the look of her, I would guess that at least one of the people who drove her to Everett took the words to heart."

    "That would kill Max."

    "You can't tell him."

    "I know," he agreed.

    Jessica explained, "And not just because she is a tempest-tossed teen in my confidence. I suspect that one of the reasons she does what she does is to challenge her parents to find out. It is a kind of game to her. I think that if the game were derailed by one of us, even inadvertently - if she were denied the game's natural resolution - then she would truly despair, and I am afraid to think of what that might mean. Even with her current situation, such as it is, I am sometimes afraid of what she is in the process of becoming."

    Nelson said, "I won't rehash my own angst, and how you resolved it for me, yet again. But I will repeat that, in a strange sense, I can almost understand her. There were times, when I was at my lowest in the aftermath of Wendy, that I could not understand how people could not see me for what I was. The heartbreak felt so real to me that I thought it had to be obvious to passersby. I suppose that is why I beheld you, and your instant attachment to me, with such incredulity. I could not understand why you did not see me as broken, too."

    "You were not broken, dearest. I broke your spell."

    "You sure as hell did," he agreed with renewed wonder, "at first sight."

    They had to kiss again. There was nothing else for it.

    Eventually he finished the thought. "But I imagine that is how Greta must feel. Perhaps to a more acute degree, given whatever has happened to her. You would know better than I."

    "Greta says that no one can fix her," Jessica said. "In the past it has hurt me, to hear her say that, because I like to think of myself as equal to any challenge. But lately, I am thinking that she might be right."

    Nelson inhaled deeply, raised his chin, and said to the gathering night, "The heartache that I have known might only be a shadow of Greta's. But I do know this, my love: if Greta thinks she has completed her descent to hell, it means she has come nowhere close."

    "Then I truly cannot help her."

    "No, you can't."
    Last edited by aesexual pseudonym; 12-20-2009 at 10:41 PM.
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  24. #24
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    Guess who's --if not exactly coming to dinner-- showing-up on a blue-x doorstep.

    Thanks for the response to my (rather shorted) second 'review' on we-know-where... I did as you said and, well, joined the ranks

    Read you around, Aesexual Pseudonym.

    Last edited by JimmyJump; 12-24-2009 at 08:06 PM.
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  25. #25
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Thumbs up Howdy, JJ!

    Thanks very much for finding this place.

    I recently started a thread that might be right up your alley. I have even posted my own guidelines for authors and reviewers, but my suggestions are largely being ignored. A handful of intrepid readers have contributed some story reviews, and only one other author has done so. I have tried to lead by example; I have submitted three reviews myself, but there is only so much I can do. I have a couple books to write, after all.

    Just to warn you, and anyone else you can get to jump ship, this place does have writers with chops, but given the wacky search mechanisms and the absence of an ability to search by story length, the good writers are very difficult to find. I have reviewed three of them in the aforementioned thread.

    This forum does contain a "recommended writers" thread, managed by a true gentleman named DonB, but the thread has been diluted by self-aggrandizement.

    In short, this can be a frustrating place.

    That said, I am here to stay, and keeping a low profile. No one is reading my work (because it is virtually impossible to find here), but I don't care.

    Anyway, it is very, very good to hear from you, and I hope you stick around. This place desperately needs skilled, objective reviewers. I hope you will stay, draw a few converts, and shake this place up.

    JJ and anyone else reading, I am taking to the hills all of next week. Skiing and free-solo ice climbing for the most part, but I will have journals and laptops (plural) in tow. (Those of you who have read Book One, Chapter 23, Pinnacle have probably guessed that the adventure sequences are informed to no small degree by personal experience.) In addition to hanging off ice walls like an idiot, I plan on crunching out two hundred pages of final draft between now and New Years, so the silence will be deafening. See you on the other side.

    Last edited by aesexual pseudonym; 12-26-2009 at 02:43 AM.
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  26. #26
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    Quote Originally Posted by aesexual pseudonym View Post
    Thanks very much for finding this place.

    I recently started a thread that might be right up your alley. I have even posted my own guidelines for authors and reviewers, but my suggestions are largely being ignored. A handful of intrepid readers have contributed some story reviews, and only one other author has done so. I have tried to lead by example; I have submitted three reviews myself, but there is only so much I can do. I have a couple books to write, after all.

    Just to warn you, and anyone else you can get to jump ship, this place does have writers with chops, but given the wacky search mechanisms and the absence of an ability to search by story length, the good writers are very difficult to find. I have reviewed three of them in the aforementioned thread.

    This forum does contain a "recommended writers" thread, managed by a true gentleman named DonB, but the thread has been diluted by self-aggrandizement.

    In short, this can be a frustrating place.

    That said, I am here to stay, and keeping a low profile. No one is reading my work (because it is virtually impossible to find here), but I don't care.

    Anyway, it is very, very good to hear from you, and I hope you stick around. This place desperately needs skilled, objective reviewers. I hope you will stay, draw a few converts, and shake this place up.

    JJ and anyone else reading, I am taking to the hills all of next week. Skiing and free-solo ice climbing for the most part, but I will have journals and laptops (plural) in tow. (Those of you who have read Book One, Chapter 23, Pinnacle have probably guessed that the adventure sequences are informed to no small degree by personal experience.) In addition to hanging off ice walls like an idiot, I plan on crunching out two hundred pages of final draft between now and New Years, so the silence will be deafening. See you on the other side.

    Well, I rattled at some gates a few times and I've gotten noticed

    Must say I like the fora, and especially the people, more here than at that other site... that's why I have as much posts here in two days than over the last 5 years over there...

    Thanks for the PM, by the way... I just finished reading my first story and reviewed it in the appropriate section, so eloquently started by yourself...

    Rest assured, A.P., thyne efforts shall no be in vain

    Have fun in the hills... Bring me a bearskin, should you find the time
    Last edited by JimmyJump; 12-26-2009 at 03:56 AM.
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    Talking Some authors are too modest for their own good...

    Quote Originally Posted by aesexual pseudonym View Post
    That said, I am here to stay, and keeping a low profile. No one is reading my work (because it is virtually impossible to find here), but I don't care.

    Not if I have anything to say about it! Like I told you once before...if by some odd chance you were able to get this published in a hard cover it would not surprise me to find a few in kendall sqr if you were to walk by and notice the cover of your book being read by several people. Granted you might not be able to see the cover as it will be covering something else thats hard but thats besides the point. Your filth is classy and so well written I wonder if I can get my topology proff to read it haha.

    I find your insecurity and/or modesty appalling tho and it needs to stop...seriously... or I wont stop praising you like some godly writer that you are. But I do also see the point of your story being on the bottom of the lists here. Not gonna pull another 'I told you so' for it being out of place here but just maybe the type of readers are looking for a quick story and cant appreciate a romantic novella. But who cares

    Enjoy the vacation and take care on those mountains, im afraid to think of how MUCH personal experience you have gone through after re-reading that ice climbing scene.

    ~Your devoted fan and resident slave in the 'den of iniquity'

    p.s. Your story is long, give people a chance to read it all sheesh! Their not all fast readers like some of us.
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  28. #28
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    Default Book Two: Beauty - Excerpt with Misogyny and Homophobia

    This excerpt is not pleasant at all. Greta's recollections of her childhood and her first love, Uncle Dave, who broke her. Warning: Spoilers.

    Mf, MMM, Violence, Rape, Misogyny, Homophobia, Drugs, Implied Snuff. You have been warned.

    All the way back in fifth grade, Greta had learned all about the mechanics of human reproduction in her weekly Life Sciences session, but her first lessons on the underlying physical needs of men and women had been imparted by none other than her first love, that handsome, hip, clever man, the smartest man she had ever met, in his basement, among all his books, candles, and incense. Greta would anticipate family gatherings at her grandparents' house for weeks, would look forward to the lessons she would receive, from clever Uncle Dave, in his basement room. She would take pains not to make her hunger for his lessons too obvious to the rest of her family. She would linger upstairs for at least an hour, mingle aimlessly, munch idly on salty crap set in bowls, allow herself to be hugged and henpecked by aunts and uncles. Inevitably, as the adults lost count of the times they had refilled their wine glasses, Greta would find the opportunity to slip around the corner, worm her way into the half-open basement door, and creep downstairs into the subterranean depths, where she would pad down the cement floor until she hit the soft wool of the oriental runner carpet, drawn like a moth toward the reddish light that filtered through the hanging glass beads that demarcated her first love's hidden domain. Greta would gently pull the beads aside. Sometimes she would find herself alone in that room, and would idle away her time, while waiting for him, by inspecting all of the arcane books and objects on his cluttered shelves. She enjoyed the smell of the incense bowls, and the spicy-sweet aroma that emanated from his collection of smoking pipes. Uncle David purported to be a master of the martial arts, and she had no reason to doubt him. Upon his shelves she would find sheathed swords, foot-long knives, paired wooden dowels attached end to end by chains, and circular steel disks adorned along their perimeters by hooked, razor sharp points. She would ever so gently touch the points of those pretty carbon steel stars, suck in her breath, and then sigh. Uncle David was both mysterious and strong.

    Sometimes he would already be there, busy with a book, or deep in preoccupation with the Internet, conducting research or conversing with friends from all over the world. He was renowned for his intelligence, as well, by far the smartest person young Greta had ever met, which was saying something, since her own father had a Ph.D. in Jurisprudence from Stanford University and earned more than two hundred thousand dollars per year as a corporate attorney for Uncle Spencer's company. Uncle David certainly could have chosen that path. With his intellect, he could have chosen any path, but he had purposefully selected a darker, more difficult road, because he was smarter, and stronger, and braver, and more willful, than anyone, and Greta loved him more deeply than she loved anyone, more deeply even than she loved herself, and would have done anything, anything at all, to prove her devotion to him.

    On the particular recollection that occurred to Greta, as she fingered herself in total darkness in Coach Bruno's office and contemplated all the ways the soft middleaged fucker might make her suffer for his own inadequacies, she remembered that she had pulled the glass beads aside to find Uncle David already there, at his computer.

    "Hey, angelcake, step into my office."

    Greta wandered in.

    He patted his knee.

    She lingered on the rug, and fidgeted.

    He didn't press. Ever since Greta's eleventh birthday, she had become withdrawn, less enthusiastic about all their old games, like the piggybacks, the tickling, the wrestling, the waterfights. Going through the changes, he supposed. Some days, on reflection, the changes going through Greta made him despondent, but then he would cheer up with the realization that their games would soon improve dramatically. Little baby Greta was growing up fine, and looking better at every party. Why did it have to be, that the jailbait had to strut around with legs and asses that grown women - legal women - could only dream about and look back up on wistfully? Why did the little kids - the ten year olds who would get him twenty - have to look so... so... well, for lack of a better word, fuckable? Somehow he had made it all the way through family gatherings with ten year old Greta, without giving in and jumping her bones. Now here she was, eleen and a half, and he couldn't believe he had made it this long, through Greta as eleven, without showing the little slut what she'd been put on this fucked up world for. Somehow, if he could make it thorugh today, he just might be able to extend his good behavior for another half a year.

    But he knew already that he would never make it through Greta at twelve. No way in hell. That girl had an ass just like his mother's and visions of his big sister had driven him to so many masturbatory sessions through his adolescence that it was a wonder he hadn't ripped his own dick off. And now here was Greta, that pretty, blond little piece of angelcake, right there in his own basement, standing there on the rug with that dimple on her chin and her hand on her hip, just begging for his fucking monster dick.

    "Come here; I've been thinking of you."

    Greta approached him hesitantly, but forced her voice to remain casual as she asked, "What are you doing?"

    "Looking at sex. Wanna see?"

    Greta shrugged. Of course she wanted to see. She came around his desk. He rubbed his flank against her slender leg. She cringed away uncomfortably, but stood transfixed by the still image on the cathode monitor. His leg found hers again. He must have spread his legs wide. She tried not to look down. She forced herself to look at the picture on the screen, but the longer she looked, the more it troubled her.

    "That guy looks old. And she's so young."

    "She's old enough for sex, though. Look how deep he is."

    "Too young," the girl nervously insisted.

    "She's older than you, angelcake."

    "I'm too young," Greta insisted.

    "Says who?"

    "Says me."

    "Fair enough," he conceded, "but you'd be old enough if you wanted to."

    "I don't see how. I'm not even twelve yet."

    "So? I bet they're already teaching you about condoms and the pill and shit in that Life Sciences course of yours, aren't they?"

    "Well, sure."

    "Why do you think that is, angelcake?"

    "Just for information, that's all. They're not, like, telling us it's okay to do it."

    He just chuckled darkly, setting Greta's mind awhirl, and clicked the mouse button to advance to the next picture. This picture revealed the girl's face.

    Greta insisted, "Uncle Dave, she is way too young."

    "She's enjoying it, though," he said.

    "Doesn't look like it to me. She's crying."

    "All girls do that. She's crying with pleasure. She's finally taking a big dick. All her dreams are coming true."

    "I don't dream of that."

    He just chuckled again, and patted his knee. "Come up here on my lap."

    "I don't know...."

    "Come on, I don't bite."

    "I know that," she groaned.

    "Well, what, then? You've sat on my knee a thousand times."

    "It's different now."

    "No it ain't. Not if you're not old enough."

    Greta blushed crimson.

    "It's just... just... well, we're looking at sex pictures. It's too weird. And besides...."

    "What?" he demanded.

    "Well, like, oh forget it. This is so embarrassing."

    Uncle Dave reassessed her blush, and the way she cringed with one leg over the other, and nearly fell back on his chair as he burst out laughing. Greta wanted to sink into the floor.

    "I get it! You got your scarlet letter."

    "It's not funny."

    He zipped up his laughter, sat up, and levelly agreed, "You're right. It's not. Congratulations, angelcake. Just like your Mom. She got her periods at eleven, too. Well, there you have it. So much for telling me you're not old enough."

    "Just because I'm menstruating doesn't mean I'm old enough."

    "Au contraire, angelcake, that's exactly what it means. You know, for what it's worth, you don't have to be so embarrassed. I as much as guessed it, anyway."

    "How so?" she asked with alarm, looking down at herself with the sudden fear that she might be bleeding through her skirt.

    "Oh, little things. Like the way you're poking out of your blouse these days-"

    "Stop it, Uncle Dave," she cried, scandalized yet pleased with herself.

    "-and the way you won't even sit on my lap anymore-"

    "Okay, okay," she said, succumbing to the dare, and hopped up on his lap, "but change that picture to something else."


    "Because she's too young."

    "Christ, angelcake, here we go again."

    "Well, she is. There's no way she's menstruating."

    "How would you know? He fits into her easily enough."

    Greta insisted, "She's flat as a board, and she has no hair down there."

    "That doesn't mean a fucking thing, angelcake, she probably shaves."

    "Just change the picture."

    "To what?"


    Uncle Dave sighed, closed the picture, and navigated to another folder, muttering, "This one's fun. You'll love these."

    He displayed a picture of a young woman, college-aged, tied down to a table on her back, spreadeagled. Two men struck her breasts and stomach with belts. Tears dripped down her cheeks, and her head was thrown back so far that her neck looked ready to break.

    "God." Greta gasped. "What are they- I mean, what are they doing to her?"

    "Warming her up."

    She looked at Uncle Dave, appalled. "What do you mean?"

    "Getting her hot. Heating her up."

    "Is that supposed to be sexy?" she whispered.

    "I sure as fuck think it is. Don't you, angelcake?"

    "No," she said, shaking her head, "I don't think it's sexy at all."

    "Well she's loving it, and so are they. And so am I."

    "She's screaming, Uncle Dave."

    "Sure she is. With rapture."

    "They're killing her."

    "Naw, she's so juiced up she's dripping. You have a lot to learn, angelcake."

    "Have you ever done that to a girl?"

    For answer, he glanced up significantly at all the arcane toys that hung on hooks and cluttered his shelves. Greta shuddered.

    "Would you do that to me?"

    He opened his mouth, flicked his tongue at her with a leer, and said, "You're gonna love it."

    "I would not love getting beaten like that. It looks horrible."

    "I'd sure as hell love it."

    "Why would you want to do that to me?"

    He muttered, "Oh, angelcake, angelcake. Someday you'll understand."

    She frowned at him and said, "Don't you have any real sex pictures? Like, normal ones?"

    "Sure, sure," he said with a chuckle.

    He opened an image in the previewer, of a woman laying back across a desk, with her skirt bunched up around her stomach, while a man naked from the hips down, presumably her boss, pumped her gaping vagina full to overflowing with thick semen.

    "That better?"

    "Yeah," whispered Greta.

    "What's so nice about it?" he asked.

    Greta just stared at the screen and said, "The guy's doing it right into her. Into her belly, I mean. That's nice."

    "How so?"

    Greta shrugged and said, "It's fun to think he's making a baby in her. Also some is oozing out, and there's a lot. That's nice, too."

    "You like pictures of guys' cum, don't you?"

    "Well, yeah." she murmured.

    She felt Uncle Dave's hand on one of her thighs and squirmed. "No- I should get up."

    "Relax, angelcake."

    "You shouldn't touch me like that."

    He didn't argue; he just chuckled, took the hand away, and advanced to the next picture, of three men standing around a woman's upturned face and aiming the thick creamy spurts at her open mouth.

    Greta's breath caught in her throat.

    He chuckled at her reaction. He stroked himself through his shorts, but his niece was too transfixed by the picture on the monitor to notice.

    "Some girls at school have tasted it. They say it doesn't taste very good."

    "They'll get used to it if they swallow it all the time. You will, too."

    "I doubt that," she scoffed.

    "Sure you do. Now. But once you're broken in, you'll live to suck cock. That's what you're for, angelcake. To make guys cum, and to take it any way they give it to you, anytime, anyplace."

    "That's not all I'm for."

    "Yes it is. That's all you're for."

    The notion irritated her immensely, but had a warming effect deep in her tummy, as well. "That isn't true. If that's true, why do they even bother sending girls to school?"

    "Not every twat's destined to be a fulltime cumhole," he said. "They gotta go through the motions. Granted, twelve years of school is overkill, but cocksluts like you seldom get that far. You'll be snatched by some swinging dick long before you ever graduate, with that ass of yours and those bright wide babyblues."

    "What do my eyes have to do with it?"

    "Everything. You have that look. That look like, 'oh my god, I'm cumming,' Even when you're just standing around in the living room, you look like you've been bagged in mid-orgasm."

    Greta blushed and said, "Like, I don't even know what that feels like yet."

    "Sure you don't. There's a hell of a lot you haven't felt yet. So don't tell me you're not gonna be a cocksucker and dickhole when you grow up. Hell, you're just about grown up now."

    Greta had no retort for that.

    Although she did not know it, he wanted to put his hand on her thigh again, and slip his hand up her skirt. He fought the urge. He had never gotten this far with his favorite niece before, and he didn't want it to stop. He had to be patient, and given the way her upper lip parted just so, in an open oval, and the way her tongue traced the line of her teeth as she stared at the screen, patience became increasingly difficult.

    He advanced to a new picture, the same woman, still on her knees, and now one of the men pulled her eyelids wide open by his thumbs and forefingers while the others filled her eyesockets with gray-white pools of cum.

    "Okay," the girl said, completely put off, "that, like, can't be comfortable."

    "It sure as hell isn't," Uncle David acknowledged with a husky voice. "Sperm is salty. That feels, to the whore, like getting her eyes forced under a liquid soap dispenser."

    "Then why are they doing that to her?"

    "Because it's fucking hot, that's why."

    "It's hot to see a girl get hurt?"

    "Fuck yeah."


    "Because's the stupid cunt's getting what she deserves."

    Greta abruptly slipped off his knee and faced him from the middle of the room, scowling.

    "Come on," he said, laughing, "come back here. Don't feel sorry for this dumb whore. I told you, that's what she's for."

    "I'm not mad at that."

    "Well what, then? What's your problem?"

    "I don't like that word.

    "What word?"

    "The c-word."

    He laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair again.

    "It's not funny."

    "Get real, angelcake! Come on, relax! It's just a word."

    "You say that word a lot. I don't like it. You even say it to me. When you get going. When I annoy you."

    "Maybe I get carried away a little," he conceded, "when I really get on a roll. But what's the big deal? It's just a word."

    "It's a dirty word. One of the dirtiest words there is. In school we learn respect. That's a word bullies say, to make a girl feel bad about herself."

    "Well they should," he declared, with sudden vehemence.

    Greta recoiled as though stung.

    "Keee-rist, you think this whore in the picture's supposed to feel good about herself? You think she's gonna stay put on her fucking knees and do her job if her mind's full of shit about fighting cancer or helping the homeless later on, after she's done being a fucking cumdump for a few hours? Fuck, Baby-G, only one thing ever goes through that dumb cunt's brain, ever, and it's cock, and serving cock, and getting herself fucked up by cock."

    She scowled, "I don't like that either."

    "What? What now?"

    "You calling me Baby-G," she said.

    "What the fuck is wrong with that?"

    "That's what Daddy calls me. No one else can call me that."

    "Baby-G," he teased.

    Greta abruptly stalked away, and made it all the way to the hanging glass beads.

    Uncle Dave laughed, "Greta! Greta, come back! Come back here! Jesus Christ, angelcake, you know, you're right. You do have a lot of growing up to do. Come here, tapioca-head, and take a look at this whore again."

    Greta timidly approached, and stood behind him, determined not to end up on his lap again.

    He seemed to be satisfied by the compromise. He said, "Give me one reason why this stupid little whore should feel good about herself. Tell me one thing that's going through her dumb head, except how good she's making all those dicks cum."

    Greta said, "I don't know."

    "Sure you don't. Smarten up, dimwit. She's a cunt. That's what she is. That's all she is. A cunt. A fucking hole."

    "It's a very demeaning word, Uncle Dave," the eleven and a half year old niece chastized. "To girls, it's just like an African American being called the n-word."

    Uncle David muttered, "Fuck. Don't even get me started about fucking niggers-"

    "Don't even!" she wailed, clamping her hands over her ears.

    He laughed and said, "All right, all right. You're such a fucking girl, you know that? Such a goddamned kid. But it ain't your fault. This world's gone so P.C., that it's totally fucking psychotic. Everyone has a beef over words. Everyone."

    "You wouldn't like it either."

    "I wouldn't like what?"

    "Being called something bad, like the n-word, or the c-word."

    "Try me," he taunted, with a big leer, and stuck his gold-studded tongue out at her.

    The dare brought her up short.

    "Go on!" he mocked. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words don't mean shit. Try me. Do your worst."

    But she couldn't. Uncle Dave didn't think she could hurt him with words, but she knew that she could, if she wanted to be cruel. He might be right, that there was no single word she could use, like the n-word, or the c-word. Those words would just fall flat, and he would just laugh at her some more. Nevertheless, she knew that he was wrong. She had overheard enough, from her mother, and her grandparents, and from Mom and Uncle Dave's older sister, Aunty Val. Greta had heard enough to know that she could hurt him, could cut him deeply, with nothing but words. And she didn't want to do that, because no one understood him the way she did; no one but Greta appreciated how special he was, deep down inside, and she loved him.

    "Just show me another picture," she said.

    He chuckled, no doubt thinking to himself that he had won that round, and advanced the picture. Greta peered at the screen with incredulity.

    "They're choking her," she whispered.

    Indeed they were. One man held the woman's wrists behind her back, and pull her head way back by her hair. Another man had forced most of his erection down her throat. A third man gripped her neck tightly in both hands. Mascara ran down her cheeks, and her face had turned blue.

    "Now that," he declared, "is how a cunt should be treated."

    She glared at him and whispered, "She can't breathe. She can't be enjoying that at all."

    "Who gives a fuck?"

    "Are they gonna kill her?"

    "Who cares?"

    "She cares," Greta replied, reasonably enough.

    "Her opinion doesn't count."

    "Her parents care."

    "Dimwit, she's a crackwhore, and her mother was a crackwhore. The only reason she was born, the only reason they didn't pull her out with a coathanger, was so she could earn Welfare checks and go to work for the family as soon as she could walk. If she'd been a he, they never would have bothered to feed her. Some sugardaddy's been whoring her stupid twat since kindergarten, and she's been crying herself to sleep tied down to a soggy mattress every night for as long as she can remember. She doesn't remember her fucking mother, and her mother doesn't remember any of the other dumb twats she pushed out, even if she hasn't died in a gutter yet. This cunt's just a dumb pain pig who loves getting fucked up."

    "That's not sex. It's just rape."

    "Fuck no, angelcake, you're missing the whole point."

    "Maybe I am," she conceded, "but that's rape, nothing more."

    "No, dimwit, no. That's a cunt, doing her job. Her only job."

    "Her job's to choke to death for those animals?"

    "Fuck yes. Eventually, I mean. I mean, just look at her; she's good for a few more throws, and she probably has another year or two in her. But yeah, soon or later, that dumb twat's gonna die on the job, when she can't earn with her holes anymore."

    "That's just plain sick."

    He chuckled, "You really are a dimwit. What? You think a dumb whore like that gets to live out her twilight years in some nursing home with 'round the clock care and weekly visits by her great grandchildren? Fuck no. She's gonna have her uterus ripped out by some john's fingernails, if she hasn't already, and she's gonna die in a gutter, all on her own, if freelance moviemaker doesn't earn a hundred bucks using up her last breath on camera." Through this diatribe, he had closed the picture, and had navigated to another folder.

    "You sound pretty sure of your facts, Uncle Dave," she said, but even as the insinuation spilled out, it sounded empty, even to herself.

    Sure enough, he now pulled up another picture, of the same woman, and Greta recoiled.

    "There. That's what happens to used up cunt," he gloated.

    A thin rope noose hung from a rafter. A man held the neck loop open, and spoke to the naked, weeping woman, who stood on a three legged stool and stared at the noose through downcast eyes. Her wrists had been bound together by plastic twist-ties that had cut into her wrists. The woman was striped and ripped, from her neck to her ankles, with dark bloody score-lines. Apparently she had spent her last hours on this earth in unendurable agony. Greta could not comprehend it.

    The man in the picture had a bare chest, and an ample hairy gut that hung over his leather breaches. His penis hung out of his fly, half-erect. There she was, on a stool, facing a thin noose, and she hadn't even made him hard: useless, just as Uncle Dave had said.

    Before Greta could comment, he advanced the picture again. The woman had bent her own head into the noose, and the man was pulling it tight. Moisture oozed from his dick, and left a trail of slime on the condemned woman's thigh. She tottered unsteadily on the three legged-stool, on her tip-toes.

    "Want to see the next one?" Uncle Dave taunted.

    "There's another?"

    "There are several more. Want to see?"

    "No!" Greta covered her eyes and whirled away. She stood on the carpet, behind the computer monitor, with her eyes closed and her fingers on her temples. She heard a mouseclick and opened her eyes. Uncle Dave had his eyes glued to the monitor. She watched his heavy breathing.

    "Do they kill her?" she demanded.

    "I'm not gonna spoil it for you," he teased.

    "Just tell me."

    "Come and see."

    "I'll never see. I just want to know."

    "You're acting like it's a big deal. She's just a used up cunt."

    "She's a person."

    "Angelcake, angelcake. She was a cunt and a whore."

    "Was? Was?"

    "Yeah, was."

    "So they did kill her."

    "You make it sound like it actually, like, means something."

    "It is a big deal! She's someone's daughter! Someon'e sister!"

    "No, no, no. No she wasn't. She was trash with a pulse. Nothing more. She made more money making these pictures than she could make on the street, spreading her twat for downtrodden assholes and spreading her fucking disease. It's as simple as that."

    "And you get off on that?"

    "Sure. It's fucking cool. You do, too."

    "Do not," she insisted. "Would you do that to me?"

    "Fuck no. You're my pretty angelcake."

    "But you think about doing it to me."

    "Well, sure."

    She felt like she wanted to throw up. She fled the room, nearly ripping out the hanging beads as she fled.

    He sighed and took his dick out. She'd be back. She always came back. And Greta sure as hell was growing up fine. He took his monster dick out, clicked through the pictures with his left hand, and contemplated the ongoing physical and cognitive development of his favorite angelcake.

    Greta had learned, early on, that children matured into adults for two purposes and two purposes only: to fuck, and to die. Even as a child among children who had not yet learned the first thing about sex and would have scoffed at the notion that their own parents had ever fucked, Greta had seen enough to know that human savagery occupied a smooth continuum and varied from one individual to the next only by degrees.

    Their house abutted the Winchester end of the Fellsway, a vast unkempt wooded park laced with overgrown, poorly maintained trails. Greta as a child would follow the boys into those woods, either on foot, or on her bicycle, if they happened to be riding, too.

    She would actively participate in some of the games. One summer, a game called Fireman had been the rage. Two teams would be formed, and would split up for five minutes. One team would form a huddle and count. The other team would walk toward Tower Hill, through the dense woods, and drop lit matches on the way. The second team, after counting, would follow, and try to put out the fires. Sometimes they would manage to put out the fires. Other times, they would not put out the fires. One time, on a hot, dry, windy day, the teams gave up, fled in six different directions, and hid in basements for the afternoon. The conflagration consumed forty acres of brush, several hundred large trees, and could be seen from south of Boston before eight area fire departments managed to douse it out with water tankers and helicopters.

    Three weeks after the forest fire incident, Casimir and his friends - Christopher among them - worked out a way to build cannons. They cut the tops and bottoms out of soup cans, and duct-taped six cans end-to-end, leaving the lid on the bottommost can. Then they drilled a hole through the side of the bottom can, near the base, and propped the contraption on rocks, at an eighty degree angle, like a mortar. They poured a few tablespoons of Chanel No. 5 perfume into the cannon, dropped a tennis ball inside, and held a lit match to the small hole near the bottom. The perfume exploded, launching the ball two hundred yards, clear over the house, over the street, and into the opposite back yard. The boys formed teams. They built more cannons. They raided every house on the cul de sac for perfume. The game proved so popular that all the girls in the neighborhood took part, too, and for two straight days, summer boredom had been effectively dispelled. When every drop of perfume in the neighborhood had been consumed, one enterprising team tried charcoal fluid, but it didn't work. The fluid combusted too slowly, and simply cooked the tennis ball inside the can without exploding. Then, one of the kids tried gasoline. He held the match to the hole at the bottom of the cannon, and the fireball instantly burned off all the hair on his arm, and seared his skin, as well. He leapt into a nearby wading pool, howling, while the fire engulfed the picnic table, roared across the dry grass, ignited a pile of dry kindling near a compost pile and started to lick its way up a pine tree. Several entrepreneurial souls attempted to douse the conflagratikon with a garden hose. By the time someone got the bright idea to dial 911, the fifty foot pine tree had lit up like a torch and could be seen from Lexington-Concord, a scathing mockery of Paul Revere's ride, and summoned war-weary firefighters from a fifty mile radius.

    On the following week, after the requisite groundings and time-outs, the affluent, privileged children of Azalea Circle switched to homemade catapults and trebuchets.

    Greta would often interrupt summer games that transcended the merely foolish and strayed into the realm of the cruel. One time, while wandering alone on the outskirts of the Fells, she picked up the trail of Cazzie and the other boys at the entrance of a three foot wide concrete culvert, where they had dropped soda cans and candy wrappers. Greta crawled down the culvert tunnel, shuddered at spiders and centipedes all the way down its fifty yard length, and finally emerged into sunlight on the edge of a steep drainage ditch, from which she spied Caz and his pals down among the cat-o-nine-tails. They were taking turns with a BB gun, pumping it ten times, and aiming at the head of a bull frog from just one foot away. Not exactly sporting, she thought. She snuck up behind them just as Caz pushed the barrel of the BB gun into the frog's mouth. She screamed.

    Cazzie gasped, "Fuck, Greta, will you quit following us around?"

    "Leave it alone! Stop it!" She ran up and tried to save the bullfrog, tried to get it to move, but it wouldn't hop. They had already shot it several times. It was hyperventilating in a puddle of piss, but apparently paralyzed, either by injuries, terror, or both. Glints of metal riddled its body, steel bearings lodged in its flesh that glistened with sun dappled red.

    One of the tough older kids, a neighborhood punk who lived on another cul de sac, said, "It's half dead anyway, Westford, stop being such a little pussy."

    "You're all sick and awful," Greta declared.

    The tough kid sneered, "Fine, Westford, we'll put it out of its misery." He abruptly snatched up the bullfrog in a fist and pitched it, overhand, straight into a boulder. It made a loud pop, and slithered, like bloody mucous, down the rough surface of the rock. Greta clamped her hands over her eyes and screamed.

    All the boys muttered in awe, and rushed off into the swamp to search for more bullfrogs. They conscripted a few turtles, while they were at it. The turtles worked great.

    Greta screamed and screamed, until Cazzie sent her home.

    At other times, torn between the ignominy of being alone and being appalled by the cruel antics of the boys, she would wander off into the deep woods of the Fells to spy on the gays. Along the eastern edge of the woods, the region that bordered the freeway, were several notorious turnouts where men would convene to meet in the tall reeds.

    The neighborhood boys knew to avoid the trails that led to the eastern marshes. Of course they would not have been in any real danger there; the men who met each other in the eastern marshes on weekday afternoons were generally white collar professionals, living in the city, who kept to themselves and chose the place for its isolation. Nevertheless the rumors about the eastern marshes abounded, and the kids, by and large, avoided the entire area.

    But not Greta. At the tender age of eleven and a half, she would wander down the paths on her bicycle, ditch the bike on the border of the eastern marshes, and continue on foot, creeping through the reeds, to spy on the young gay men who would meet there for casual sex, or sometimes even anonymous sex. She would hide in the reeds, not far from a small unmarked clearing with a firepit, where couples and small groups would convene almost every summer afternoon. For the most part, the encounters would be almost touchingly sweet and ritualistic. The men would come wearing suits and ties. They would kiss tenderly, and undress each other. For the most part their expressions of intimacy would be reminiscent of the behaviors and practices that transpired between heterosexual couples. The men would hug, hold each other, fondle each other. Most often they would be tender to each other, almost deferential, transparently appreciative of the release that they would give to each other. For the most part they would satisfy each other with their hands, by stroking each other, as they no doubt otherwise would have done to themselves, in lieu of partners. They would also satisfy each other orally, as Greta had seen many times on the Internet between heterosexual couples. Unlike women, who all too often would have qualms with receiving male ejaculate into their mouths, the homosexual couples would seem to crave it. Greta, even at eleven and a half, perceptively surmised that their willingness to swallow for each other stemmed from empathy. Each man understood, viscerally, how much the other wanted it, and thus they craved the act of swallowing for each other. Greta thought it all very sweet, and especially enjoyed watching the men blow each other. She loved watching their orgasms, that expression on their faces at the critical moment, that cusp at which they might have thought they were dying. On the one hand, she sometimes felt sorry for the men, because they had to go to such lengths to contrive shreds of illicit comfort from each other, and because they could not, for whatever reason, simply conform with the expectations of society by finding women with whom they could experience the same arousal, the same ardor, and share the same emotional intensity. For all of the angst that must have tormented them as they arranged these illicit meetings, she spied them enough over the course of the summer to appreciate the verity and wholesomeness of their love, despite its unconventional expression.

    Yet sometimes, the scenes that she spied were not so tender, not so wholesome. She would watch them sodomize each other, and the ones underneath, the subservient ones, never seemed to enjoy their subjugation. Greta would finger herself as she saw them wring tears from their eyes and groan to the rhythm of their rapists. Sometimes, on rarer occasions, she would see groups of three or more. Two men holding a third down forcibly, while a fourth screwed three greased knuckles , and then the pinkie, and then the large knuckle of the thumb, into the sobbing victim's anus. Yet the victim would inevitably be stroking his own erection as the fist ravaged his rectum and crushed his prostate gland flat, driving the semen from his guts in a drenching blast that would soak the sand around the firepit. Could he really be called a victim? The question would throw young Greta into a quandary. She had heard of the evils of heterosexual rape in sex education, had learned about the importance of mutual respect, had learned that, for women, no meant no, that the human body reacted naturally and autonomously to various forms of manual stimulation, that the human vagina lubricated itself automatically in response to penetration, that the woman - even a raped woman - had no control over that response - that its occurrence in no way implied her arousal or her willingness or her acceptance of the profane act; and Greta wondered whether the same might be true of the victim who was being held down by two men and fisted by a third, that this act constituted a gang rape, despite his own ejaculation into the sand. Yet the so-called victim had come here, had arranged to rendezvous at this isolated place, had turned off the highway, of his own volition, and had proceeded here, uncoerced. Perhaps he had not come with the expectation of being held down and fisted. Maybe he had come in search of simple companionship, and perhaps even a semblance of tenderness, one afternoon spent with other lonely men, a rare communion, a collective attempt at a semblance of normalcy. Maybe his current predicament had been neither premeditated, nor expected. Yet, in the company of deviants, what could he have expected, if not at least the possibility of deviance? The conundrum wracked Greta for several days, until she returned for another voyeuristic adventure, on a Friday afternoon, and spied a scene with less ambiguities, a scene that was less wholesome, still.

    She crept once again through the reeds, drawn this time by a raucous scene punctuated by sharp blows and baritone sobs. She spied three men beating another man with sticks. She watched with horror and fascination, as the victim on the ground cowered in a foetal ball, naked, and tucked his head under his arms to protect his fragile cranium from the blows that rained down upon him. Greta thought at first of the boys with the bullfrogs, pitching them overhand at the stones, but this was different. Here were people, acting like animals, treating another person like an animal, and the defining difference was that these four - the assailants and the victim alike - were smart enough to know, themselves, their own demonization. Eleven and a half year old Greta imagined first that she was the one being beaten by the inch thick oak sticks, and imagined second that she herself gripped a stick above her head with both hands, swung with all her might, and connected with a fragile collar bone that snapped under the force of the blow. She couldn't fathom how any of them could be enjoying this, yet all four of them, assailants and victim alike, sported straining erections. They beat the figure upon the ground until he simply collapsed, unable to summon the strength or will to defend himself. One of the men picked the victim up by the hips and thrust his cock forcibly into the proffered ass, the entire length in one bone-crunching impalement. In the process he rent the man's anus, and blood dripped onto the sand. As one man sodomized the victim, another put him in a constricting headlock and punched him repeatedly in the gut, robbing him of the wind that he could have expended on a scream. Yet still, through the entire ordeal, the victim's cock jutted beneath him in full erection, plastered right up against his belly. When the man in the victim's ass drew closer to his climax, he gripped the balls of the man beneath him in his fist, and squeezed the vulnerable dangling scrotum in a tight clench until the testicles oozed out between his fingers like molding clay. Another man repeatedly punched the victim's crushed balls with his fist.

    At first the victim's agonized shrieks surely could have been heard from the highway, but the third man released the headlock and mashed a sweatshirt into the victim's face to shut him up. Eventually, yet long before the rapist found his release, the victim collapsed and would not rouse.

    "Fuck," said the man with the sweatshirt, "I think he's dead. You fucking killed him."

    "No," the rapist grunted, as he went right on sawing in and out of the dead man, "you killed him. You smothered the dumb fucker." The notion seemed to excite him. He redoubled his pace in and out of the dead man's ass.

    "Ahh, well, he hated his life anyway. I've been sick and tired of his whining for I don't know how long. Overworked, underpaid, underloved."

    "Mommy never loved him?"

    The guy with the sweatshirt, busy rolling it into a rat-tail, said, "I've tried to compensate for his Mommy, I really have. I've tried to be the Mommy in his life."

    The rapist chuckled at that, went into a rapid, inarticulate pant, and suddenly froze, shuddered spastically, threw his head back up at the sky and sucked in whatever wind he could gather, only to expend it with the words, "Ahhhhh, fuck that's good."

    The guy who had been punching the victim's balls said to the man behind, "Get out of the way, it's my turn."

    "Asshole, he's dead."

    "At least he won't complain."

    The first rapist backed off, still shaking, still dripping blood and semen, while the dead man was mounted again.

    The man in front started beating the naked back of the victim with the rolled up sweatshirt. "Wake up, wake the fuck up, you lazy little shit. If you think I'm carrying you all the way back to the car, you have another thing coming."

    "Maybe we could bury him here."

    "Right. I didn't bring a shovel. Did you?"


    But the victim started to come around. The guy with the sweatshirt chuckled, beat him some more, then wrapped the sweatshirt around his neck, and did his best to choke the rest of the life out of him while he was sodomized in back. And then, to Greta's astonishment, the victim climaxed, raised his head, and took a wet kiss, on the mouth, from the man who had been beating him with the sweatshirt. Greta realized that the two must have been a couple, and that, if the Massachusetts State Legislature had its way, and if the lame duck governor persisted in his trademark ineptitude, these two execrable, miserable, dysfunctional individuals might be able to marry someday, if they did not kill each other first. Greta carefully backed out of the reeds. She found her bicycle, which she had stashed in the woods, and rode back to her house on Azalea Circle, thinking to herself that she should not let the scene she had just witnessed detract from the gentle tenderness she had witnessed in that clearing theretofore; that among any collective, there will inevitably deviant individuals; that the same must be true even of heterosexual couples, or else one could not have reconciled the notion of "normalcy" with the preponderance of accumulating misery among married couples, and the fifty percent divorce rate, and the detestable manner in which people all too often treated each other, irrespective of socioeconomic index, intelligence, or sexual orientation.

    Despite Greta's rationalizations for the scene she had illicitly witnessed, the conundrum continued to gnaw at her, until at a family gathering not long afterward, she was able to take it up with a person whom she respected for his intellect, his uncanny grasp of human nature, and his unfettered, unconventional perspective: namely, her first love, Uncle Dave.

    He came down into his room, drew the hanging beads aside, and found hot little Greta sitting crosslegged in a chair, under the pentangle lamp with the red light, comparing the diagram in a book to her open palm. Dave chased most of the kids out of his room - too much shit for them to find here - but Greta was one of the ones he tolerated. Even at eleven and a half, Greta was looking fucking fine. Sure, she had some growing up to do, but not much. As the buds on the chatrooms said, if they're old enough to bleed, they're old enough to breed.

    "Hey, angelcake, you in my books again?"

    Greta looked up at him, and her face lit up. He loved that look. He often visualized that look, from little blond blue-eyed angelcake, when he closed his eyes at night, and he often contemplated the depth of the wonder he would see in those same eyes, someday soon, when he first showed her his hard dick.

    He bent right over her, and enjoyed looking down at her blush, while he reached up and lit an incense stick to ward off the sweet aroma of marijuana that still lingered in the air from that morning, when he had lost the battle to resist the call of the bone. He rolled a doobie on most mornings, but today he had tried to abstain, knowing all the rugrat nieces and nephews would be over, but he had given in to the call of the devil after an hour of lying in bed on his back and chewing at his lip.

    Greta compared her paltry lifeline to the more lengthy specimen in the palmistry text's hand-drawn diagram.

    "According to this book, I'm gonna die young," the fifth grader said with some despondency.

    "That book ain't the rule of law, angelcake, it's only a rough guide."

    Greta looked up at all his other books - numerology, candles, the occult, thaumaturgy, necromancy, gnosticism, astrology, the Tarot, the I Ching, the Biblical Apocrypha, a photocopy of a hand-typed treatise on the Gospel of Thomas, and so many more, so many books, books innumerable - and thought to herself, 'so many guides, so much to learn.' The eleven and a half year old supposed, reasonably enough, that if she could only absorb the contents of all of those books, she might someday combine their knowledge so as to divine her life expectancy to the day.

    Dave punched the power button on his stereo and popped Pink Floyd into the CD player.

    "What's eating you, angelcake?"

    She giggled. She always giggled at that pun. He expected her laughter, but that's not why she did it. She found it funny. Every time. She had loved Uncle Dave for years. He had to be the smartest person she had ever met, and the most confident, and the most handsome, and the most hip. He had shoulder length hair. He had rings in his nose, in both ears, and in his lip. He had tattoos everywhere, and he had shown her most of them. And he had a big secret, which he had shown Greta and no one else on earth, a secret which his shoulder length hair masked: One night he had taken a triple-hit of crystal meth and had branded the numbers 666 into the back of his own head with a red hot iron. He called himself a horseman of the apocalypse, and he could quote entire passages of Revelations from memory.

    Best of all, Uncle Dave always knew when something was eating her. Somehow he just knew.

    It took her a few fits and starts, but gradually she built up momentum, warmed to her topic, and spilled her guts about the homosexual gang rape she had witnessed in the Fellsway reeds earlier that week.

    "So, angelcake, what exactly is the problem?"

    She stammered, "I didn't say there is a problem. I mean, I know there shouldn't be. We learned in Life Sciences that it's not right to judge other people."

    "And yet you seem to have a problem with what you saw."

    Greta shrugged and said, "I know I shouldn't. But the guy they beat up and raped didn't seem to want it."

    "How would you know?"

    "What do you mean? I was there."

    "Yeah, yeah, dimwit, but you were a spectator, right? You weren't in his head."

    "He was screaming, and crying. I saw the tears."

    "Well sure, you'd be crying for Mummy, too, if a bunch of guys were to beat you with sticks, right? But that doesn't mean the twink didn't want it."

    Greta just looked up at him and glared with frank skepticism, and also some resentment that Uncle Dave seemed to be implying she could not trust her own eyes.

    He chuckled, "Angelcake, angelcake, you pretty little dimwit, don't you get it? Sure it hurt the dumb fucker to get whaled on, but that didn't mean he didn't want it. Some people get into having the shit kicked out of them. They get a rush out of it."

    "I don't get that at all."

    Uncle Dave chuckled and said, mockingly, "Sure you don't. Well, just tell me this, cupee-doll, you liked watching, didn't you?"

    "I don't know."

    "Well you didn't run away, did you?"

    "No. But I wouldn't say I liked it."

    "You might have liked doing more than watching, though, if they'd done it to you. I'm not saying during; it always sucks getting whaled on during. I mean, after. You know, for the rush. The sense of accomplishment. And also, just knowing that you've suffered to help the guy, or guys, get their rocks off. I bet you'd be into that, getting fucked up by a bunch of guys. Or maybe, in your case, a bunch of girls."

    "I'm not a lez."

    "How do you know?"

    "I'm just not."

    Uncle Dave chuckled and said, "It's okay if you are. I wouldn't mind."

    "Yeah. I bet you wouldn't."

    "What's that mean?" he demanded, sounding scandalized.

    "Guys like to watch girls go down on each other."

    "Who the fuck are you to judge, running off into the Fells all summer long to spy on homo-fag daisy chains?"

    Greta just blushed.

    Uncle Dave sagely advised, "Let me tell you something, angelcake, I'm not judging either, and I won't mind a bit if some morning you wake up and decide you're a lesbo. It could happen, and it's cool. Just don't believe that shit they tell you about how people are born the way they are. Like, fags being fags from birth, and dykes being dykes from the day they're conceived. That's just what they tell themselves, angelcake."

    "Pretty soon they're gonna get to marry. They say even the governor won't be able to stop it."

    "Yeah, yeah. No surprise there. Fucking Margie Marshall's a closet dyke herself, and if the governor opens his mouth she'll impeach the motherfucker by judicial fiat. Good for them. Good for the fags. Doesn't mean shit. You think that once they get to play house, and we're all pretending they're normal, it'll make them any happier? They'll be just as miserable as they always were. Maybe more so."

    "How's that? Once they're able to marry, They'll finally be accepted."

    "Bullshit. We'll just pretend to accept them, because pretending to accept them happens to be P.C. this week. We'll humor the dizzy neurotic fucks, and nothing more. And they know it. But the damning thing about it is that the queers still won't be satisfied, just because we give them their fucking matrimony, and they'll be just as miserable as ever. They still won't accept themselves. They're fucked in the heads, just to be that way, and they've pinned their whole agenda on this acceptance business for decades. Yet it all comes down to this: can they stand to look at themselves in the mirror? What's our paper-thin acceptance compared to that? Can you imagine the fucking letdown? Hot-Bottom and Barney finally walk down the aisle, Hottie in black, and Barney in white, and some smelly old J.P. tells them to kiss, and all their fairy fag friends pelt them with rice, and they giggle over the bouqet and garter like a bunch of fucking pansies while the pianist trills out Judy Garland with his fucking pinkie rings, and then they drive off into the sunset, with the Indigo Girls blasting on the radio, to spend a week in a little cedar hut in Truro, screwing each other silly to no ultimate effect whatsoever, because it has finally dawned on them that the whole point of screwing, between married couples, is to fucking breed, and then they come back to their old fucking lives, and sober up, and feel exactly the same as they did before, except that now they have a little hubby at home to answer to, should they feel that old urge to spend the afternoon with their mouths taped to a men's room gloryhole. Married, great, yet still faggots, still as fucked in the heads as ever."

    "You don't know they weren't born that way," she said, petulantly.

    He just smirked and said, "Yeah. Sure I don't. My opinion don't matter. I'm not some big Ph.D. from Stanford, like your fucking pop, right? How could dumb old Uncle Dave know anything about nothing?"

    "I didn't say that."

    "Yeah, sure you didn't. Listen up, angelcake. Every gayboy I've ever met has a story about how awful Daddy was, if they knew the bastards at all, and they have another story about the shit Mummy used to do to their balls during spankings. Or one of Bernie Law's fairy priests from Boston College ass fucked them in the clerestory one Sunday, or some other fucking sob story. All they ever do is bitch, bitch, bitch.

    "Thing is, there's all kinds of different ways of getting off. In many parts of the world, giving head is illegal. Sodomy - you know, the right way, a guy ripping the girl's ass - that's illegal, too. Never mind gay sodomy - that earns castration, just about anywhere on earth where people still have a little bit of common sense. Point is, you put all these different behaviors on a wall, and it's sort of, I don't know, like the rainbow. You have kissing, and petting, and the missionary position, and going down on each other, and you have boys into older women, and men into little girls, and guys into girls' feet, and guys into girls' tits, and girls into scissoring each other, and girls into fisting, and guys into fisting, boys into their mothers, and mothers into crushing their kids' nuts, and fathers into their daughters, and dykes into dildoes, and the whole fucking brood into the family dog or the pony out in the shed, dumb ass farmers catching the clap from their goddamned sheep, guys and girls into getting paddled and caned across the ass until they can't sit down, girls into getting chained to the footboard at bedtime and made to shiver all night curled up on a rubber mat, guys into storing their wives in a locked box with airholes until they decide they need a poke, and there's crossover all over the place, so many weird and wacky combinations of perversity that it's a wonder people get around to growing the population at all. I mean, what the fuck, how does a guy end up getting a hardon over girls' feet, or getting his ass spanked? They're not born that way. They just fixate on the behavior and associate it with pleasure at some point in their development. A seven year old kid in parochial school has puppy love for the nun who rapped his knuckles with a ruler yesterday, and then he sees Christ getting the shit kicked out of him on the stations of the cross, and the two experiences get permanently etched into his brain, one on top of the other, until the stupid runt can't tell them apart anymore. Thirty years later, beating his daughter with a belt buckle makes him cream his pants, and somewhere buried deep he's just watching some hot twenty-something nun flay Christ with a heated martinet, and he can no longer remember how he got that way."

    "In school they taught us the gays can't help how they are. We learned that gays' brains are different, and it's genetic."

    "Fuck. Of course their brains are different. So what? Einstein's brain was shaped weird. So what? It's like a muscle, right? He used the fucking thing on equations all day every day through his whole adult life, and the part that did the thinking took over the rest. Then they crack him open after he croaks, and lo and behold! He's deformed. Big fucking surprise. That doesn't mean he was born that way. Fuck, Einstein's school teachers called him a lazy halfwit, so he sure as fuck wasn't born with 'e equals m-c-squared' in his brain. A guy who moves furniture for a living has big arms. Does that mean he has a furniture moving gene? You think he was born to move furniture?"

    "I don't know."

    "You don't know. Hah, don't be a fucking dimwit. His arms are big because he moves furniture. It's the same with faggots. They think differently; all day they dream of getting cornholed by Big Daddy, so their brains are wired to crave that experience and seek it out, simple as that. Has nothing to do with how they were born."

    "I just think we should be more tolerant of other people. I mean, the stuff you're saying, it's just awful. It sounds just plain homophobic, to be honest."

    "Damn right it does. You want me to be humane? You want me to show compassion? Tell you what. If we're really serious, as a society, about making the fags and dykes feel better, we should cut out all this crap, like gay marriage, that just gets their hopes up and sets them up for a bigger fall when they tie the goddamned knot and find themselves more fucked up than they were before they decided to play house. We want to be compassionate, we should cut this crap about how they're born that way and they have to accept their lot in life. The way to be humane is to put some serious money into the problem, and get a bunch of docs working on it, and tell them that there is hope for a cure to their disease."

    "Homosexuality is not a disease." Greta insisted.

    "All right, syndrome. Whatever. Pick your fucking word. The point is, it's curable."

    "It's not a syndrome either."

    "Why not, you dumb twat? Just why do you think it is, that your brainwashed ultraleft asswipe teachers are filling you with shit that craving a dick up the ass isn't a syndrome? Every other fucking thing is. Alcoholism is a disease. Acting up in class, that's a disease. Heroin addiction, that's a disease. Fear of fucking spiders is a disease, or a syndrome, or some fucking thing. Got Latin titles and medicine for all that shit. We have medicine for every fucking thing out there. Hell, the bitches and bastards who run your classrooms even have a fancy acronym for the boys they haven't castrated yet, ADHD, and medicine to make the little fuckers heel. Medicine for everything, even the diseases we only imagine. Everything but pansies fucking each other in the ass. No medicine for that, dimwit, and faggotry has to be the most perverse, fucked up syndrome of all. Jesus fucking Christ, angelcake! That fucked up school of yours won't let you light a Marlboro in the girl's room, because it'll take seven years off your life. Meanwhile, gay sodomy spreads HIV/AIDS, which takes fifteen to twenty goddamn years, yet your fucked up deviant teachers are filling you with this shit that getting reamed up the ass is a life choice that we're supposed to sanctify with marriage! Just why do you think that is?"

    "I don't know."

    "Yeah. You don't know. You don't know nothing, cunt. I'll tell you why. Because the faggots run the newspapers and the Congress and the Senate and the whole fucking world, that's why. Our own fucking State Rep and his fucking boyfriend ran a chickenhouse out of their D.C. basement, and they're still in office. Fucking untouchable. That asshole runs the House Financial Services Committeee now. Any respectable nation would have hung him to a lamp post by his balls, and what do we do? Give him a fucking medal and the keys to the U.S. Treasury! The homos run the fucking world. They're all assraping fags, from Wall Street on down. Because this fucking country's burning down, just like fucking ancient Rome. You're into nine year old girls, fine. But call it a disease. You want to fuck your mother? Sure, whatever, but don't fucking tell me you were born that way. You want to be drilled by your dad and get knocked up with your own sister? Good, chase that fucking orgasm, but they got medicine for that. You want to be tied up and whipped by some stupid asshole who can't get it up unless someone in the vicinity's screaming? Good for you, you masochistic little cunt. But don't call yourself normal. Don't give me this shit about how some fucking tattoo plastered dyke, fucking out the bowels of her little wifey with a two foot strap-on double-ender, was born that way. Don't fucking tell me that. Even you're smarter than that, angelcake. Don't give me this shit about how we can't fucking cure 'em. I can cure'em, and I'm no rocket scientist. What they need is two hundred twenty volts, straight to the fucking head."

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  29. #29
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :

    Wink Book Two: Beauty - Excerpt with Humor and Door-to-Door Evangelists.

    After the rather nasty excerpt preceding, I thought some lightness might be in order. This is a humorous little piece, in which Jessica Turner's atheism is sorely tested. I am moved to post the excerpt in response to an equally humorous debate going on between purported atheists in this forum's General Discussion Board.

    Codes: No sex. Just Jessica Turner, being herself. Draft material. Please pardon typogrphical errors.

    Jessica heard a sharp knock on the porch door and bounded down the stairs, hoping to throw herself into the arms of Nelson. She opened the door with a big smile and stopped up short to encounter two stern, severe, yet vaguely pleasant ladies. They looked older than Mom. They wore faux leather shoes, frumpy sweaters, and polyester slacks. Each nice old lady bore a Bible in one hand, and colorful pamphlets in the other.

    "Good morning, young lady, is your-"

    "Hold on; I'm kind of busy. I'll go get you some money."

    "But dear, we don't want money," said one of the nice ladies. "Is your Mom or Dad home?"

    Jessica blinked distractedly and said, "Uhh, yes. But I don't need to disturb them. I have money of my own. Just hold on."

    "Honey," the other lady said, "We're not here for money. We've come to give you the Word."

    "What word?"

    "The Good Word."

    "Which one?"

    The nice old lady closed her eyes and winced, as though saying it were difficult for her. Indeed, for this nice lady, some words were to be uttered only in the presence of the devout. She reverted to a euphemism deemed acceptable to the uninitiated. "The Word of the Lord," she explained.

    Jessica brightened and said, "Goody! I've been waiting all my life for someone to explain it properly. Now, I'm only fourteen. You won't talk over my head, will you?"

    "No, of course not, dear. One can be any age, if one is receptive."

    "You've caught me on a good day," Jessica assured the nice lady, "so shoot."

    "Okay. Well, to start, you no doubt go to church, at least occasionally."

    "No, Ma'am, not at all. I'm an atheist."

    This news appeared to cause the nice ladies inordinate distress.

    One of the concerned ladies reached out and patted Jessica's arm. "You poor thing," she said.

    Jessica understood. The nice ladies naturally assumed that her beliefs had been imposed upon her by her parents - that her mother and father were criminally complicit in her own eternal damnation. The notion amused her to no small degree.

    The nice lady accused, "You are far too young to be an atheist."

    Jessica said, "No, no, one can be any age. Why, there is a little baby Catholic, right here on this street, who is not more than three months old. Are you Catholics?"

    "No, dear, we are not Romans. We are Jehovah's Witnesses."

    "Oh, that's nice. Well, there are fourteen year old Jehovah's Witnesses, aren't there?"

    "Of course, dear."

    "Goody for them, then."

    "Dear, what I mean is that atheism is a perilous belief indeed, for one so young."

    Jessica replied, "Atheism is not a belief. Atheism is the absence of belief."

    "But you believe in the non-existence of God," the nice lady pressed.

    "No, I don't."

    The nice lady's smile faltered, and she said, "But you've just told us you're an atheist."

    "That's right."

    "Dear, with all respect, you're not making any sense. Maybe your Mom or Dad could explain it better."

    "I'm explaining it fine, Ma'am. Your logic is faulty."

    Indeed, the nice old ladies were having a bit of trouble by that time, because Jessica had inadvertently taken them off their script, through no fault of her own.

    "But dear, you have just contradicted yourself."

    "No, I haven't. Atheism is not the belief that there is no god. It is the absence of belief in god. Those statements are not equal. The point of atheism is that the burden of proof is on you."

    "Proof of what?" asked the nice lady.

    "Proof of God. If there is a God, and you expect to convince me, you have to prove it."

    "I would be happy to prove it to you, dear. Just what would convince you? Turning water into wine, perhaps?"

    Jessica grimaced with the anticipation that she would soon be subjected to the parable of Doubting Thomas, which she had always found rather tedious, so she headed it off. "Nothing so dramatic. To start, you could show me some feature of the world that cannot be explained without God."

    The nice lady smiled with confidence, because they had returned to her script again, replete with examples such as the magic of the human eye, and the marvelous dexterity of the hand. "I can do that for you easily, dear. But first I would suggest that the Path to the Lord is surmounted not by proof, but by faith."

    Dang. The Doubting Thomas bit, rearing its ugly head again.

    "That is precisely it, Ma'am," Jessica said. "Faith. That is what I lack. No faith, not for me."

    "We could help you with that," the nice lady kindly offered.

    "I would really rather you didn't. I don't have faith in god, any more than I could have faith in any other foolish thing, like Purple Elephants, or Intelligent Design, or Global Warming. Sorry, but I'm just not wired that way. I'm not the sort of person who can blindly believe in patent absurdity."

    While the nice ladies stammered and stuttered, Jessica listened to approaching footsteps, and then felt Mummy's hand on her shoulder.

    "Who are these people, Jess?"

    "My new friends, and they're explaining god and faith to me."

    "Oh. That's nice."

    One of the friendly old ladies, still bristling, snapped at Mummy, "Ma'am, are you an atheist?"

    "No," said Mummy, "I'm a Catholic."

    The nice old ladies relaxed their shoulders just a little bit, and one said with relief, "Well, that's something. At least you believe in God."

    Mummy thought about that and replied, "No, I don't."

    "Would you like a pamphlet? It might help."

    "No, thank-you. Give it to Jessica. Jess, honey, don't stand out here too long without a coat."

    "Okay, Mummy."

    Carol shivered and walked back up the stairs.

    Mummy had reminded Jessica not only that it was cold, but that she had a lot of work to do, before Nelson arrived and distracted her for the rest of the day with the delights of his beautiful Maleness. Jessica really wanted to wrap up this enlightening interview and take her pamphlet, but apparently she would have to earn it by listening to more of their drivel. But the game had grown old, and she felt herself losing patience.

    "Dear, in your Catholic traditions, your Saint Thomas Aquinas had much to say about faith-"

    "Ma'am," Jessica interjected, "Aquinas lived in a world that was flat, nine thousand years old, and orbited by the sun."

    "Well," the nice old lady retorted, a bit flustered, "it is."

    Jessica wondered which part of that statement the nice old lady believed to be true, and realized, with a shudder, that the poor bitty just might have believed the whole thing. The girl just smiled sympathetically.

    The nice old lady, now firmly back in the part of the script that dealt with Doubting Thomases, felt comfortable in her element and confidently said, "Dear, when your school teaches you that the earth is five billion years old, you have to understand that it is only a theory."

    "I know that," said Jessica.

    "Yes, well even if you don't believe that the Good Book of Genesis is the Word of the Lord, surely you must agree that it is at least another theory, no more or less valid than the theory you learn at school."

    Jessica clarified, "Meaning the world must be about nine thousand years old?"

    "Yes, dear. Give or take."

    "No," said Jessica. "That's not a theory. It's just a bunch of childish nonsense, dating from the Dark Ages."

    The nice lady's dippy smile faltered, "Oh? And why is one theory better than the other? Because your teachers have told you so?"

    "No. Your so-called theory is wrong, because we can see the sun."

    "Just what is that supposed to mean?"

    Jessica patiently explained, "The photons - the light that we see - are made in the core of the sun. Then the photons bounce around off super-condensed hydrogen plasma, like ball bearings in a pinball machine, and only gradually make their way out to the surface, where they finally break free and cross space to hit our eyes. That process takes a long time. They bounce around for one hundred fifty thousand years. Give or take. So, if your so-called theory were correct, the sun would still be dark, and we would not be able to see it without the Hubble Space Telescope."

    "Dear," the nice lady said, now transparently incensed, "you've never been inside the sun, have you? How could you possibly know any of that?"

    "Because the Internet works."

    "Excuse me?"

    "Photonic TCIP-IP packets travel from service providers to your computer through fiber optic cable that operates on the same physical principles as the photons that bounce around inside the sun. If the sun were not at least one hundred fifty thousand years old, the Internet wouldn't work, either, and you wouldn't be able to rot your brain on Internet porn."

    "I certainly don't watch Internet porn."

    "Do you read the newspaper online?"


    "Okay. No difference. Ma'am, I really have to go. I'm freezing my ass off out here. Could I have one of those pamphlets and mull it over?"

    The nice old lady agonized over wasting a pamphlet on the godforsaken creature before her, and finally handed it over, with yet another cautionary epistle. "Young lady, I would just urge you, with Christmas coming up, to give some thought to the path you are taking, and its destination."

    "Where am I headed?" she asked. She really was freezing, but she couldn't help herself.

    "To a life of iniquity," replied the nice old lady. "In a life absent of faith, it is impossible to be good. There would be no point to being good, without the Good Word to inform and inspire us."

    Jessica furrowed her brow and pressed, "So, if you, yourself did not have faith in God and heaven and so forth, you would be a thief, or a murderer?"

    The nice old lady shrugged and said, "Maybe, maybe not. The point is that there would be nothing to prevent me."

    "Hmm. In that case it sounds to me like you're not a very nice person. Your heaven must not be a very nice place either, if it would admit you. Here. Take your silly pamphlet back."
    Last edited by aesexual pseudonym; 01-03-2010 at 02:50 PM.
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  30. #30
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    Thank you so much for the link here and after waiting for months in anticipation for book two i come here to find all these taste which are so tauntingly paraded before me i must say AP you are a tease.

    of the very best type

    thank you so much for your work
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  31. #31
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :


    Quote Originally Posted by ohhmygoditgod View Post
    Thank you so much for the link here and after waiting for months in anticipation for book two i come here to find all these tastes which are so tauntingly paraded before me i must say AP you are a tease.

    of the very best type

    thank you so much for your work

    You're quite welcome. Time for a status report.

    I'm on the final leg, but it is rough. 250,000 words to go (give or take). Book Two is definitely going to top 850,000 words, based on the plotline in my little black journal.

    I know I have promised late March, but it is ice climbing season, and I do so love this time of year. I will do my best. This book is now roughly twice the length of War and Peace. Not bragging. Merely pointing out that it is a frightful amount of work.

    I am thinking hard about my blanket refusal to post the book in chapters, rather than all at once. I will continue to think about it. The draft is my security blanket. I don't want to give it up, until I finish the last word. As I've said, I will think it over.

    Welcome, ohhmygoditgod and anyone else who might have found their way here from the other place.

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  32. #32
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    Smile Happy to rediscover AP and family

    Quote Originally Posted by aesexual pseudonym View Post

    Thanks so much for the encouragement. This thread gets tons of reads, and has five happy stars, but people do not post on it. I suppose that is a good thing, as so many threads here tend to fill up with spam... maybe people are just bashful. Whatever. I will find an excerpt to add. Something with action, as that appears to be what people like.

    aesexual pseudonym
    After reading Book One last year, shedding a few, and sending a couple PMs offering to sniff out typos, I thought I had lost you. Only from some innuendo did I realize you had a "falling out" with your late unnamed and unlucky host.

    The main loss for me is having to read you with this damned white on blue background (I'm too lazy to reset the pages to No Style every time).

    Truly, your fiction is far, far beyond almost anything else I have read on these sites. In essence you have ruined porn for me. At heart I'm a romantic. Greta's backstory is as heart wrenching as Jessica's is heart warming. As 'The World Turns' for your fervent imagination, I'll follow.

    Don't apologize in advance for laying spoilers on us. Given the way you continue to improve your stories I can assume that any spoiler will be 'de'spoiled after a few mods. After all how many takes did Wyler shoot before the clapper clapped for the last time?

    Your 'filth' is literature for the ages to be read many times ! Thank you.
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  33. #33
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Thanks for finding me.

    Quote Originally Posted by cerfing View Post
    Your 'filth' is literature for the ages to be read many times ! Thank you.

    Dear cerfing:

    This site is not perfect. My biggest criticisms are (1) that stories cannot be searched by length, and (2) that authors cannot edit their work (not even to fix minor flaws like the italicization error that slipped into one of my chapters). That said, I have been assured that the admins are working on peeve #2. (This is one of the reasons that the voting/comments system is currently down.) More importantly, nothing is perfect, and I know that my so-called "literature" is unpublishable, but for venues such as this, so I try very hard to maintain tolerance and a modicum of gratitude that the site exists at all.

    Thanks very much for finding my work, and for reading it.

    Time for an update, to all concerned.

    The final draft of Book Two: Beauty currently exceeds 650,000 words, and now that I am closing in on the finish, my initial estimate of 850,000 words (total) appears to be fairly accurate. The end is in sight.

    That said, it is winter now, and that means ice climbing season (yes, the realism of the Pinnacle sequence is informed by real life experience), so there are, for me, distractions. I really want to finish by late March, but I may slip. Apologies in advance if slippage occurs, but yours truly, A.P., does enjoy a rich and varied life.

    Apologies, also, that I must cease the submission of "spoilers" to Book Two. I'll tell you why. cerfing (previous post) is unnervingly correct in the assessment of Greta Westford's backstory as "heart wrenching." There is a saying that comedians must never laugh at their own jokes. Analogously, thespians (and authors) must never shed tears for their own tragedies. But, last weekend, I did just that, in a restaurant in Harvard Square. Whilst working on a scene for Greta Westford, I broke down in tears that would not relent, and made a hell of a scene. I can no longer post excerpts, because the experience of writing this book has become too intense.

    The end is in sight, and I am off to chase it. See you on the other side.

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  34. #34
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :

    Default Book Two: Beauty - Excerpt with Bubbles

    Okay, I lied. Another excerpt, with Casimir and Colleen, in the bath. Funny and cute, etc., with sex and bubbles. If you haven't read Book One, you may not get some of the humor. So it goes. All my "stories" are excerpts from the books.

    Codes: Mf, romance, humor, anal (consensual). Unreleased draft material. Please pardon typos.

    Casimir and Colleen in the Bath

    Colleen and Casimir, contrary to Aunty Penny's claim, were not up to "God knows what." They were, in fact, busily soaping each other up in the bath.

    The buxom redhead had been working out prior to his arrival. She had done three hundred situps, two hundred pushups, and two hundred squats. She had concentrated especially on the squats, as they made her so wet, and inspired her to imagine herself upon Cazzie's lovely giant fuckpole. In the course of her pleasant exertions she had worked herself sweaty and smelly from head to toe. Then Casimir had knocked on the door, on schedule, a prince on his shiny bicycle, come to save her. He had raced all the way from Winchester and had arrived malodorous and entirely unpresentable. Colleen had thrown herself against him with her greeting, had backed up with a wrinkled nose, and had dragged him, by the hand, toward the bathroom. "I'm all stinky, Cazzie," she had said, as he had pried his free hand down the back of her leotard, "and you have to wash me from head to toe."

    "Okay," her affable and impressionable prince had replied.

    Now they undressed each other and prepared. The washing part sounded fine to him, given they would both be naked and wet for the ordeal.

    "You're stinky, too," she added, as though it were not obvious.

    "I know," he compliantly admitted.

    They ran hot water into Colleen's cramped, narrow tub. Casimir added about a pint of bubble bath, and the foam frothed up over the side, like a runaway cappucino, after mere seconds. He shut the spigot off after barely more than a puddle filled the bottom of the tub. Neither Cazzie nor Colleen cared a whit about the water level.

    Casimir climbed in first, a chiseled wet foamy god. He took the freckled alabaster hand of his avid lady, succumbed to the compulsion to comb his fingers through her fluffy, bright red pubic hair, and gallantly helped her down to her knees. She smelled like brine and lust infused in olive oil. She looked up at him with big amber eyes framed by red lashes. His hands found her breasts, of course, and explored, while she kissed and inspected every inch of his desperately yearning virility.

    Colleen looked up at him, vaguely incensed for reasons that presently escaped her addled boyfriend, and she crossly chided, "Cazzie, have you been masturbating again?"

    The lusty lad blushed to the color of his concerned and irritated girlfriend's fiery hair. "No way, Col!"

    "Bullshit, Cazzie. You've been pulling your pud behind my back. Don't lie to me."

    "Not even! I swear!"

    "Well you're all chafed, silly boy. Your cock is all rubbed raw."


    "At the top."

    "You did that," he accused.

    Colleen giggled in fits, and retorted, "Filthy liar! I'd never do that! I respect this big ol' thing. Unlike you. You treat your cock like shit."

    "You did that to me, I swear."


    "From last time. You did it with these," he explained, squeezing the ultrafirm glowing grapefruits atop her ribcage.

    "Hmm," she mused, silently conceding to herself that it may have been possible. He had sprinted from Winchester to Everett on his bike four days ago, on Tuesday, and had arrived at three-thirty in the afternoon. He had titty-fucked her for almost four straight hours, whilst crouched over her face, with his balls on her chin, and had shot his pearly goo all over her tummy five times. The randy boy distracted himself from any collateral damage that her luscious mammaries might have been causing his sore organ, by making a game of scooping his own sperm up into his fingers to watch it drip into her upended, wide open cunny. She had held herself open with both hands, so he could watch his sperm drop straight down into her vagina to splash at the bottom of the well, on her cervix.

    "You're trying to preg me," Colleen had accused.

    "Wouldn't that be fucking cool!" he had enthused.

    Colleen had slapped him. Hard. Unlike her little cousin, Jessica, who wanted a baby from her darling love, Nelson, as soon as possible, yesterday if not sooner, and had no intention whatsoever of waiting for the wedding, to Colleen the thought of getting knocked up - even by her deliciously manly steady boyfriend - gave her nightmares and would have been an absolute fucking disaster. Nevertheless, he went right on dripping warm potent cum on her cervix, because it was cool to watch, and she just let it happen, because the thought of getting pregged made her so horny and queasy that she couldn't think straight, disaster though it might have been.

    Now, in the bubble bath, according to a suspiciously defensive Cazzie, he had not been mishandling himself, had not been wantonly injuring that part of himself that Colleen most adored. According to the suspiciously guilt-ridden boy, Colleen's ample firm breasts were the culprits.

    She crossly chastized, "Boys will be boys, Cazzie, I know that. And if you've been jerking off, it's fine. You can admit it. It's not like I'm gonna break up with you, just because you've been dumping my sperm in your toilet."

    "Your sperm, Coll?"


    "It's my sperm, until I give it to you, and not before."

    "Fuck you, Cazzie! It's mine! Every fucking drop! We're steadies, so that's the deal! And you've been jerking off like some kind of chimpanzee!"

    "I haven't!" the scandalized boy exclaimed.

    "Although I'd think you could wait and suffer for a few days, after how good I did you on Tuesday. It wouldn't kill you to pine for me just a little bit, you know."

    "I did! Will you just listen-"

    "It's not like you didn't know you could fuck my brains out tonight, you know. It's not like I ever say no," the vivacious redhead fretted, "or that I've ever said no, for that matter, and here's your gratitude-"

    "Goddamn it, Colleen Turner, will you just shut the fuck up and listen?"

    Colleen giggled, and smiled up at him with a smear of freckles across her dimples. Angry as he was, his cock ached as much as ever with its hardness.

    "I did not jerk off this week! Fuck!"


    "Yes! This happened Tuesday! I fucking swear it!"

    Colleen reached out of the tub for the little shelf under the sink, and snatched up a tube of vaseline. She squeezed a thick dollop of vaseline onto her fingertips, and gave Cazzie's thick purple cock a new, closer inspection, wearing a dubious expression all the while.

    She muttered, "I know that all boys jerk off, Cazzie. It's okay to admit it. I wouldn't think less of you."

    "Colleen, I swear to fucking Christ-"

    "Because, well, I played with myself on Tuesday night. And last night, too."


    She looked up at him with an apologetic shrug and explained, "I couldn't help it."


    "Well what do you expect? Your beautiful cock between my boobs for almost four whole hours, it made me so horny I couldn't stand it."

    "But I ate you out the whole time! You came a dozen times yourself!"

    "You were very, very good," she agreed, "and you're so sweet. Especially when you're eating me. But then you left and I couldn't sleep."

    He shook his head and cursed.

    "And last night, well, I knew you were coming over today, and it made me so hot I couldn't think straight, and well, I couldn't wait. I needed to cum so bad, Cazzie. I couldn't stand it. So I borrowed one of my Mom's dildoes."


    "A big electric one. It was so fucking cool."


    "It has these wild bunny ears on the bottom that grind right into a girl's clitty."


    "Oh, calm down, silly. I washed it and everything first. I came at least six times. No wonder my Mom always has a smile on her face."

    "How big?" the enraged lad demanded.


    "How big was the fucking thing?"

    "I don't know. I didn't use a ruler. Ten or eleven inches? I don't know."


    "I didn't get the whole thing in, Cazzie. I had to hold onto it somehow. God. Relax."

    "You're a cheating slut!"

    Colleen cracked up and fell back into the bubbles, holding her belly. Her laughter drove bubbles up into the air.

    He looked down at his steady girlfriend with an expression of apoplectic rage, nostrils flared. He forced himself to calm down. He slowly hissed, "You're just busting on me. You're kidding."

    From beneath the bubbles, a little voice said, "Uh uh."

    "Uh uh, no, you're not kidding?"


    "No, you're not kidding, or no, I'm not right?"

    Colleen just laughed harder. From beneath the bubbles, she managed to contain herself long enough to say, "Don't worry, Cazzie, I'm tight as ever."

    He groaned.

    She sat up, covered in bubbles, still overcome by fits of giggles, and said, "Look at you. Silly boy. Jealous of a piece of plastic."

    He leaned back in the narrow tub, and knocked the back of his head against the tile wall.

    "I'm oversexed, Cazzie. I can't help it. You just don't come over enough."

    "I'll have to come over every fucking night!"

    "Goody!" she enthused.

    Cazzie lowered down to his knees, and she sat up, scootched forward, rubbing a thick coating of vaseline all over her breasts.

    She huskily whispered, "If you come over every fucking night, I swear I'll never use a dildo again."

    He groaned at the hopelessness of it. No way could he come over every night. But he could sure as hell try.

    She gathered his beautiful yet chafed and inflamed erection between her breasts and squeezed them tight. He groaned and threw his head back. She looked up at him through her eyelashes and murmured, "Do you forgive me?"

    "For what?" the petulant boy demanded.

    She continued to look at him, while slurping on the luscious oozing head of his penis, and he groaned again.

    Seeing as her present activity appeared to encourage his forgiveness, she kept it up, and slurped, kissed, licked the spongy-hard head, sucking out oodles of yummy precum.

    He groaned, "So you're really not kidding? You- you really used your Mom's dildo last night?"

    She sighed, looked up, and said, "I'm just being honest, Cazzie. It's not like it gave me a disease. I was kind of hoping if I was honest, you would be, too."

    He groaned again.

    She tried to distract him from his determination to be miserable, by humping her vaseline coated boobies up and down on his straining organ. At least part of him had some sense, she ruefully consoled herself. She also knew, with a wisdom beyond her years, that the more tender loving care she gave Cazzie's penis, the sooner he would forget all his very good reasons for being vexed.

    She changed the subject. "Do my boobies feel warm?"

    The overheated boy gasped, "They're so hot."

    "Does your cock feel nice between them?"

    "So good," he replied.

    "Are they still chafing?"

    "Your boobies are so slippery."

    "The vaseline feels nice, huh?"

    "Yeah," Cazzie gasped.

    "Squirt more in my cleavage if you want."

    Cazzie groped blindly for the tube of vaseline, pointed it down between the shaft of his cock and her breastbone, and squeezed.

    Colleen giggled, "Not so much!"

    "What," the befuddled boy furtively asked, "you can put too much?"

    "Well don't waste it, is all I'm saying. We'll need it later."

    No arguments there. He dropped the vaseline onto the tiles outside the tub and asked, as she humped her whole torso up and down on his cock, "Did you really play with your Mom's dildo?"

    She groaned and stopped moving up and down on him. "Did you really not play with yourself this week?"

    He fell back out of the warm oily embrace of her freckled boobies to knock the back of his head against the tiles again.

    "Well what, Cazzie? You doofus! I love your giant fuckpole more than life itself, and it's all chafed! It's rubbed raw, so who are you shitting?"

    Cazzie picked his head off the wall with a bemused smile. "What did you say?"


    "What did you call this?" he qualified, pointing at his erection.

    "Your giant fuckpole, Cazzie," she replied, as though it were obvious.

    He laughed and consented to rejoin the embrace of his giant fuckpole with Colleen's oily freckled boobies.

    She pushed up and down on her boyfriend's cock, from knees and hips right up to her mouth. She used her whole body to love his beautiful cock, from toes to scalp.

    "Where the hell did you come up with 'giant fuckpole?'"


    He laughed uncertainly, and then admitted that he had no idea what she meant.

    "Me and Jessi. We used to play a game called Grown-Up Kens and Barbies. Before we outgrew'em and found real fuckpoles to play with, that is."

    He cracked up, and mussed her fiery hair. He asked, "What other names did you two have for guys' dicks?"

    She giggled, pleased with herself. Predictably enough, Cazzie had forgotten all about the dildo. She said, "You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

    "Try me."

    She pressed her boobies right around his giant fuckpole, and squeezed her swollen nipples together.

    She looked up at him, stuck her tongue out, and licked the crest of his purple knob, her big convex eyes always on his. "Wanna know what Jessi calls N-Man's penis?"

    He bellowed laughter and yelled, "Fuck yeah."

    Colleen fell into a tiny whisper, and looked to her left and right, as though witnesses might be lurking in the narrow tub. "I'll tell you," she promised.

    Casimir grabbed her hands, which she'd been using to squeeze her boobies around his cock, and said, "I'll take these. Before you hurt yourself."

    She giggled, and consented to let him squeeze her boobies. She took charge of his balls, an equitable division of labor.

    "So you want to know or don't you?"

    "No! Lemme guess!"

    Colleen giggled, and looked up at him expectantly.

    Casimir guessed, "Jessica calls N-Man's cock... Sir!"

    Colleen would have fallen straight backward into the bubbles if Casimir had not been gripping her so tightly by her tits. The tiles echoed with her laughter.

    "No," she finally managed, "but you're warm! Jessi calls it Sir with an S!"

    He frowned with perplexity.

    She explained, "Sir with a capital 'S.' But I'm only shitting you, Cazzie. Like, that's not what she calls it."

    "What? What! What does she call it!"

    Colleen giggled and said, "His Maleness."

    Casimir gaped at his steady girlfriend, even more nonplussed than before. "No fuckin' way."

    She nodded avidly, and slurped on his cock to accentuate her point.

    "Coll, don't play with me."

    "No shit, Cazzie. His Maleness. That's what Jessi calls it."

    "His highness?"

    "His Maleness."

    "His eminence?"

    "No, Cazzie," she insisted, delighted by his disbelief, "his Maleness. With an 'M.'"

    "Does he have a big one?"

    Colleen took her hands off his balls and punched him in the chest. "How the fuck would I know, Cazzie!"

    "Come on, Coll! She's told you, hasn't she?"

    "No. She doesn't talk about it. She never talks about it," Colleen said, clearly disappointed by that fact.

    "You think it's bigger than mine?"

    Colleen looked down at his giant fuckpole and dubiously said, "I don't know. Yours is pretty fucking huge, Cazzie."

    "It is?"

    She punched him again.


    "Stop fishing for compliments. You know you're a monster."

    But the young and rather naive lad would not be deterred. "Yeah, but is N-Man bigger?"

    "Cazzie, I told you, I've never fucking seen it. And Jessi doesn't say. But I doubt it," she concluded.

    "Yeah? Why?"

    "Because she would have told me, if his Maleness was something to write home about. Cazzie, level with me, okay? You really didn't get your fuckpole all nicked up with your goddamned hand?"

    "No. Not even. Honest to Christ."

    "Huh. Then it's really my fault. My boobies hurt you last time."

    He squeezed them in his palms, around his cock, all greasy and hot and freckly around his throbbing cock, his favorite boobies on earth. Colleen's hot freckled grapefruit sized tits filled his whole awareness, filled his life, filled all the world.

    Colleen looked down at her own guilty boobies with stern rebuke, as though they had committed the deepest betrayal.

    "Coll, it's no big deal."


    "Coll, I'm fine. I'll live."

    "Cazzie, it's not fine. Your cock is all chafed up. It's my fault."


    "You have to punish them."


    "My boobs, doofus."

    "Punish them like how?"

    "I don't know. Punish them hard."

    "Coll, what the fuck are you talking about?"

    She wouldn't answer immediately; too busy. Too busy pushing up and down with her ankles, and knees, and thighs. Too busy licking him, kissing him, suckling the top of his giant fuckpole.

    "You should punish them," she whispered, "for hurting your giant cock."

    "How?" he repeated again. She had his attention. She had every single shred of his attention.

    "Hot water. Out of the shower head. Scald them in hot water."

    "Fuck, Coll-"

    "Or you could slam them in a drawer. I'll hold them over an open drawer, and you can slam it shut over and over. I'll stand still, however many times you want to do it."


    "Or slam them in the door."


    "Or step on them. Stomp on them."

    Casimir panted, and squeezed her tits harder.

    She smiled up at him, twirling her tongue on his lovely swollen knob, teased the tip of her tongue into the gaping dark opening upon the top, tasted his sperm oozing up, and whispered, "That turns you on, doesn't it, Cazzie?"

    "No," he croaked.

    She giggled, and went back to suckling his swollen cock knob.

    Casimir looked down at his busy girlfriend, her thick shiny strawberry red hair, her freckled nose, her wet freckled shoulders, the tips of her nipples, pressed together. This teenage boy who had not been turned on by her invitation to punish her tits felt his climax rush up so fast that it took him entirely by surprise. He couldn't even warn her.


    She looked up at him with a huge smile, and caught the first heavy rope of hot sperm right up between the eyes. She looked up at him with her big open smile, and refused to blink through the cloudy gobs that smeared over her pupils. His knees gave out, and he wobbled above her, pumping thick globby strings all over her face, her hair, her naughty boobies, her tummy. He staggered and fell forward, on top of her. Colleen fell back. They splashed into the shallow tub, and sent a cloud of bubbly foam into the air. Colleen looked up at the tiled walls and saw clumps of bubbles sticking to every surface. Bubbles drifted in the air. A thick dollop of Cazzie's hot potent cum struck her square in the left eye. The next shot launched in a parabolic arc and dropped perfectly into her wide open mouth.

    Yeah, sure. She hadn't turned him on.

    She looked up at him, blinking her spermy eyes, and smacked her spermy lips. The freckles on her face lensed and glowed enticingly under sparkling droplets of cum. A thick globby string had launched right over her head, and had landed in her hair, from her forehead to the back of her neck.

    Casimir had never seen a sexier sight in his life.

    He pushed his oozing cock into her mouth.

    She slurped happily and giggled. She slurped, sucked, swallowed, let him pop out, licked her lips again, and said, "Your jackhammer is as pissed at me as ever, Cazzie."

    "My jackhammer?"

    "You just soaked my whole fucking face, and it's still as hard as a fucking iron bar, Cazzie. Are you gonna punish my naughty boobies or not?"

    "No!" he defiantly yelled, as the knob of his cock slapped against his stomach.

    "You know you want to."

    ""Do not!"

    "Fine," she said with a huff, "just like you never whack off," and backed away, muttering, "fucking liar."

    "Where you going?" the disconcerted boy blurted.

    Colleen answered his question by turning her back to him. She planted her head face down in the bubbles, put her pale freckled ass right up in the air, and spread her coltish legs to the limits of the tub.

    Casimir groaned, utterly powerless. He had been wrong when he had thought that his girlfriend's spermed face had been sexy. That sight had been nothing, nothing whatsoever in comparison to the sight of Colleen's pale slender fingers reaching back over her firm wet ass and pulling her cheeks apart to gape her bum and give him an incomparable view right down into her large intestine, a view framed by fluffy, bright reddish blonde pubic hair and punctuated with authority by the pale pink flowerpetals of her sopping wet, unbearably aroused cunt.

    "You have to punish me somehow, Cazzie. I deserve it. Turn the shower on."

    "Why?" The addled and cognitively handicapped boy wondered.

    "So no one hears me scream."

    Cazzie hurriedly complied, and slapped her ass with his enraged, enormously enlarged cock in the process.

    "Now put it in, mister," his unrepentant fifteen year old girlfriend ordered.


    "Fuck my ass, Cazzie! God! Do I have to spell it out?"

    Cazzie scrambled, mentally and physically, to keep up. "What about the vaseline?" he asked, groping blindly at the tiles beyond the narrow tub.

    "Whatever!" Colleen snapped. "Just do it! Punish me, Cazzie! Punish my tiny little asshole with that monstrous humongoid ass-ripping jackhammer!"

    Cazzie finally understood. He took her hips and groaned as he pressed his sensitive knob to her gaping pucker.

    "Do it!" she hissed.

    "Coll, you know I can't do it this way, with your coozie all left out right underneath."

    Colleen giggled into the bubbles and said, "You're so sweet, Cazzie. I love you so much. My coozie can wait. Fuck my ass. Fuck it hard. Make it pay." She wriggled her butt to press her point.

    "Fuck!" he roared.


    "Colleen Turner, your ass is the most beautiful sight on earth!"

    Not many men on the planet, with the benefit of Casimir's vantage point at that moment, would have debated with him. Hot water pelted down from the showerhead above, beaded on her pale freckled cheeks, glistened in her fiery pubic hair, dripped down her chubby labia, and pooled into a little puddle in her rectum, reflecting light back up that narrow humid well like a mirror, buried treasure that enticed, teased, tormented poor Casimir's rampant prick.

    "My ass is all yours, Cazzie, and my asshole, too! Fuck it! Bash it hard! All the way!"

    Colleen felt his hands tightly clench her tiny waist. She grabbed a deep breath just in the nick of time, before he drove that breath right out of her lungs.

    Casimir slammed his entire length straight down her rectum, straight to his hairy balls.

    Colleen cried out fretfully into the bubbles, kicking up clouds of foam. Her boyfriend paused in his onslaught to check on her welfare, ever the overly-sensitive young altruist, and she begged him to fuck her harder and make her pay for all the damage she'd inflicted on his poor humongoid fuckpole.

    He wanted to fuck her ass forever, but he knew he would not last long. Either way, Colleen would take him. Anything that her dearest Cazzie wanted, long or short, easy or hard, Colleen would happily provide. She loved him, loved him, loved him! From top to bottom, and everywhere in between, Colleen lived for his happiness. She closed her eyes in passive submission, concentrated on holding her pretty bum up for Cazzie, and moaned in time with his fevered thrusts.

    At some point Cazzie opened his eyes and jumped right out of his skin. "Auugggghhhh!" he cried.

    Colleen opened her eyes with alarm, too, and screamed as well.

    Another pair of amber eyes, framed by fiery red hair, looked in on them unabashedly from behind the shower curtain. Colleen's ten year old sister, Sue, looked back at them with avid, unabashed curiosity. Having been bagged, she just kept right on looking, more at Casimir's abdominal region than at her big sister.

    Casimir froze deep inside Colleen's asshole to conceal himself from his girlfriend's baby sister, but to no avail; it was plain, by the diameter of Sue's amber eyes, that she'd been getting a front row view of her big sister's sodomy for quite some time.

    Colleen shrieked, "Susy Turner, what the fuck are you doing in here?"

    The riveted fourth grader kept staring, and replied, "Had to go to the bathroom."

    "I locked the fucking door!"

    "I picked it."

    "Use Aunty Carol's bathroom!"

    "Philly Jr.'s jerking off up there. I really had to go."

    "How long have you been here?"

    "I don't know."

    "How much have you heard?"

    Little Sue shrugged and replied, "Most of it, I guess. Say, Col, do Mom's dildoes really get a girl off better than boys?"

    Casimir groaned. Luckily for Sue, he had not shrunken a single bit inside Colleen's asshole, and continued to stretch her distressed colon with authority. Otherwise Sue would have been in mortal peril at that moment.

    Sue's lips were pressed together, but a smile teased her freckled cheeks. She hadn't blinked once since they had bagged her. Sue was the spitting image of Colleen, albeit younger, smaller, flat as a board, and at that moment, outrageously annoying.

    Colleen snarled, "Take your piss and get the fuck out!"

    "I already did."

    "Then fuck off!"

    Sue didn't budge. She asked, "Doesn't that hurt?"

    "Get out!"

    "You guys are a lot more fun to watch then Nelson and Jessica."

    Colleen's jaw dropped, and she demanded, "When the fuck have you watched Nelson and Jessica?"

    Jessica's bedroom didn't even have a window, and she jealously guarded her privacy.

    Sue replied, "Me and Emma hid in Jessi's closet once. Nelson and Jessi talk too much. They won't ever shut up. Sir this, and Miss that. Blah, blah, blah. If they'd only just shut up and do it. You two talk too much, too, but at least I can understand you."

    "Great," Casimir groaned, "I relate to a ten year old rugrat."

    Sue looked up at his face for the first time and said, "Nelson's a lot bigger than you."

    Colleen snarled, "Get out or I'll gouge your eyes out!"

    Casimir blurted, "How much bigger?"

    Sue replied, "I don't know. Thicker and longer. Nelson's huge. I mean, like, scary-huge. Longer than my forearm. Yours is really nice, too, though."

    Colleen shrieked, "Get ouuuuttttt!"

    Sue shrugged again and wandered away, locking the door behind her, without a trace of concern for her peril.

    Casimir, harder inside Colleen than ever, muttered, "And everyone says you're oversexed. Your baby sister's gonna be a goddamned terror in five years."

    Colleen shook her head with exasperation and muttered, "This house is too fucking small."
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  35. #35
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :

    Lightbulb Progress Update

    Here's where it stands.

    Final Draft: 705,000 words.
    Rough Draft: 30,000 words.
    Estimated words remaining: closing in on a final length of 850,000 words, as estimated (give or take), with two months remaining to the desired release date of March 31.

    In other words, right on schedule. But my fingers hurt. And I'm getting no sympathy whatsoever. At all. Sheesh.


    P.S. I've changed my mind about spoilers. I'm over Greta's tragedy, and neck deep in Nelson and Jessica (the wedding!!!! yippeeee!!!!). Really cool vignettes lined up, with lots of hawtness and wetness. If anyone cares. Which they don't. Because being an author is a solitary trial, and it sucks 99.999% of the time. Sheesh.
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  36. #36
    Sexual orientation :
    Join Date : Jan 2010
    Posts : 2

    Default Sheesh! One in a million

    Quote Originally Posted by aesexual pseudonym View Post
    But my fingers hurt. And I'm getting no sympathy whatsoever. At all. Sheesh.


    P.S. I've changed my mind about spoilers. I'm over Greta's tragedy, and neck deep in Nelson and Jessica (the wedding!!!! yippeeee!!!!). Really cool vignettes lined up, with lots of hawtness and wetness. If anyone cares. Which they don't. Because being an author is a solitary trial, and it sucks 99.999% of the time. Sheesh.
    Your fingers hurt, A.P.?!! That's a hell of an attitude. How do you think we poor readers feel having to wait to know what will stream next from your fertile imagination.

    And speaking only for myself I am worried what will happen after Unlikely is finished, and digested, and appreciated. What then? Is your grit equal to your grindstone? I hope so. Sheesh, you are one in a million.

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  37. #37
    aesexual pseudonym
    Sexual orientation :


    Quote Originally Posted by cerfing View Post
    And speaking only for myself I am worried what will happen after Unlikely is finished, and digested, and appreciated. What then? Is your grit equal to your grindstone? I hope so. Sheesh, you are one in a million.


    There is a third book after Beauty. Already working on it, in fact. It will have an (estimated) length of 650,000 words, bringing the entire length of UNLIKELY ANTICHRIST to two million words (approximate). In fact, I've already written the final scene of Sublimated, know exactly how it will end, and absolutely love it. (Hence my motivation to continue.)

    Next???? Who knows. I've been slamming my head against the wall with the idea to distill this project down to a mainstream-compatible trilogy (essentially by stripping out all the porn), but every time I try it, I kill the story. Jessica and Greta are perfect at their current ages, and Jessica's romance with NBS is the heart and soul of the story. I have notebooks full of attempts, and each and every time, I've killed it and left it heartless. So, as I say, next, who knows.

    Thanks for the interest. More excerpts, with hawtness and wetness, coming tonight.

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  38. #38
    aesexual pseudonym
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    Default Love Letters; Nelson overreacts; much hawtness and wetness

    Excerpt from Book Two: Beauty.

    Many of the readers of Nascent very much enjoyed the love letters between Nelson and Jessica. In Beauty, there are far fewer love letters, and they occur toward the end. Here are the first. Jessica is 15 in this excerpt, and has gotten much better at parentheses (if you've read Nascent, you know what that means, and if you haven't, well sheesh, read my filth, already.)

    A bit of background: This sequence is part of a recollection in which Jessica is 15. Nelson is in Kansas quite a bit these days. (There is a reason.) Warnings: Spoilers. Also, the excerpt contains politics. Very little, but some. Hey, it can't be helped. The excerpt takes place in November 2008. If it's any consolation, most (but not all) of the characters have voted for the guy in charge.

    Codes: Mf, Romance, Consensual, Masturbation, Copious Wetness.

    Love Letters

    One Tuesday evening in early November, the MIT shuttle bus dropped Jessica off at her doorstep. At nearly eleven PM, she trundled a doubled pair of shopping bags up the stairs and into the house. She dragged the laden sack into the narrow living room, dropped it in the center of the cable rug, and shucked off her book bag to chuckle at an amusing sight.

    Mom sat upright, riveted to some inconsequential melodrama that played out on the television. Apparently Daddy had been watching, too, but had given up, and snored loudly enough to compete with the talking heads on the TV. Eight empty beer cans and a laden ashtray occupied the space on the coffee table between his splayed shins.

    "A bit late to be out shopping," her mother absently observed, without taking her eyes off the television. Her expression looked incredulous.

    "I bought these at lunchtime," said Jessica.

    "What do you have there?"

    "Journals. I have to write it all down, before I start forgetting."

    "I didn't think you were prone to forgetfulness."

    "Neither did I." Jessica sat down on the arm of the sofa, rubbed her mother's back, and glanced with disinterest at the television.

    "You have mail."

    Jessica sat bolt upright.

    "On the kitchen table."

    Jessica leapt off the sofa, and stirred her father in the process, but not enough to wake him. She raced out to the kitchen and returned with a thickly laden cream envelope. She returned to her mother, hopped back on the arm of the couch, and set the envelope on her lap. She looked down at the envelope with an indecently pleased expression that her mother found quite amusing.

    But the sight of Jessica's effusive satisfaction troubled her mother, too. "He's been gone quite a bit lately. You must miss him."

    "Yes and no," Jessica replied absently. "We're both incredibly busy. And he is writing to me more than ever, now. I love his letters, Mom."

    "Where is he now?"

    "Kansas. With Max and a few other people."

    Carol glowered at the television. Two white numbers, one on a field of red and the other on a field of blue, accumulated like odometers. Talking heads filled the room with their inane impressions.

    "What's in Kansas?"

    "Since last winter, the company's been running the research and development operations out of space in the North Shore, acquired in a short term lease. The lease runs out in a month. Meanwhile the crash of the sub-prime real estate market is rippling all the way up into the commercial office space market, but the owner of the building won't drop the rate on the lease. So Dymetrix is moving Legal and R&D to Kansas."

    "Why Kansas?"

    "Lots of reasons. Cheap to build. Cheap to live. Easy to move freight by rail. It's equidistant between the east and west coasts. We're drawing talent equally from both coasts. There's plenty of room for expansion, and if things go our way, we will be expanding quite a bit."

    Jessica's mother amusedly said, "Anything else?"

    The girl shrugged and said, "Kansas is less susceptible to attack."

    "Good God! Does that really matter?"

    "It will, inevitably."

    "Who would ever have the gall to attack us?"

    "Oh, I can't begin to imagine." She looked down at her envelope again, and trembled with anticipation. She had grown bored with the conversation.

    "Well, I don't get Kansas at all," her mother muttered. "I mean, it's Kansas. There's nothing there."

    Jessica smiled wanly at that assertion, but did not reply. She had grown up within three miles of the swan boats and brass ducklings in the Boston Public Garden, but had neither ridden the swan boats nor sat upon the ducklings before having met Nelson.

    "You're not the only one who can't understand it. The governor of Massachusetts met with Vernon and Abby last Friday."

    "Well, that's really something!" her mother enthused, indecently impressed.

    "Yeah. He's really pissed that Vernon is determined to move more than sixty white collar jobs out of state. Especially given Nelson's intention to increase the number of R&D and Legal staff to more than three hundred after the move. The governor pitched Vernon on the local universities, and the quaint notion that Massachusetts is some kind of incubator. 'It's all here,' the governor told him. Vernon told the governor that this place is an incubator of corruption and decadence, and nothing more. Vernon said the universities are complicit in the shakedown. Vernon said it's become impossible to do business here. Vernon said he can almost understand wasting seventeen billion dollars on putting the expressway underground, because the new tunnel spares potential tourists from having to look at the hellhole through which they're driving. The governor advised Vernon against burning his bridges. Vernon told the governor he has no use for bridges to nowhere, or in the case of the new Zakhim, bridges over nothing. The governor left dissatisfied."

    "I should say so."

    The fifteen year old math prodigy had become bored with the conversation, and really did yearn to retire with her letter. But first, curiosity got the best of her. She nodded at the television and remarked, "What's the big occasion?"

    Carol chuckled at Jessica's utter lack of concern and replied, "Only the presidential election."

    "Oh. That was today?"

    "You're so fortunate that you're too young to vote."

    "Did Daddy get his wish?"

    "What wish?"

    "He's been rooting for that moron from Chicago who wants to wish the war away."

    Jessica's mother said, "Is it really so wrong to wish that? I've voted for him, too. I think this country makes its own problems, and we never really belonged in the Middle East in the first place."

    Jessica glanced at her unconscious father and said, "Looks like celebration has gotten the best of him."

    "He's appalled."

    "Why? It looks like his guy is winning."

    "I think your father voted for 'his guy' just to be a smartass and brag about it in the pub. Daddy never expected 'his guy' to actually win."

    Jessica hopped up, with Nelson's letter burning in her hand, and said, "Huh. Well, that ought to teach him. Maybe this country's full of smart-asses, from sea to shining sea, who are going to be kicking themselves tomorrow."

    Her mother uncertainly said, "Maybe. But at least we'll be out of the Middle East."

    Jessica smiled and didn't comment. She saw no point in arguing the point with her mother, because she really could have cared less. She gingerly held the lovely cream envelope in her lips, picked up her book bags, and said, "Well, good night, Mom. Don't stay up too late. You can't change anything from here."

    Nelson's letter to Jessica, the latest in a series of letters innumerable.

    Dearest Love,

    I am tired of hotels. Even the finest are dreary, antiseptic, depersonalized places, inadequately illuminated surrogates for the airports, the planes, and the cabs. The specimen which I currently occupy certainly does not rank among the finest. This particular hovel is beige, I think, with corners made of composition board. The wall is brightened by a two foot by eight foot landscape portraying, of all things, corn.

    I miss you terribly.

    I know that we suffer for a reason, and a reason that prevails itself upon us now, more than ever. As perhaps you are vaguely aware, being a joyfully young and carefree fifteens year old (yes, dearest I most definitely envy your youth), the country chooses a regime this week. The general election will have come and gone long before I return to Boston, and perhaps even before you receive this. I will not be back home in time to vote, and I cannot bring myself to care. Fiscally conservative warmonger though I might be, it remains that the Republican is inspired only by his sense of duty, and the Democrat's nihilism admits neither duty nor any other consideration apart from personal ambition. I only thank my lucky stars that we divested before the bottom fell out. We as a nation shall now embolden our enemies, come what may. Time to keep our heads down, love, and secretly strengthen, to emerge from nowhere, in the chaos of the aftermath.

    Kansas might work out. We have found a location that is situated within ten miles of three major rail routes, an ideal junction point to nationwide freight transport. Extending the rails to our location would be relatively cheap, given that the entire state is flat and seismically inactive. Best of all, the local banks and holding companies have had it up to here with corn, and are tripping over themselves to offer deals. The construction alone will employ half the region, so it doesn't matter to the state legislature that most of the staff are going to be recruited from the coasts. The governor is asking us to give Kansas-born grad students preferential consideration, to help them try to reverse the brain drain. We've assured him we'll do our best, in exchange for their pledge to stop trying to teach Creationism in the primary schools. We may be able to negotiate tax breaks as well. The governors of Kansas and Nebraska are bickering over our little construction project, and it looks as though the two states might start a bidding war. Nebraska has its qualities as well, I am sure, but I have insisted to Max that we spare ourselves its many and varied attractions until another visit, and then only at uttermost need.

    The only downside to Kansas, quite honestly, is the corn. There is nothing here, apart from feed grain, as far as the eye can see. We may have to run R&R shuttles to and from Chicago every weekend, just to keep the staff from going stir-crazy. Whether we end up in Kansas or Nebraska, I will certainly insist that the company purchase a corporate membership in the Chicago Symphony, just for sake of periodic diversion.

    No doubt you will be interested to know of our prospects for ice climbing here in America's Breadbasket. The Rockies are an eighteen hour drive west. On my word, we will be sending courtesy buses in that direction as well.

    Hank is a fascinating guy. He's been out in the field, for the most part, with his ear to the rails, sounding out the local good ol' boy network. Corruption festers everywhere - even in the middle of nowhere, in corn fields. Hank has an instinct for sniffing out the local pit-bosses, the corrupt cops, the local aldermen who need to be greased. If we allow the local pirhanas to start taking nips, the costs will skyrocket, and the five year plan will become a ten year plan. Hank's job is to keep the local good ol' boys and union bosses off the premises.

    Every couple days, Hank comes back and joins us for dinner. He spins an incredible yarn, every time. You would not believe the creepy-crawling things he's found our here in the middle of nowhere. I can only imagine the rocks he has overturned, and the holes he's burrowed, to find them. Here, out in God's country, Hank has convinced me beyond shadow of a doubt that nothing is sacred, anymore.

    For the most part, we just let Hank talk. Max does nothing but listen. I'm convinced that Hank is at least the equal of Max, intellectually, and that he is even more shrewd than my father. At first I was convinced Pop had a screw loose when he insisted on bringing the founder of thje infamous Furniture Program into the new partnership. Not anymore.

    One night, one of the engineers asked Hank a question that lifted the veil off the mystery, just a little bit. The engineer asked him if he was going to miss the bars and dancing girls. He kind of joked about being surprised that Hank hadn't brought a few dancers along, just to brighten his hotel room.

    Hank answered, "The bars and dance floors are a business, like any other. Debits on the left, and credits on the right. Wiseguys come and go in that business. I hung on and made a goddamn fortune for twenty-five years, and my dick is still clean to this day. No herpes, no clap, not even warts. I didn't stay alive, and stay in business, and stay whole, by rotting my brain on tail."

    He said his business was relationships. He said he would often work the room, out on the floor among the hostesses and dancers, just doing his job, putting people together, but that he seldom ever participated himself. I couldn't help but be impressed. I've read that the most successful South American cocaine suppliers do not use their own product, and summarily execute staff who do. Hank's story sounded reminiscent of that mindset. I am fascinated by the series of rationalizations by which a man like Hank can purvey and shill the world's most inimical vices to the weak marks around him, yet regard those same vices as beneath his dignity, and thereby sleep soundly at night.

    One of the salesmen said, "Andy Donner used to tell us all about your antics at your parties."

    The remark irritated Hank, but he kept his cool. He said, "Andy Donner had a big mouth. I'm sure he has shitloads to say even now. Let's call him up and listen."

    Enough business, precious princess. I'm discontent in your absence, and exacerbating the heartache by reminding myself of the inane reasons for being apart from you. One more remark about Hank, however, before I dwell on how badly I miss you.

    As I said before, Max never speaks during Hank's diatribes. He eats, and listens, yet never participates. I think I know why. I believe Max is listening for clues about Hank's brief association with Greta, and perhaps also clues as to Greta's past. Greta has staunchly rebuffed her parents and the efforts of more than a dozen specialists over the years, but she has confided, ever so superficially, to her few friends. Greta gave you a few brief glimpses. I think Max believes that Greta also gave Hank a look in. If she did, Hank's not talking. He must be the coolest poker player alive. He appears to talk easily and candidly, but he plans every last word. He only orders one drink per sitting, and never finishes it. I can tell that Max is becoming frustrated, but there is nothing for it. Whatever Hank knows about Greta, if anything, he will certainly take it to his grave.

    From dawn, when I join my colleagues, until after dinner, when I retire, I must focus, because even among the staff I must maintain my guard. But now, in the solitude of this room, at the woefully inadequate desk that catches my knees with the slightest movement, my thoughts are solely of you. Here, thinking of you, my defenses crumble.

    I do not wish you were here, at this decrepit hotel, because I would not wish the place upon you. But I do wish that we were together, perhaps in our house, or in our wooded glade, or upon the grass beside our stream. I would take almost anywhere else, or even this place, at uttermost need, if only we could be together.

    I know intuitively, for example, that eight days have transpired since last I had an opportunity to kiss and taste every single bit of you, from head to toe. There will come a time, dearest, when I will make up for every minute that we have been apart.

    My days are continually loaded with sheduled, unremitting activity, and my calendar is packed so far in advance that I tend to push back at considerations pertaining to the future beyond my immediate horizon. In business meetings, among colleagues, I maintain strict adherence to the agenda; I insist that no conversation be convened that does not resolve to an action item; that no debate persist beyond its prescribed alotment of time; and most importantly, that no meeting may introduce topics which have not been anticipated in advance and placed on the agenda, so as to avail all interested parties sufficient time to prepare. Despite all these measures, violations inevitably occur. Rarely does a meeting end on time; and even rarer do I successfully keep appointments from waiting.

    I know that you are similarly consumed by your daily preoccupations, and by the commitments on your immediate horizon. I know, dearest, that you get little sleep. Fortunately we are compatible in that respect, as we are in virtually everything else. In fact at the moment I can think of no incompatibilities whatsoever, apart from our age disparity, which is already markedly less severe, just two years on.

    Two years hence, I expect we shall be essentially perfect for each other in every possible respect.

    And that brings me to the point behind my no doubt seemingly aimless ramblings with respect to task lists and meeting calendars. We have just recently celebrated your fifteenth birthday - three months ago, in fact. In my world, those three months represent an entire fiscal quarter - a veritable eternity. Between your relentless and indefatigable studies by day, and your nocturnal explorations of the mysteries incumbent to Teddy's glass bead game, no doubt you resent being reminded of commitments thirty days hence, let alone purported responsibilities that lie entire qurarters - veritable eternities - away.

    I know you are busy, love, as am I. Nevertheless, distant specters loom, and they beg to be addressed. Therefore it is incumbent upon yours truly, as an interested party, to ever so gently remind you that only seven fiscal quarters remain between now and our big day. If, indeed, we are resolved to effect our consummation upon the occasion of your seventeenth birthday, by my reckoning only twenty-one months remain - barely enough time, as it happens, to book a suitable hall and a competent dance band.

    Therefore one happily betrothed, utterly besotted, and irremediably bored Dr. Nelson Bernard Spencer, Ph.D. prevails upon his Lady, Her Precious Princess Miss Jessica, to indulge him in correspondence with respect to their wedding plans.

    What say you, my Lady?



    P.S. Do feel free to say, "Not this quarter, Sir." We really do have plenty of time. Although "Yes" would please me, as the topic does interest me on some level that I find myself hesitant to divulge.

    P.P.S. I would miss you less, if we corresponded on this subject. I promise I will see you by Thanksgiving, but we could easily be here for another week, or even two. And I do miss you exceedingly.

    At just past one in the morning, Jessica had taken Nelson's letter to bed naked from head to toe, and had been hoping to fall asleep with the letter upon her pillow and a finger between her legs, suitably primed for an evening of intense dreams starring her most beloved protagonist. But then she read the last paragraphs, and the final question. She reread it a dozen times. Each time she repeated the question, she further dispelled any chance of forcing herself to sleep.

    "Damn it, Nelson," she muttered to herself, with a big smile and not a hint of authentic reproach, "talk about baiting the trap."

    Jessica hopped out of bed, wrapped herself in a fluffy robe, tucked her feet into equally fluffy slippers, raced to her dresser, and dug a few sheets of nacre stationery from her panty drawer. Back in bed, silver pen in hand, she set to work on a most welcome project that she would finish, stamp, and submit to the mail before breakfast.

    Jessica's letter to Nelson, yet another among letters beyond count.

    My Nelson,

    Really, dearest. You're asking me whether I, your humble bride to be, would care to discuss the biggest day of my entire life? Give me a moment to think. Truly, love, one can take courtesy too far. But since you've courteously given me the choice, yes. Yes, Sir, I shall suffer, and discuss our wedding with you.

    In truth I owe you a debt of thanks for bringing it up. I know that persons such as I, engaged women, that is, are wont to spend inordinate amounts of time poring through wedding planners and gown catalogues. I confess I have not done so once since my fourteenth birthday. I am still struck incredulous by the sight of Genevieve's ring on my finger each morning, and still struggling to grasp the reality that I am engaged to marry the most beautiful person on earth and be his wife until death do us part. All the same, I have not given a single moment's consideration to the logistics behind the event, and if you had not brought it up, another six months would have passed before I noticed. Because I am, as you have said, very busy, and I do, as you have said, have much on my mind.

    But I am not too busy for this! Not too much on my mind, dearest, for this! So thank-you, thank-you, thank-you! Yes, love. We shall discuss our wedding.

    And while I would gladly subject myself to the hellish-sounding anomie of your hotel room, in exchange for being with you, we shall do the next best thing, and regale each other with this most welcome topic, while you are away. I shall endeavor to lift your spirits and entertain you, Dear Sir. Warning: I will also be an insufferable tease, but there it is. You should know me well enough, by now, to expect no less. (Kiss.)

    In fact, while it is true that I have most enjoyed the giddy incredulity that has come with being engaged, I have not spent more than ten minutes on the actual planning of the event, apart from that one scouting mission to Nahant Island that we made with Colleen and Caz last fall. And that was, after all, entirely Colleen's idea, which brings up a potentially sore subject, but one with which I feel compelled to begin.

    Colleen and I do aerobics together nearly every day, most often as soon as she arrives home from school. I realize I, myself, have been developing physically, and I suppose with your being away and neglecting me as much as you are, you may not have noticed that fact. (Don't fret, dearest; I don't (entirely) blame you (although you do realize (I'm sure) that you're the one neglecting me (of your own volition (as I would never elect to have us parted (for even a minute (were it (entirely) up to me (kiss)))))).) (In case you're wondering, this letter is currently being insidiously influenced by my elective programming course in LISP (sort of the MIT equivalent of basket weaving (which (apart from providing (idle) entertainment) has (happily) refined my use of parentheses).) (Where was I?) Ahh, yes. My burgeoning post-adolescent development, and its concomitant enhancements to my formerly demure yet increasingly buxom figure, a transformation which you are in the process of missing, due to your benign neglect of my poor little self at this most critical juncture in my ongoing progress to womanhood. Nelson, I've lost my train of thought again. It is very late. Oh. My adolescent growth spurt is possible to miss (I suppose (especially if you're not around (although I realize it's not your fault, honey (grudgingly)))), but Colleen's development is impossible to ignore. She is nearly sixteen. Her breasts won't stop growing, and her waist won't stop shrinking. She is becoming taller, too, right before my very eyes. As I'm sure you've noticed, on the rare occasions when you've been in town (even though, on those same occasions, you have not noticed me). Actually, the more I think about this paragraph, the more I realize that it has no point whatsoever, apart from my jealousy of Colleen's figure. Oh. And that we have to rush through aerobics in the afternoons, because Cazzie is almost always on the way over. He races from Winchester to Everett, nearly twenty miles, on his bicycle, Nelson. Through snow, sleet, hail, and blizzards, just to put his prodigious sexual organ to my delicate cousin. You have a car. With snow tires. You used to have two cars, including a bullet-proof Maybach with a fully reclining rear seat. Now you only have the one. You poor thing. Stuck with an eight cylinder BMW convertible having heated seats and an electronically limited top speed of one hundred fifty-five miles per hour. Just the one car, then, but it sure beats Cazzie's bicycle. He comes over, for Colleen. And you never come over, for me. (Where was I?) Ahh, yes. My point. (If you're rolling your eyes, Sir, stop it right now.) Although we rush through aerobics, for Cazzie's benefit (as I'm certainly in no hurry to get back to my cold lonely bedroom (since you never come over (ever))), I can't help but notice that she leaves bridal magazines and gown catalogues on her bedside and all over the floor. She pretends that she isn't aware of them, but she sure does make sure I can't miss them.

    Nelson, I am quite certain that Colleen thinks about my Big Day far more often than I do. And just to illustrate how self-absorbed and clueless I am, I didn't realize the significance of that observation until I received your letter tonight.

    Not that I have not had my consolations. I am discovering that there are formal methodologies for all the geometrical manipulation I've been able to do in my head all my life. You know, all the flipping, rotating, reflecting, and so forth, that I've been able to do with mental memories of super-dimensional shapes, ever since I was a toddler. It so happens that I've been manipulating symmetries all my life, without even knowing it, and well, all the mental games that have puzzled me all these years are starting to come together like a vast supra-puzzle; I am neck deep in the formalizations of games that I have been playing all along - Dynkin Labels, Young Tableaux, non-Abelian algebras, homology groups, etc. etc. (you're a doctor of math, Sir, so I shall not bore you with the details; just fill them in willy-nilly on your own), and while these pursuits would not occupy a shred of my attention if you were to just take a moment out of your busy day to come over and do me once in awhile, it is all making me rather giddy in its own way, because every time I find something new, I say, "Hey, I already know that; I just didn't have a name for it," and I happily plug the newly discovered formalization into the puzzle, upon which I say, "Hmm, it works much better that way, when informed by more than a child's ignorance," and the downside is that I'm running out of room in my brain, but the upside, I strongly suspect, is that I will be getting much better at this, now that more of the supra-puzzle is assembled than not. I have always been much better than average at solving problems geometrically (for whatever reason), and now I am looking forward to becoming better still, now that I know what I am doing.

    The point being, I haven't thought about the wedding at all, and poor Colleen thinks about it all the time. No doubt she is frantically desperate to share all her ideas and magazines with me, but she knows I am holding out for Greta, waiting for Greta to cease and desist with her morose and infuriating poetry, and miraculously come back down to earth, and be my maid of honor. Colleen is my cousin, but she is more than that. We've been together since we were babies. We have a picture of one year old Colleen holding me (with considerable assistance, of course) on the day I was born. I've seen Colleen virtually every day of my life. We are like sisters - perhaps even closer than sisters, since we are technically cousins and do not suffer the usual fraternal rivalries that plague real sisters. I am in the process of leaving Colleen behind, and she wants her sister back. She wants to be a part of my wedding in the worst way, and I haven't said one single word about it since our mission to Nahant Island (Colleen's idea) a whole year ago.

    Nelson, I feel awful, awful, awful!

    I had promised Greta that she would be my maid of honor, and that I would wait until she's ready. But it's been almost a year since I've talked to her - never mind about the wedding, but about anything at all. Meanwhile Colleen has been so silent, and so patient, and it must have been killing her all this time.

    I have to make it right somehow. I have to bring this to a head. I have to contact Greta, and tender an ultimatum, to either be my friend again, and be my maid of honor, or forever hold her peace. Once that official business is completed, I will be free to talk weddings with Colleen to her heart's content.

    Nelson, I want to write about our wedding some more, but I have to get back to that other thing. You know. Your Maleness. And how much I miss Him, because you absolutely refuse to bring Him over, so that I can love Him properly, with every part of me, i.e., not only with my heart and soul, but also with every orifice, viz., my mouth, my femaleness, and my anus. Nelson, I know the last sentence is very crass, and unbefitting this fine letter. But I need to be mercilessly shafted by you so badly that I'm about to straddle my goddamned bedpost and impale myself all the way into my lungs. I can't take it Nelson. I know that you're not officially my husband yet and you're technically still a free agent, and strictly speaking you do not have compulsory conjugal duties yet (viz., daily coitus with, ejaculation into, and fertilization of the receptive and fecund young female (me)), but you have de facto responsibilities that you are woefully neglecting, viz., my periodic sexual gratification, and I know this whole business transformation is supposedly very important, and you have a quarter billion dollars on the line, but Nelson I need not remind you it's only money and you have to reassess your priorities.

    My femaleness needs you inside her so badly that she's in physical pain. She hurts, Nelson. Thanks to you. She feels... she feels like she's lost the will to live, and will never be properly loved, as she needs and deserves, by her cherished and adored Maleness ever again.

    Sir, do you think it's permissible for me to go down the aisle in white? Given that I am no longer a virginal princess? Your honest opinion, please. I am also partial to pale coral.



    P.S. Your letter arrived on the day of the election. My father voted for the Democrat, yet did so only to act cavalier in the corner bar. Daddy never expected him to win, and feels betrayed by all the other idiots in the country who apparently had the same inane plan and accidently elected him. Says it all for our future prospects, in my opinion. Nelson, I am soooo happy that I am too young to vote. The whole ritual strikes me as utterly absurd. Would that I could also call it anachronistic. Can't we just place ourselves under the authority of a benevolent and impartial machine?

    Several days later, on a clear yet cold Saturday morning, Jessica began checking the mail every half hour, starting at eight in the morning, in anticipation of Nelson's reply. She had endeavored to entertain and cheer him, in his lonely and austere hotel room somewhere in the vast cornfields of Kansas. She also very much wanted to know his opinions concerning Colleen, a puzzle that Jessica had not yet cracked, for all of her rapidly accelerating prowess at problem solving in general.

    Jessica also desperately yearned to know her beloved's opinion with respect to white versus pale coral gowns. She grumbled to herself that she certainly felt like a virgin these days, given the unpardonable infrequency of their lovemaking. And Nelson had said that he might be stuck in cornfields for another week, or even two. When she did see him again, in a month or a year or two, she would have to set him down for a frank discussion about feminine hormones of the adolescent kind, and her hormones in particular. He did have a lot to worry about, being a quarter billion dollars in the hole, but enough was enough.

    Jessica heard a sharp knock on the porch door at nine in the morning, and bounded down the stairs, hoping to throw her appreciative arms around the letter-laden mailman. She opened the door with a big smile and stopped up short to encounter two stern, severe, yet vaguely pleasant ladies. They looked older than Mom. They wore faux leather shoes, frumpy sweaters, and polyester slacks. Each nice old lady bore a Bible in one hand, and colorful pamphlets in the other.

    "Good morning, young lady, is your-"

    "Hold on; I'm kind of busy. I'll go get you some money."

    "But dear, we don't want money," said one of the nice ladies. "Is your Mom or Dad home?"

    Jessica blinked distractedly and said, "Uhh, yes. But I don't need to disturb them. I have money of my own. Just hold on."

    "Honey," the other lady said, "We're not here for money. We've come to give you the Word."

    "What word?"

    "The Good Word."

    "Which one?"

    The nice old lady closed her eyes and winced, as though saying it were difficult for her. Indeed, for this nice lady, some words were to be uttered only in the presence of the devout. She shied from the sacred tetragrammaton, understandably unwilling to damn herself unnecessarily, and reverted to a euphemism deemed acceptable to the uninitiated. "The Word of the Lord," she explained.

    Jessica brightened and said, "Goody! I've been waiting all my life for someone to explain it properly. Now, I'm only fifteen. You won't talk over my head, will you?"

    "No, of course not, dear. One can be any age, if one is receptive."

    "You've caught me on a good day," Jessica assured the nice lady, "so shoot."

    "Okay. Well, to start, you no doubt go to church, at least occasionally."

    "No, Ma'am, not at all. I'm an atheist."

    This news appeared to cause the nice ladies inordinate distress.

    One of the concerned ladies reached out and patted Jessica's arm. "You poor thing," she said.

    Jessica understood. The nice ladies naturally assumed that her beliefs had been imposed upon her by her parents - that her mother and father were criminally complicit in her own eternal damnation. The notion amused her to no small degree.

    The nice lady accused, "You are far too young to be an atheist."

    Jessica said, "No, no, one can be any age. Why, there is a little baby Catholic, right here on this street, who is not more than three months old. Are you Catholics?"

    "No, dear, we are not Romans. We are Jehovah's Witnesses."

    "Oh, that's nice. Well, there are fifteen year old Jehovah's Witnesses, aren't there?"

    "Of course, dear."

    "Goody for them, then."

    "Dear, what I mean is that atheism is a perilous belief indeed, for one so young."

    Jessica replied, "Atheism is not a belief. Atheism is the absence of belief."

    "But you believe in the non-existence of God," the nice lady pressed.

    "No, I don't."

    The nice lady's smile faltered, and she said, "But you've just told us you're an atheist."

    "That's right."

    "Dear, with all respect, you're not making any sense. Maybe your Mom or Dad could explain it better."

    "I'm explaining it fine, Ma'am. Your logic is faulty."

    Indeed, the nice old ladies were having a bit of trouble by that time, because Jessica had inadvertently taken them off their script, through no fault of her own.

    "But dear, you have just contradicted yourself."

    "No, I haven't. Atheism is not the belief that there is no god. It is the absence of belief in god. Those statements are not equal. The point of atheism is that the burden of proof is on you."

    "Proof of what?" asked the nice lady.

    "Proof of God. If there is a God, and you expect to convince me, you have to prove it."

    "I would be happy to prove it to you, dear. Just what would convince you? Turning water into wine, perhaps?"

    Jessica grimaced with the anticipation that she would soon be subjected to the parable of Doubting Thomas, which she had always found rather tedious, so she headed it off. "Nothing so dramatic. To start, you could show me some feature of the w