Chapter 2

Searching for work proves to take much more time than working ever did – without any pay. My studies suffer as I spend the time hoofing it around town hoping for an opening somewhere. I have nothing to show for it except an incomplete on a Bio lab report.

I finally find an advertisement in the college paper about selling blood plasma for a research project and I give it a try. Fifty bucks! Outstanding. I do the math quickly in my head – I need six samples in a month just to pay my rent – a little more for food. Then I have utilities, like heat, and it is getting cold. Ramen noodles again tonight. “When can I come back for another sample?” I ask when she compliments me on the quality of my blood.

“Sorry,” she says, “You can only donate once every six weeks.”

Dammit. That’s no good. Next stop was the sperm bank – what the hell. If blood is worth fifty, I wonder how much sperm is worth. It turns out, when you’re only five-foot eight, it’s not worth anything. No donors under six feet tall as though short people are second class citizens.

Saturday night is my weekly telephone update with mom. My voice cracks when she asks about, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she nattles on about how good things arise out of such disappointment. “Ashley found a job in no time,” she says of my sixteen year old sister. “She’s doing great. She even bought herself a nice car.” That seems to be a dig at my thirty-year-old Datsun with its rusted out floorboards. I’m thinking that maybe I can do without a monthly phone bill.

By the following week, I’m pretty desperate. For lunch, I stop at the student union for ten packs of crackers and a few packages of relish. Wandering between classes, I see a notice on a bulletin board for art class models. Fifteen dollars an hour sounds pretty good to me, even though it promises to be just as humiliating as my stock room display. There are none of those little tear sheets with telephone numbers, but Dr. Thekla Hebetyria’s office hours are listed. The next one is after my Medieval Studies class this afternoon.

I knock on her door jamb without an answer. Her office is cluttered with art projects. A reinforced paper statue of two, barely recognizable children draws my attention. Many body parts are connected by only thin strands of wire with gaps between them. My mind readily fills in the gaps. The girl’s arm is disconnected from her body, but attached firmly to the little boy’s penis.

“I’m sorry,” a disembodied voice says, rising from a store room in the back. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

She steps through the door, gingerly over the varied pieces of art on the floor wearing a half dozen beaded necklaces, wire-rimmed glasses which stick out from her barely-tamed frizzy white, chin-length hair, and a fringed, gold sash around her hips … and that’s it. I wonder about the purpose of the sach – it covers does not even cover her cleanly-shaved vagina. And her tits … damn … they sag all past her navel. I don’t think I can ever unsee this vision.

“Don’t be bashful,” she says waving me toward her. She sits on her office stool. “Come on in. What can I help you with today?”

“Um ...,” I’m beginning to wonder if I should back off now, but I can’t achieve my goals without a degree, and I need money for that. “I saw your notice about models.”

“Excellent,” she says, “we’re always looking for new blood. “Have you modeled before?”

I shake my head.

She digs through piles of papers on her desk. “I have applications in here somewhere.” She asks questions about my schedule and reasons why I want the work.

Tuesday and Thursdays afternoons are open four me. She has three classes that meet those days across four hours. “If you show up early, we can cover some basic posing techniques.”

She tries to have four models per class at three stations. “To start it will be some basic posing. Perhaps, by next week, we can work up to some more erotic poses.” She must notice my cringing because it provides a chuckle. “Don’t be bashful. Our class is a celebration of the nude form. It’s clothing optional. After a few moments you should feel at home.”

I’m not worried about the nude form. I’m more worried about abject humiliation. I don’t know any art majors at Stony Brook, so I feel like I might be sheltered. I ask about the students in the class wondering if I know some people who may have taken it as an elective.

“Mostly advanced art students,” she says. “We have some adult continuing education classes and a joint class with Stony Brook Academy. All are advanced art students.”

A week and a half before Thanksgiving break – three classes until then. A hundred and eighty dollars. It may not get me all of the money I need, but along with my final check from the Country Club, I should have November mostly covered. “When can I start?” I ask.

“If you don’t mind, it’s my decision. I need to squeeze the fruit, before I buy -- so to speak. Could you disrobe for me?”

Shit. I set my backpack down on one of the few bare spots in the linoleum. I take my jacket off and hang it on something that I hope is not a valuable piece of artwork. There is no place for me to sit, so I remove my high-tops and socks while balancing on one foot. The floor is really cold. I finish by removing my boxers – I can’t even look her straight in the face. I notice her beckoning curled finger out of the corner of my eye.

She pushes and prods me to rotate in various directions and asks me to flex certain muscles so that she can see the definition. Not much, but they’re all I have. I think my goose bumps are larger. After going through all of this, she better not turn me down. She runs her fingers over my tiny triceps, then down my back. She gives my ass a smack like she’s purchasing me for her farm.

The humiliation is complete when she casually lifts my cock and fondles my sack. Clothing may be optional, but perversion is mandatory. “I can shave that for you, if you want,” she offers.

“No, thanks.”

“All right,” she says with a final rub between my thighs. “Class begins tomorrow at one. Stop in at the art studio at twelve-thirty so that we can cover some basic posing.” She hands me an application. “Bring this if you want to get paid.” I hope the studio is heated more than this office. Shrinkage could be a problem.

I liked it, you should continue.

Seems pretty good so far.

bumperino.

Thanks. I'll keep trying.

Chapter 3

I am an absolute basket case as a student with my pending exploits into rampant exhibitionism -- my decision to donate my pride and body for the sake of art. I can’t focus on my studies at all. My short essay for my worthless elective, Medieval Studies, goes nowhere. King Clovis brought Christianity to Europe? That’s what the book says, but I keep getting him mixed up with Charlemagne …. No, wait, I mean Constantine. Why do these guys names all begin with “C”?

Tuesday, after my one class in the morning (Bio Lab), I make my way to the art studio. My final check arrived the night before from St. Edmunds Country Club ($34.56, wow), which means that I have enough money to afford a decent lunch. My stomach, with its incessant churning, does not approve. Maybe, after the art classes. I have a momentary fear of explosive diarrhea during the class.

As such, I arrive early at the studio. Empty easels stand as quiet sentinels in an arc around three pinewood platforms in the middle of tile floor. Nobody else is here, so I take the time to study the artwork decorating the room. To my untrained eye, it all looks beautiful … except a drawing where a muscular man is writhing in pain with electrodes clipped to various parts of his body. I hope it isn’t real … that pose can’t be worth fifteen dollars an hour.

“Great, you’re here,” Dr. Hebetyria says entering the room donned in a long, navy blue overcoat. She lays her pile of files and books on her desk, sets her bamboo fiber carryall on the floor next to it, and removes her coat. Her fringed hip-sash is blue with matching topaz colored minerals in the beads around her neck. She must save a lot of money on clothing and laundry expenses.

I hand her my completed application which she stores in her stack of papers. “We don’t have a changing room. You can disrobe in the corner.” She points to the far, spartan corner in the studio which contains a wooden coat rack. “We have robes in case you are bashful.”

She erects wooden boxes on the stands and covers them in a white sheet. Once I’m undressed (wearing the white, terry cloth robe) she demonstrates various positions and mannerisms. The first location is for sitting. She gives me four poses -- one to illustrate strength, another for confidence, another for bashfulness (“You’ll like that one,” she says), and a final one for indifference. “Now you try them.”

She reaches to my belt to undo my robe, and I get the picture. My bashfulness is at an end.

There will be four models at three stations. “The middle platform will have two standing models. You pose at the same station, but not together. Not today, anyway,” she says with a wink. To the third station, she’s added a thin mattress for posing in a prone position.

I try some of the basic standing poses that she recommends. I think I’m getting when she reaches in and adjusts my nut sack. Apparently, she doesn’t care for the way it straddles my cock. One finger slides underneath and presses into my crack. I’m so surprised … I can’t even bring myself to jump.

She sighs. “Touch is simply magical,” she says in a way that justifies violating the unwritten barrier between employee and prostate examinations.

Students from the first class begin to filter in while she’s demonstrating prone modeling poses. They all carry large artist sketchpads. The first is a well-dressed, neat freak who studies me and then shrugs. He’s confirmed his sexual orientation, and dismissed me as unworthy.

The second student is a tall, gangly female with long straight blonde hair and wire glasses. She sits down next to an easel and takes off her coat, then her dress -- without anything underneath. I don’t get a vibe on her sexual orientation, but I think I would like to study it. That’s when I appreciate the true dilemma of my gender. My crotch mood ring starts to alter its structure into a flagpole salute pose. Dammit! I turn to stare at Dr. Hebetyria whose nudity is a cure for the common lust.

The remaining students and additional models fill the classroom. This class is mostly advanced art students and masters degree candidates. Some disrobe some do not. I have to admit, that the atmosphere of aloof acceptance is relaxing for my first nude modeling gig.

My station is the middle platform along with the one female model for the class – Zulima. She is at least an inch taller than I am with broad shoulders and sculpted muscles. “If that cock gets within six inches of me,” she says, “I will wrench it until I hear your squeal.”

She smirks a little when she says it. I try to be cool and play along. “Don’t worry about me. Lesbians are among my greatest fantasies.”

“I’m no dyke,” Zulima says with a chuckle, “I’m a sadist. Nothing gets me hotter than a guy screeching like a neutered boys’ choir.”

“Heh, heh, heh,” shit – I am out of my element. Just to emphasize her point, she pinches my cock for a second and gives it a tweak. “Hey, I wasn’t closer than six inches.”

She starts to shimmy closer, but Dr. Hebetyria is my savior. She claps her hand and says, “Save that for later. We have work to do.”

The artists all rapidly scribble on their sketch pads with charcoals and colored pencils in wide, sweeping arcs. After a few minutes, we shift poses to something else. One of the students, frumpy with a hipster bent, stands and walks around me to gain a fuller perspective. I find myself flexing my ass cheeks unconsciously.

Thekla signals a break and the models all relax. One of the male models introduces himself as Taraje. His dark brown wiry hair is coifed perfectly. Juan, the other guy, takes a look at some of the drawings. I’m curious as hell to see how these people visualize me in the nude, so I follow his roaming, glancing casually at the artist’s work. Some are unrecognizable charcoal messes. My tall blonde’s is pretty good. I look like some Greek hero with a nine inch cock. I think I like her.

After the first class is dismissed, more students enter. This class is a mix of younger undergraduate students and adult, continuing education students. One of the adult male lechers looks about forty with a round, bulbous abdomen. He wears a peach-colored ascot, loafers, black socks, and little else. He must have some sort of disease as indicated by a disturbing, distended erection through the hour-long class. Worse, he follows me around, changing seats each time I move. My first stalker … whoo, whoo.

By the end of the second class, I’m growing tired and hunger pangs gnaw at me. My muscles ache from the stress of staying still. I remember that I haven’t eaten a thing today.

The forty-year old approaches me. “Thekla, my dear, who’s the new victim?” His name, I quickly learn, is Victor Vandeprave. Dr. Hebetyria introduces us. Victor was once an entry level financier who traded in currencies. He earned a fortune in his share of federal TARP hush money when his firm blew billions taking unreasonable risks in international markets.

“Now, I dabble in the artistry of pleasure,” Victor says, “Thekla, my dear, has he been invited to tonight’s party?”

My protector, the good doctor Theckla hangs over my shoulder, with her tits pressing against my back. It’s not quite as disgusting as I would have would have expected. “I haven’t asked him, yet,” Thekla says. “We have a class party every Tuesday night at my house. You’re welcome to come.”

For some reason, I am picturing a dungeon basement from which I may never escape. “I have to study,” I say with a gulp. Which is surprisingly the truth.

“Your loss,” Victor says. “Perhaps next week.” He raises a finger with one hand and rubs his Buddha belly with the other. “I have another proposition for you.” When I say nothing, he continues, “This class is too short for any real artistic development. I have a studio where I could spend more time in the creative process. What do you say? Five hundred dollars for four hours this Saturday?”

I avoid glancing at his crotch for what I’m certain is an offer for prostitution. But five hundred dollars … that could pay my rent with money to spare. I have to keep an eye on that goal at the end of the tunnel – med school. If I had to suck Victor’s dick once a month until then, so be it. Heck, maybe he’s telling the truth. “I’ll do it,” I agree.

Victor looks smug, like he expected my consent. While he returns to his belongings to retrieve a business card with his address, the final class of the day trickles in. By this time, I have become accustomed to the relaxed dress code, and I forget the class is a mix of high school students from a local private school and beginning art majors. I hadn’t even bothered to don my robe.

“Oh, fuck,” I hear a voice from the students … one that I recognize. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I remember briefly being worried that Hayley McSween might be one of the students. I turn my head to see that the reality is much worse. It turns out … “High School” is a vague, much more loosely defined concept for private school. My twelve-year-old cousin, Vienna Sophia Lynnea Stegman looks mortified.

“He’s your cousin?” says the giggling girl next to her wearing an identical maroon jacket, blue pleated skirt, white knee highs and a Cheshire cat grin. “That is fuckin’ sick. Why don’t you introduce me?”

Vienna slinks down in her seat, not nearly as pleased.

>>20409
Shit's looking great! keep going OP.

I seem to remember a time not too long ago when stories remained on the first page for weeks.

Does anyone know how to edit my typos? I thought there would be a way to log on and make corrections.

Chapter 4

I am embarrassed, momentarily, by standing stark naked in from of my twelve year-old cousin. Finally, I regain my composure. I’m exactly where I should be. She’s the twelve year-old kid in an advanced nude art class.

Her friend, however, looks a few years older. Her long legs make her look almost as tall as I am. Vienna is a snotty brat, so it is worth a little fun at her expense. I step down of my platform and approach them. My cousin sinks further into her chair. “My little Vienna Sausage,” I say, “what should I call your friend?”

“Vienna sausage?” Vienna says. “Is that what you call that tiny wiener? I think you’re overconfident.”
She slinks further into her chair and says, “Her father is a state senator and her uncle is a judge. So you can call her jailbait.”

“Just like the revolutionaries of old, I always knew I’d be jailed for my passions,” I say. It was a marvelously stupid thing to say, and Vienna’s friend giggles.

Her friend reaches her hand out, but her eyes are fixed on my crotch. “My name is Celestina Pucci.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Celestina,” I say. I take her hand in mine and kiss the back of it. She has smooth, shiny black hair which seems to go all the way down to her ass. Not once has she managed to look up to my face. For the first time in my life, I feel sexually exploited, and I’m kind of enjoying it.

“Kyler, what are you doing here?” Vienna says with a scowl.

“This is my school,” I say as though it is the most obvious think in the world. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s an advanced art class,” Vienna says defensively. “You know our school is an academy for the arts, right?”

I want to tease her about the advanced paint by numbers class, but I decide against ribbing her too hard. Vienna is talented. I’ve seen some of her artwork hanging in their house. I just never expected her artwork to include nudes. Instead, I inquire about her classmate.

It turns out Celestina has even better pedigree than her political family. Her mother was a New York runway and catalog model. At fourteen, she’s a few years older than Vienna. “Will you be joining the clothing optional aspect of the class?” I ask.

Celestina smiles, but Vienna turns bright red and says, “No. Now run along little Kyler.”

Thekla drapes her arm over my shoulder and presses her sixty year-old tits into my back. “Do you know these young prodigies?” she asks.

I point out that Vienna is a cousin on my mother’s side. For a moment, I become serious and question the wisdom of a twelve year-old child in a nude art class. It’s a tough position to take when I’m standing in front of her stark naked.

“She’s a gifted artist,” Thekla says. “Their academy provides applications. We only accept the best.” In the manner of a college professor completely detached from reality she adds, “All of us are comfortable with nudity as an infant. It seems we spend years unlearning that beauty. Maybe they would like to join us for our Tuesday night party.”

“Okay,” Celestina says.

Vienna disagrees. “We have a curfew.”

Before long, a few more members of Vienna’s school add to the class. Two boys, wearing jackets and ties which match the uniforms and four more girls join the class. All of them seem older than Vienna and Celestina – perhaps juniors and seniors. They blend with a mixed class of art students, some of whom take advantage of the clothing optional attire.

The class begins, and I start my posing just like the previous two classes. I’m at the stand closest to Vienna and I start with a bashful pose. Every few minutes, Thekla provides a signal to shift our poses, and I move onto another pose. As before, she circles the class making periodic comments to the artists.

I have a difficult time avoiding eye contact with Celestina. She’s beautiful with legs a mile long, and she obviously appreciates the male nude form. Her skirt is much shorter than Vienna’s – she must have the waistband rolled in. She takes a break from her drawing to study me, slouches down in her chair and spreads her legs to provide a view all the way into her Victoria’s Secret collection.

It gives me that funny feeling down below, and I go with it. Vienna turns bright red.

Aft the first session is over, Thekla calls a break. Vienna and Celestina jump up to escape to the rest room. I take a glance at their artwork. I’m not much of an artist, but I have developed an eye over the years. Celestina’s drawing is as good as the others that I had seen that morning. The nose isn’t quite right, but for a five minute sketch, it’s really very good. Complimentary of me -- not so much in the image of a Greek god; more like a male porn star. I approve.

Vienna’s drawing is even better artistically. I can’t believe how much detail she achieved in a few minutes of sketches. I understand why she has been accepted to an advanced art class. My facial emotions are clearer than any drawing I’ve seen this afternoon.

“What do you think?” she asks returning from the rest room.

“I think something is missing.” She chuckles at my discomfort. Instead of a cock, she’s drawn in a very clear slit and folds for a vagina.

“What can I say?” she says. “I draw what I see.”

She may be artistically ready for a mature class, but Vienna is still a twisted, snotty little brat.

It’s time for me to return to work. One more session, and I’m done for the day. Celestina moves to where she can draw me again at my new station.

This time, when she opens her legs, I fail to see the lime green panties she wore before. During the break, she removed them and now I can see clear to the celestial wonderland. Holy fuck! I’m beginning to appreciate Roman Polanski in a way I never did before. To think, I’m getting paid for this. I allow my mood ring to show the proper level of appreciation. Suddenly, I’m almost as well endowed as her drawing.

>>20498
Good stuff, OP

>>20498
>I seem to remember a time not too long ago when stories remained on the first page for weeks.
Unfortunately the mods seem to consider it just fine to allow people to post contentless bumps on threads that have gone without updates for upwards of six months.
>Does anyone know how to edit my typos? I thought there would be a way to log on and make corrections.
Nope. All you can do is delete your post and put it back up.
Probably better to just make the corrections in your master copy and upload to pastebin or whatever.

>>20360
I am not a proud man OP, so it does me no harm to say PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE KEEP WRITING! I am loving this work! It's Literature, it's compelling and gripping and i want to keep reading!

Finally getting back in teh groove after the holidays.

Chapter 5

Statistics homework is bogging me down. It should be easy. I have to graph and compare two populations of data and determine if they are statistically different. I have no problem graphing the problems. Then I absentmindedly draw two perfect nipples at the peak of each bell curve.

It’s her fault. I am distracted by a vision of awesome fuckitude -- Celestina Pucci. I know that it borders on an unhealthy obsession, especially because she’s only fourteen, but holy shit, she was hot. I am more productive abandoning my homework while searching the internet for her name.

She’s not very tough to locate. In a quest to follow her mother’s modeling footsteps, she uses her first name, “Celestina”, as her professional moniker. Her web site displays a wide range of model poses. Some of which might be appropriate for a model over eighteen. Photos range from professional and classy to bathing suit and lingerie are designed to be controversial, and they work. Perfume advertisements look like she might be nude. A muscular, black nude male giant posing with her is definitely nude.

After this guy, I wonder why she pays attention to me. Maybe he’s gay.

I decide to become a Celestina cyber stalker. Nothing wrong with that, right? I am merely one among ten thousand others. I select one where she is modeling thigh-high socks wearing panties with one arm covering her breast for my wallpaper.

She’s provided links to various articles in newspapers in Utah, North Carolina and Texas questioning the wisdom of a fourteen year old child posing so provocatively. It’s such an obvious, desperate grasp at fame, that larger papers haven’t picked up on the story. If only her father were a US Senator and not a state senator, her gambit may have worked.

I decide, what she really needs to advance her career is a sex tape – and I am the perfect one to provide guidance. Such a tape would provide them with all the evidence they need for my pedophilia trial, but my imagination provides ready masturbation fodder. I can’t be arrested for my thoughts, can I? Better yet, it provides a few hours of mental freedom to concentrate on my studies.

Until now, a job has always been something I had to do. A way to earn money I need for food and rent. For the first time ever, I find myself looking forward my work.

Organics Lab is my only class Thursday morning, after which I have a few hours before art class. I’m still nursing the financial remnants from my last check and blood donation, so I head to the local grocery circuit to taste the free samples. Some pizza-like treat was pretty good, but the cherry cheesecake blintz was a little rich. I grab all of the coupons anyway.

When the first of my three art classes begins, Dr. Hebetyria announces that the previous session was so rewarding that we’re going to jump right into joint erotic poses. “I want the work to be sexually charged and erotic, not pornographic,” she announces to the class. I’m not sure what the difference is.

Zulima gives me one of those evil grins which tells me she’s looking forward to what sort of pain she can send my way. Hebetyria takes time to pose us – me on the floor in a submissive position with Zulima straddled over me. My cheek rests against her inner thigh. I think I can handle this position … until my nose starts to tickle.

After five minutes, we shift. This time, Zulima and I are posed even more intimately. Dr. Hebetyria finds what I thought was a plain plaster sculpture, but turns out to be a homemade lounge chair. I’m resting with my back on the lounge and Zulima lowers herself on top of me. It’s not very comfortable or erotic, especially when the hyper-muscular sadist’s hip grinds into my crotch. After five minutes of that position, I’m in tears. I can’t move or the artists get temperamental.

Once the professor releases us, I smack Zulima on the ass in retribution. She laughs like it’s all in good fun.

Finally, first break is upon us and I can relax. I can’t imagine any greater humiliation; until I’m reminded that “erotic” posing also includes “homo-erotic” posing. My next partner, Lenny, introduces himself. He’s greasy, scabby and smells bad. Apparently, he lives in the back of his van and hasn’t showered in three weeks. I’m beginning to understand why male porn stars shave their pubic hairs. I think something is growing in his crotch.

But the money is important … vital even. That is what will help me get to end of this long and arduous journey. One month at a time, one semester at a time -- until I have that M.D. certificate hanging on the wall.

The first two classes of the day start to blend together. I try to let my mind wander to the mundane while I’m posing. I think about the homework I have to complete. I have a research paper due Monday, and I’m mentally organizing my thoughts. It works … I can barely smell Lenny anymore. I fail to notice Victor Vandeprave until, at the end of the second class when he reminds me about my Saturday morning session at his house.

I’m growing anxious as the final class of the day approaches. Zulima leaves for the day which gives me hope that I may not have to humiliate myself for Vienna’s class.

Wrong again.

I’m acting like a professional model when the next class enters the class along with my cousin. I’m wearing my robe. Vienna sits down in her seat and slouches without acknowledging me. Celestina says, “Hi, Kyler,” with a huge grin.

She sits in her chair and spreads her legs. No panties from the get go – dang! My robe starts to magically open.

She turns to Vienna and says, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“It’s a free country,” Vienna says. “You can do what you want.”

I wonder what they are talking about, but I can’t figure it out. The type of juvenile battle which occurs only in high school. Along with the rest of the class, they set up their sketch pads and get out their charcoals. Hebetyria gives her instructions and I disrobe. Much to my surprise, with Zulima gone, she removes her red hip sash, and joins me on the podium. This time, she is in the subservient position. Her arms wrap around my thigh with half of her hand pressed into my ass and her cheek pressed against the opposite hip.

I don’t even cringe. I’ve grown accustomed to contact with her shriveled nudity, but I’m still flustered by the display in front of my young cousin. She escapes into a world of drawing, ignoring my presence.

Finally, first break comes, and I can relax. Celestina jumps up from her chair and approaches me, before I can grab my robe. She turns to Vienna and says, “You really don’t mind?”

Vienna waves her hand with an eye roll and says, “Puh – leeze, just get on with it.”

Before I even understand what happened, Celestina reaches out and grabs my cock. Like a sunflower in the sun, my rod strains to reach for the sky. “Ohmygod, what a riot?” Celestina says with a loud chuckle. “I think I will call you squishy, and you will be mine.”

Aw man, I think, you can’t come up with a better name, like “Thor”.

“Come here little squishy,” Celestina says as she grabs my nutsack with her other hand and wiggles her fingers. Without letting go, she turns to another one of her classmates and says, “Bartholomew, you’re a faggot. Do you want to check it out?”

This is not exactly the way I pictured this moment in my fantasies. I’m reaching a new level of humiliation as I wonder whether Celestina is having fun at my expense. I should probably assert my rights to my body, but it’s hard to take that seriously while everyone from Lenny to Hebetyria has been fondling my junk today.

“No, thanks,” Bartholomew says. “I know what they feel like.”

Phew.

“Well, Vienna, that leaves you,” Celestina says. “Why don’t you take a test drive?”

Vienna looks away from the both of us toward a wall. “Don’t be gross,” she says, “You don’t know where that thing has been.”

“Aw is little Vienna too shy,” Celestina says. She wiggles by cock from side to side. “I know you want know what this feels like.””

“Whatever,” Vienna sighs. She leans to the side of her chair and roots through her backsack. She pulls out a bi-fold green container of baby wipes and approaches me. She grimaces with an angry scowl that looks like she just learned Santa Claus isn’t real.

Celestina returns to her seat, leaving me to my cousin. I feel my cheeks turning flush and whisper to Vienna, “You don’t have to do this.”

Vienna removes two wipes from her container and rubs them over my junk. I shiver from the cold contact. The alcohol stings and my nut sack shrinks. She returns the wadded wipes to the hand with the container, grabs my cock with the other and squeezes.

“You know,” Vienna whispers with my full attention, “Celestina doesn’t give a shit about you or your tiny little prick. She only cares about embarrassing me.”

Vienna releases me and says loud enough for the entire class to hear, “It’s nothing to get excited about.” All of the private school students chuckle. She tosses the wipes in the garbage and returns to her seat.

When she changes the page and lifts her charcoal pencil, she shudders. The youngest one among her classmates, she is trying to act tough and composed , but she’s failing. Her eyes look downcast and watery.

Celestina leans back in her chair with her arms wrapped around her chest and wearing a smug, triumphant grin. Vienna is right. Celestina has probably been riding her for days about her pathetic nude model cousin. She has gotten one up on Vienna in some sort of twisted game among the plutobrats and knows it.

Celestina is hot as hell, and I had a lot of fun fantasizing about her. However, Vienna is family. I’ll have her forever. I’ve humiliated her in front of her classmate which is close to unforgivable. I’m numb. I can’t even feel contact with Lenny during the next session.

Posing for Victor Vandeprave can’t be much worse than this.

I go to stony brook. Well, I just graduated.

I can confirm that pre meds are as fucked up as this story implies.

Chapter 6

I own a second-hand acoustic guitar that I purchased when I was fourteen as the keystone of my diabolical scheme to become a chick-magnet. Step two of the plan would be to serenade some lovely ladies, but I’ve never gotten further than tinkering with chords in my room alone. Tonight that’s all I need. As a distraction from my troubles, it helps drag me out of a well of self-loathing.

The solitude gives me pause and reminds me that girls like Celestina aren’t interested in the lower rungs of society’s waste heap. In a mad fit of momentary maturity, I delete her picture from my wallpaper and deposit it in my electronic recycle bin. I then replace it with a picture of our family including my Lowland Sheepdog, Ciacho. Ciacho’s love is unconditional without any secondary agendas.

Before I know it, I’m singing an unfinished song I wrote years ago, called Broken Compass. I can’t decide if it’s about being disappointed by my idols or about our society’s penchant for creating heroes of little substance. “Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?” is a tough act to follow, but it’s enough. I am able to turn my lonely eyes toward my Organic Chemistry homework.

With Thanksgiving break coming up, I have assignments due in every class next week. By Friday evening, I’ve completed all my major coursework except for research on my Medieval Studies rough draft, due Monday, and my Bio-lab due Tuesday. After posing for Victor’s art project on Saturday morning, I should have money for rent and time for research in the library.

Just outside of Stony Brook, Victor’s house is within walking distance. With my optimistic plan, I knock on Victor’s front door at nine o’clock Saturday morning. I feel like I am prepared for just about anything he could send my way – from nude modeling to male prostitution. Compared to my apartment, it looks spacious and modern with a old-style front porch. As I stand there waiting someone to answer the door, I begin to doubt the limits of my imagination.

Victor opens the door drying his hands on a dish towel. Of course, he is completely naked. “Kyler, right on time. I’m so glad you could make it.” He shakes my hand and adds, “We’re just finishing up breakfast. Would you like anything?”

“No, thanks,” I say even though it smells pretty good. Victor takes my coat and I see another man standing in the door to the hallway. Outside of his gold chains, he is as naked as Victor. His dark, olive complexion with black curly hair makes me think he’s Mediterranean. I expect his body would be covered in thick curly hair, but he’s bald below the neck.

“This is Giuseppe,” Victor says, “my partner.”

“Everyone call me Jessie,” Giuseppe says with a clipped accent, “or Jess, maybe. Whatever,”

“How about something to drink?” Victor asks. “We have wine or beer or something stronger if you would like.”

Just the thought of drinking alcohol this early turns my stomach. “No, thanks. I’d like to get started, if you don’t mind. I have studying to get done.”

“No hurries,” Victor says.

I hear some whispers followed by high pitched giggling coming from the upstairs. Victor doesn’t seem troubled by them. “How about some orange juice?” he asks.

“That would be great,” I say, but I’m not even thinking about a drink. I’m distracted by the noises: more rustling upstairs. “Do you have children?” I ask. Or rats.

“Yes,” Victor says with a smile. Then he calls upstairs, “Chai, could you help Kyler get ready?” He turns back to me and says, “Chai will show you around while I get your juice.”

A young, Oriental girl comes barreling down the steps along with another dark skinned boy. I can’t place him. They can’t be more than eleven or twelve. They, too, are buck naked. I am feeling over dressed. She boldly grabs my hand and tugs, “C’mon. Down to the basement.”

The other boy says, “I’ll be down in a minute.” He runs into the kitchen.

Victor’s basement is nicer than my apartment. It’s well lit and carpeted. More importantly, it’s warm. On one side of the main room is a studio with decorated backdrops, like a photographer’s studio. On the other side is a mattress on the floor with sheets and pillow. Ha, I think, I have a metal frame for my bed. “Do you sleep down here?” I ask.

“Sometimes,” she says. She points to hangers for my clothes. I wait for her to leave and give me privacy, but she climbs up on a round wooden stool. He legs are spread, giving me a full, unabashed view of her crotch.

I finally figure, she’s staying through the unveiling. I remove my black hightops and socks. “How old are you Chai?” I ask.

“Twelve.” As she talks, I learn that she was born in Bangkok – an orphan on the streets.

“Your English is good.”

“It better be,” she says.

When I unzip and lower my pants, I notice small eyes watching me from an adjoining dark room. “Is there someone else back there?” I ask.

“Come on out, Khandaya,” Chai says with a loud groan.

Khandaya slides maybe a foot into the doorway. With a little more light, I get a better look at her. She is roughly the same age as Chai, maybe a little younger. She could be a Californian with her straight blonde hair, but her ribs poke out through her skin, and those blue eyes are sunken, listless.

Then she gives me that eternal question of adolescent angst. “Do you think I’m pretty?” She has a slight accent – maybe Russian.

“Yes, you’re very pretty,” I say -- for a naked child in front of whom I’m undressing. She smiles at my comment. I pull my shirt off over my head. In that moment she comes out further from the darkened room, and I can see her more completely. Stunned, I gape. Her right arm is missing from above the elbow.

Chai laughs at my shock. “Pretty girls have two arms,” she says.

I feel defensive for Khandaya’s sake. “No, they don’t. The number of arms have nothing to do with it.” Then I remember that Greek statue. “Did you ever see the Venus de Milo? Everyone says she’s the most beautiful woman ever and she’s missing both arms.”

Khandaya laughs and comes bounding out of the room. “I have a brother named Milo,” she says.

“What happened to your arm?” I ask. I am genuinely curious, but I don’t want to embarrass her further.

“I lost it in the war.” As she comes closer, I notice more scarring on her body.

“War?” I wonder. “What war?”

“Chechnya,” she says with a shrug. “A bomb went off. They thought it would kill me like the rest of my family, but it just took my arm. Hey look,” she points, “here’s Milo now.”

Two boys come bounding down the stairs. One, a dark haired boy maybe seven, has my orange juice. I notice he’s being very careful with it. The glass is wet from condensation and he is missing a few fingers. I can’t place the other … maybe Indian or Pakistani. He has a steaming bowl of water.

Since they’re all naked, I’m the odd man out. I pull down my boxers and join the party.

“OMG,” Khandaya says. “Look at all that hair.” Her one arm is pointing right at my crotch.

“Hey” I say. I don’t think I’m particularly hairy – only in relation to the children in the room.

“It’s all right,” Chai says. “We’re going to clean that up.”

The bowl of hot water … somewhere the boys found a can of shaving and a razor. I must look pretty shocked because Chai tries to be reassuring. “I’ve done this lots of times before,” she says jumping off of the stool and sizing me up.

Milo hands me the orange juice, and I take a number of gulps. “What happened to your fingers?” I ask. The remaining fingers of that hand are hooked, barely functional.

Milo is Bosnian. He was playing in the dirt outside of town when he triggered a land mine. “It was pretty old,” he says, “or else it probably would have killed me.” Somewhere during the conversation, three more girls join the fun. Two of them are sisters from the Philippines and the third is black -- a refugee from the civil war in Burundi.

It’s too much for me to comprehend – a regular potpourri. All they need is a Hispanic to complete the set. They all seem to have their scars – some more obvious than others.

Khandaya has come over and is rubbing her hand up and down my leg like I’m some sort of strange specimen. Then she reaches around and fingers the hairs on my nutsack.

“Hey, that tickles!”

Khandaya giggles. “Is it a good tickle or a bad tickle?”

“Um …,” I have no answer for that. But my cock seems to appreciate it.

She jumps away when Chai empties the can of Edge onto my crotch.

Menthol … damn.

“Can I try it?” Khandaya asks of Chai.

“You can help spread the lotion,” Chai says.

The two of them start spreading the cream all over my nethers. My rod stretches to the ceiling in appreciation as I begin to lose sense of the absolute wrongness of this situation. I’m growing numb. “Do you like boys or girls?” Chai asks while she’s rubbing.

“Um …,” I’m not even sure what she means. “Both, I guess.” My voice comes out in gasps. I see Milo grin. “Wait …I like boys, but I’m not really attracted to them.”

Chai nods. Their spreading of the cream is done. “It’s okay, either way. Victor likes both, but Jessie only likes boys.” I notice that one of the boys hands Chai the razor. His tiny little rod is sticking straight out, but Chai keeps chatting away. “We only have two boys. Sometimes they get a lot more attention, if you know what I mean.”

I have no idea what she means.

With the razor in one hand, Chai pushes my rod to the side with the other. Six pairs of international eyes peer in close and watch her steady hands. She sets it just below my navel and drags it slowly down. After a few inches she taps the handle on the edge of the water bowl and rinses it.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Chai asks. I try not to move down below. “Everyone says I have a soft touch.”

“Uh, huh,” I say nodding. Good God, does it feel good. The only thing keeping me from shooting an entire load into the basement ceiling is the thought of my cousin, Vienna. What the hell is she going to think on Tuesday when she sees me shaved?

I guess I can put up with this for five hundred dollars. The good news, I think, is that it can’t get much more depraved.

I hope.

>>20698
I guess I expected some male sugar daddy thing. The kids came as a twist.
As usual, great update OP

Excellent, please more.

Chapter 7

By the time Victor and Jessie descend the basement stairs holding easels and art supplies, I am shaved clean without a scratch to my name. Chai finished her service with a hot towel wipe. Heavenly … until she withdrew it. I’m sure there’s a law of thermodynamics which describes the speed at which a clean shaven nutsack grows cold. Damn, within seconds my hairless crotch is shivering … and shrinking.

“That looks great, Chai,” Victor says with a smile. He sets up his easel and all the kids take seats on the floor in an amorphous cluster akin to a semi-circle. “Nirikesh, could you get the chair from the next room?”

The Indian boy stands and says, “Which one?”

“The dark brown one.”

Adjusting to the atmosphere, I became more curious about the children. I’ve been playing it cool, but I’m growing increasingly uncomfortable with a half-dozen naked children watching my every move. “Is this … uh,” I ask, “Is this all legal?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?’ Victor asks. Then he seems to catch a hint of my consternation. His eyebrows rise in surprise. “Family naturism is not only legal, but healthy. Tell me, Kyler, is your family religious?”

“I was raised Polish, Catholic,” I say. After John Paul II was proclaimed Pope, my parents ranked him about even with Jesus. Church has slipped from my personal priority list. But I remain a product of my upbringing. My parents are upstanding citizens of the community. They are tough and judgmental, but not more than anyone else I know.

“So you’re a victim of your heritage,” Victor says. “Catholic guilt shaded with a touch of American judgmental Puritanism.” While talking, he removes art pencils and oils from his case. Jessie is setting up some photographic style lights to help. “I daresay they have healthier attitudes toward their bodies than you do.”

“Some countries,” Giuseppe says with his mild Italian accent, “Europe, Asia, the Caribbean … they have entire cities dedicated to family naturism.”

I hear Nirikesh dragging something metallic across the floor. It’s a large, cordovan colored padded leather office chair with a spring base.

“What about Jerry Sandusky? His kids have needed tons of therapy.”

“Well, Sandusky is a sociopath,” Victor says, “and those children were abused. Even at that, the worst problem was the notoriety. Study after study shows that children well-adjusted following loving early sexual experience. It’s when the press reports on the story, or when parents judge them poorly. Even Sandusky’s step son was going to testify on his behalf until he was told sex was evil.

“I’ll try to keep an open mind,” I say. But I can’t stop thinking about these children. They seem happy enough, but I feel confident things are not as hunky dory as they seem.

“That’s all I ask,” Victor says. “Are you ready to get started?”

I sit down in the leather office chair, hoping that it is clean and disease free. “Oh, my compensation,” I say with an awkward squeak. “I would like to get it before we start.” It’s the reason I’m here. I would hate to go through all of this without the rent money.

“Of course,” Victor says. Jessie finds an envelope from behind the bar and hands it to me. I do a quick check and find five bills of a one-hundred dollar denomination. “Perfect,” I say. It is better than perfect. Cash I can spend right away without pesky complications on taxes or tuition assistance programs.

While Victor and I are talking, Nirikesh crouches on the floor behind Chai. He reaches through the gap between her arm and chest. He starts to squeeze the fleshy tissue surrounding her breast. Nobody, not even Chai, reacts to the intrusive groping.

I stash the envelope in my pants pocket, take a few more sips of my juice, and return to my seat.

Victor gives me little direction as to posing. He asks me to swivel a few times to get a better view, but I’m not sure what he’s looking for. “It’s not working,” Victor says with a heavy sigh. “You could be dead and appear more natural.”

Gulp. I hope he didn’t mean that literally.

Bored with the whole affair, Nirikesh ratchets up his groping intensity. He pinches Chai’s nipple hard. “Ow,” she cries and elbows her in the chest.

Victor furrows his brow and sighs. I wonder how I’m supposed to look natural naked on a swivel office chair. “I think we need one of the children in the picture. Why don’t you select one to pose with you?”

Thirteen hands fly to the air among a chorus of “pick me”. They all sound eager to participate. Beyond raising their hands a few stare at Victor as though searching for affirmation. Nirikesh stands with both hands raised, but his erect childish cock is poking Chai in the back of her head. This is so fuckin’s weird. I think I’m on another planet. Chai plays tether ball with Nirikesh’s cock and whacks him away.

Khandaya stays on her knees, but exudes the overwrought eagerness of a child aching for a cheap plastic toy from MacDonald’s. It sort of scares me. She strains for the ceiling with her one hand, arching her body to make it reach higher. Her eyes twinkle in my direction, pleading me to choose her. And her ass vibrates up and down on her feet. How can I resist that?

“Khandaya,” I say.

She jumps up with a squeal, races to me and leaps into my lap with her one arm wrapped tightly around my neck. Her thighs rub against my cock while she whispers in my ear, “I knew you’d pick me.” She kisses my cheek like we’ve won the grand prize trip to Barbados. She sits on my thigh with her legs between mine and leans in with her right arm stub against my side and her other arm wrapped around my mid-section.

“Look,” she says pointing at my cock, “you’re getting bigger. That means you like me, right?”

“Um … sure.” Holy fuck, my cock is burning. I’m having a hard time catching my breath with this childish incubus rubbing against me. I try to maneuver her away from me. “That’s a little too much,” I say. My face is so warm, I’m sure I’m blushing.

“How old are you?” I ask her knowing that I really don’t want to know the answer.

“Eleven,” she says. She leans in and squeezes my chest with a huge grin. Her nub feels odd against me, but she has enough strength to hold me. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

“That’s better,” Victor says. “Now get comfortable.”

All this while, Nirikesh is going to work on Chai’s nipple once again. “Cut it out, Chai says with a firm elbow to his mid-section. “I want to watch.”

“I’m having a little trouble finding a comfortable position,” I say knowing that my shaft is tender and swollen to the upper limit.

“Let it go,” Victor says. “It’s perfectly natural to have an erection.”

I think I’m blushing more than before. I am no fuckin’ pedophile. The warmth of a naked child in my lap is making me lightheaded. I reach over and find my orange juice. I have half the glass remaining. I swallow it in one gulp and set it on the table. The cool juice runs down my throat and I feel my body cooling. For a moment, I am calmed.

Khandaya wiggles her legs up and down, seemingly still excited about being chosen. “I feel like I’m peeing,” she whispers with a grin.

“Do you want to go to the bathroom?” That’s a good idea for me – maybe I can take a few minutes to diffuse the tension in my crotch.

“No,” Khandaya says, “I don’t have to pee. It’s just my cunny getting wet.”

“What?”

“You know,” she says adopting the tone of a teacher. “Boys get hard and grow and girls get wet in their cunny.”

“Whoo, whoo,” Chai says with a fist pump. “Khandaya is horny!”

“Oh … sure … I knew that.” Wow. This is bad. She’s only eleven. I’m getting kind of queasy at the idea. I’m trying not to over react. This poor child is missing an arm. I can’t make her think she’s ugly.

I look up and notice Victor chuckling at my discomfort. I resolve to not give him the satisfaction

The other children are all getting a little antsy. Nirikesh sees the opening and grabs hold of Chai with a two hand/two tit squeeze. “I told you to cut it out,” she says. She whips around and grabs him around his hips, dragging him to the carpet. They both grunt in some sort of feral cry of determination. They tussle for a few seconds, each turning red, until Chai slides her head out from between Nirikesh’s arm and pins him to the ground. Chai’s ears are beat red. I wonder if either of them is hurt. Despite the huffing and puffing, Chai is smiling. A glazed look comes across her eyes and I notice her hips moving.

Her movements become more rhythmic and Nirikesh matches. I don’t fucking believe my eyes when Chai starts moving up and down. Each motion is accompanied by a little chirp, like from one of those Pomeranian rat dogs.

“Holy, crap,” I say, “they can’t do that.” Nobody else seems to mind.

“Why not?” Victor says with a shrug. “Age is a human artifice. Children are sexual beings – embrace it. I daresay these children are more sexually aware than you are.”

“We can try that if you want,” Khandaya says with a gleam in her eye. “I’ll teach you.”

“Maybe later,” I say. For now, I am counting down the minutes until I can escape from this alternate reality. My head is fuckin’ pounding. I pull Khandaya against me and lean back against the chair spring. We bounce, but settle in a steep recline. I try not to think of her as this sexual being of Victor’s. I close my eyes and caress her ass. It’s relaxing. I lose all awareness of the sexual activity among the kids, but I’m vaguely aware of panting as though Chai and Nirikesh have completed their mating ritual.

I almost forget that Khandaya’s a young girl until I pull her knee up around my hips. She rolls closer to me. I feel warmth radiate from her crotch which is dangerously close to mine. I still have that headache, and my stomach is growing queasy.

“I’m not feeling so well,” I say. But the words don’t come out the way I planned. My lips bounce against each other ineffectively like I’m reading The ‘B’ Book. Unintelligible sounds tumble out and my tongue feels like it weighs ten pounds.

“You sound funny,” Khandaya says. Her voice echoes. She sounds like she’s on the other side of the city.

“What … ?“ I have to force myself to concentrate before I lose the thought. “Victor … what did you put in my drink?”

I don’t know if my question is comprehensible. I don’t hear the answer. But my grandmother’s weird old sayings suddenly make sense. The only free cheese is in the mouse trap … and I’m the mouse.

Ah man! What a cliffhanger! While my personal jury is still out, I am intrigued to see where this is going to go.

Note: This is taking a little longer than I hoped to get to the good stuff -- it's a struggle to keep it unique. There are too many good ideas that I'm dancing around from other writers. Hopefully, it will be worth it in the end.

Chapter 8

I wake, shivering and alone. I try to wrap myself tighter inside my cocoon of a rough, linen bedsheet. Sopped with sweat, it holds no heat.

The first distinguishable pain I notice is my jaw. It feels like it’s been dislocated. I swirl my chin around slowly and it works fine, but the ache is ungodly. At least I still have all of my teeth. As I try to slide off the bed, pain radiates from my thighs all the way up to my neck. I’m not sure if it is one giant injury or a lot of little ones. None of my muscles seem to work right. I slip off the edge of the mattress. Its only six inches to the ground, but it still hurts like a mother …

I shake the cobwebs out of my thinking. I’m in the same basement room as before -- I’m sure of it -- but there are no lights on. Dusky sunlight filters through the narrow casement windows lining the top edge. Dammit! It’s already evening and I have research I need to do at the library.

My head swims as I push myself to a crouching position. My quivering arms barely have the strength to hold me aloft. I struggle through it, because my innards are cramping. My bowels are bursting to let loose. I have to find a shitter in a hurry.

I weave and bob to the first door nearby. I’m in luck. It opens to a small half bathroom. The lights don’t work, but I handcrawl to the seat in the darkness just as I vomit through my ass with a wail of pain. It feels like Miley Cyrus shoved her giant foam finger up there and triggered my enema reflex. After a few minutes, my shakes quiet to a steady hum.

It gives me the wherewithal to think. My Medieval Studies paper is not my biggest worry. I have to assume that I am prisoner down here … and what the fuck have they done to me? Please God, get me out of here, I think. I’ll go back to church, every Sunday. I mean it!

After diarrhea runs its course, I piss for about three or four minutes solid. Burning, my cock feels like it has been run through the ringer with a few nicks and scabs in the process. I try to wipe my ass, but I don’t feel the least bit clean. There’s no mirror above the sink. I rinse my hands in frigid cold water. Thirsty as hell, I take a few sips. It tastes like metal and smells like a sewer.

Outside the bathroom, I find my clothes exactly where I left them hanging – better yet, the envelope with the five hundred dollars is still in my pocket. Outstanding! I expected that to be missing. Along with that is a penciled note which says in shaky letters:

“I’m sorry. I tried to stop them.I hope you are not hurt too bad.{heart} Khandaya.”

I think it’s sort of sweet. Fighting my muscle’s rebellious need to relax, I slowly get dressed. Despite the pain, the motion feels good. I have a deep, purple bruise running diagonally across my chest and another on my thighs. I wonder about the bruises which I can’t see. I try to sit down to don my shoes and socks, but I can’t – it’s too painful.

When I’m ready, I call up the stairs … “Victor?” No answer … “Jessie? Khandaya? Chai?” Nothing.

Finally, I work up the courage to climb the stairs. Pins and needles run up my thighs. I am ecstatic to find the basement door unlocked.

The first floor is empty. I don’t mean that there are no people, there’s nothing … no furniture or appliances or pictures on the wall. The electricity and the heat are turned off. I look upstairs … nothing there either. What the fuck? I’m sure this is the same house, but it looks like it hasn’t been lived in for months.

I count my blessings – I have my money and I’m alive. The front door is tricky, but it works. On the front door is one of those realtor boxes with the key. I don’t remember that from before. It’s chilly outside, but the walk warms me up.

For some reason, my freedom seems to come too easy. I’ve escaped Alcatraz with a last second pardon from the governor. The door is a gateway between dimensions – between hell and earth. It’s that unexpected. I feel like I’m missing a key piece of information which will drag me back if I accidentally look back or do something stupid.

I have no clue what these guys did to me that was worth five hundred bucks, but I have only about twenty blocks back to my apartment with enough money for rent, utilities and some good meals. I promise myself to never fall prey to an easy paycheck every again.

Somewhere along the way … I’m not exactly sure when … I realize that it is no longer Saturday, but Sunday. They kept me there all night. Fuck! I have the rough draft of my term paper due tomorrow and I haven’t even done my research, yet. Worse, the library closes early on Sunday. Sorry, God … I’ll have to take a rain check on that church. I have to pull a few all-nighters until I can rest on Thanksgiving.

First a hot shower, change of clothes and some food.

xXx

By Tuesday, I can hardly think. I stayed up all night completing the term paper even though it’s probably the worst thing I’ve ever written. Then I stayed up most of Monday night writing my lab and other homework. I nod off and miss my lab period, but the Chinese TA (who don’t speak Engrish no good) allows me to take the second lab period of the day for credit. Everybody is already checking out for the holidays, so there’s plenty of space.

We have a wide variety of Biology majors at Stony Brook – from Pre-med all the way down to Marine Bio. I’m assigned as a lab partner one of them – vegan hippiechick, Sunshine Fieldmeadow, who is going to save the universe from scourge of Sea World. “They have horrible, horrible dolphin roundups in Japan,” she tells me. “What do you think we should do about that?”

“That’s great,” I say just trying to get through the lab without my head splitting open. “Do you think they offer tour packages?”

“What?”

“Well, we’ve missed the boat on rhino and komodo dragon hunts,” I say. “I don’t want to miss the great dolphin hunts.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I know – not quite Hemingwayesque. But it’s the best we got, right?”

She gasps. I’m in the mood for a little vegan-baiting. It’s the only sport I’m really good at. I’m curious if she shaves her underarms. Perhaps I should get her opinion on my fresh manscaping.

“I’m kidding – tell me about the dolphin hunts.”

Because of the late lab, I’ve already missed the first two art classes. I still need this job for the long haul. I hustle over to the art building before the start of the third class. By the time I arrive, I’m shivering faster than my father’s heart palpitations despite a sweatshirt and two jackets. I hope Dr. Hebetyria isn’t pissed.

“Oh, Thank God. You’re here,” the frazzled, nude instructor says. Victor’s class is just letting out, but he’s not there. Just like lab, only half of the students are here – and it looks like Hebetyria has been modeling alone.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say and head off into the corner to change.

I take position on my station in my thin robe. Hebetyria seems a little shaken. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” I insist, “just a little cold.” But I can tell it’s more than a cold. I should have popped a few more aspirins this morning.

With all of my distractions, I had forgotten who the key students were. I’m standing on my podium, pleading under my breath for the class to end, when Celestina walks up behind me for a little grab-ass. “Hey Kyler,” she says. I don’t even understand this game she’s playing. “Are you going to Vienna’s for Thanksgiving?”

Just that little touch and pain shoots up my spine. “Get away from me, you total skank whore,” I say just to drive her away. It’s gruff and throaty and rude as hell.

“Nobody treats me like that,” she says.

I’ve upset her, but I don’t have the energy to apologize. “That’s me,” I say, ‘I’m nobody.”

Vienna gives me a little smile like she’s pleased with my dismissal of someone as hot as Celestina. But then she gets a good look at me. She asks if I’m all right.

I must look pretty bad for my self-centered cousin to notice. I don’t even have the strength to answer her. Only five students are in today’s class, all of them in private school uniforms.

“Oh, look he shaved!” Celestina says. She doesn’t get the rise out of me, so she continues trying to irritate Vienna. “Did you hear what he called me?”

As my robe drops to the floor, one of the boys lets out a gasp, but says nothing.

“Yeah, I did,” Vienna answers. “I don’t think he said what you think he did. He called you a ‘schenectador’. He’s from Schenectady. So that’s like a compliment – a real salt of the Earth kind of person.”

I don’t catch Celestina’s reaction, but I’m vaguely aware that Vienna did something nice for me.

“Eww. What’s that running down his thighs?” Celestina asks. She gags. “Is that shit?”

Vienna is stunned for a moment, but then says, “I think its blood.” She gasps for a moment. “Kyler, do you need a doctor?”

I can’t answer that question. The privileged high school students and art instructors do what they do best – ignore anything which doesn’t fit in their tidy view of the world and incorporate my injuries into their drawings.

>>21044
bump for glorious story

Bring it on OP, i want more mystery!

Chapter 9

After art class, I go straight to bed. I was so achy and tired that I slept right through Wednesday, barely waking for a few minutes at a time to take a piss. When my cell phone rings, it scares the snot out of me and wakes me up. “Kyler, where are you?”

“Mom?” I answer back. I scan the room to verify my location. “I’m at my apartment.”

“Were all here at Liz’s house,” she says in a sing-songy type voice. The one she uses to cloak her worries. “Dinner is ready, but we’re waiting on you.”

“Um,” Holy crap. It’s Thanksgiving. “Go ahead and start without me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Each year at the Stegman Thanksgiving affair, I am treated to ringside seats for the epic personality clash between my parents’ understated humility and the Stegmans’ mercenary, competitive fire. The fireworks start with veiled advice like “working smart is more important that working hard.”

“What’s wrong with hard work?” My father will answer. “It never hurt anybody.” Except it has nearly killed him … several times. A regular reminder of why I’m striving so hard in school.

It takes about ten minutes to peel two days of scum from my teeth. Following a quick shower, a half-dozen aspirins, and a change of clothes into one of my few button down shirts (something relatively clean) and my blue blazer (covering any wrinkles), I’m ready to go. I’m not sure why, but I feel a little pressure to show Vienna that I know how to dress. I top it off with a dab of Ralph Lauren cologne. (A present from Ashley for my birthday.)

A professional Hispanic woman greets me at my aunt and uncle’s mansion. “Señor Yakubowski,” she says, “Welcome.” Rosalita Fuentes, the Stegman family manager.

“Rosalita, Feliz … uh … Thanksgivingamos (whatever),” I say sheepishly.

“Feliz dia de gracias!” she answers back with a grin.

She leads me through the three-story foyer, down miles of hallway of the west wing to the intimate setting of their small dining room. I find them engaged in polite and stilted conversations. It seems to be all about Vienna’s many accomplishments.

My mother and father are on the far side of the table opposite Aunt Liz and deaf old Bobeshi Stegman. Ashley sits next to Vienna with one stocking foot on her chair. I have seen her much since I’ve been back at school, but I remember her being shy and awkward. She looks good in her expensive skinny jeans with an air of confidence that comes from having a job and a little extra spending money. Her dinner looks barely touched, but she picks small bites off of a crescent roll.

Mom jumps up to greet me. “Kyler, it feels like it’s been years.” She cradles my chin in both hands and kisses me on the cheek. “Are you okay, Sweetie? You look tired.”

I sigh, preparing myself for an onslaught of overly concerned parentage. “I’m fine.” There is nothing like a few of aspirin to take the chill off. “I’ve just been working too hard. I had a big rush of projects and homework due before the holiday.”

Mother grimaces, but she presses no further.

Vienna jumps up and moves her place setting over one spot. If Ashley looks good, Vienna looks phenomenal in a hip length, form fitting sweater over dark leggings. “Hi, Kyler,” she says with the sly grin of someone who knows she has power over me simply because she saw me naked. Her auburn hair is down like I’ve never seen it before, flowing over her shoulder like she’s in a shampoo commercial. I take the seat between Ashley and Vienna. My ass aches when I sit, but I control my reaction.

“You two look great,” I say. They’re family – my thoughts travel to a dangerous place. Then they get stuck there.

My uncle is technically Jewish. As far as I know, he doesn’t follow their faith or dietary restrictions. A servant I don’t recognize places a dish with a traditional meal in front of me. I’m starving and should dig right in, but the smell of gravy makes my toes curl. My stomach isn’t ready for such a rich meal. Like the girls on either side, I nibble on my almond sausage stuffing.

Rosalita pours me a glass of red wine and I take a sip. Ashley points to her empty long-stem glass and Rosalita fills hers as well.

“Ashley,” Mom says, “that’s your third one.”

“But who’s counting?” Ashley says.

Mom tries to restart the conversation which had been interrupted by my arrival. “Liz was just telling us that Vienna has been selected to participate in the gymnastics junior regional competition.”

“That’s great,” I mumble. She also made the all-world orchestra on the piano and flute. Soon she’ll be auditioning for all-universe in dance or something like that.

“If I can get somebody to take me to practice,” Vienna says in an off-hand way.

“What about you, Kyler?” Aunt Liz asks “When I was at Stony Brook I barely had time to study between charity events and tennis practice. What have you been up to?”

“Not much,” I gulp down a bite of string bean casserole. I’m hoping I sound modest rather than pathetic.

“You joined that Catholic Student Association, right?” my mother asks. “Remember, we received their brochure when you accepted at Stony Brook.”

“No, Mom. I went to one meeting, but I didn’t fit in.”

“I remember my college days,” Uncle Shimon says. “Back then, you simply had to be a member of Skull and Daggers. Have you tried them? Social Organizations sound ridiculous, but they are all about making contacts for the rest of your life. Next week I’m meeting with Darren Dieckman to discuss a twenty million dollar investment in Stegman Holdings.”

“You can’t just try Skull and Daggers,” I say. “You have to be invited.”

“I know,” Bobeshi Stegman chimes in, “I can’t stand the baggers at Stop & Shop.”

“I had forgotten that,” Shimon says. His bushy mustache shakes while he munches on a carrot. He holds the half-eaten carrot remnant like a pointer. “They probably don’t realize that you are my nephew. I’ll give them a call next week.”

“I don’t need any help,” I insist. I sound more irritated than I expect, but I’ve always felt like it was important for me to make my own breaks.

“That’s my boy,” my father says with a wheeze. It’s the first thing he’s said since I’ve arrived. Those few words seem to have taken everything out of him. I hadn’t noticed it before, but my mother helps to restore the air tube around his ears and nose.

I’ve finished my serving of cranberry sauce as my energy begins to fade, but I’ve only been able to sample everything else. The buttery corn dish is not sitting well. “Would you like more cranberry sauce?” Vienna asks.

“That would be great,” I nod. She stands up and walks around the table to the buffet. Her belt is placed high on her waist which makes her muscular legs look long longer than they are. It’s hotter than her school uniform. I am captivated by the way her muscles flex within her tight leggings.

“When did you start wearing heels?” I ask when she returns with the bowl.

She gives a devilish grin, but Ashley answers for her. “It makes her ass stick out.”

Vienna must be comfortable enough around us to experiment with her appearance. The heels eem to tighten her calves and make her hips swing when she walks.

“She doesn’t need to make her ass stick out,” I say. “She has about the nicest ass I’ve ever seen.”

When Vienna turns bright red, I realize I’ve said that a lot louder than I meant. Aunt Liz chuckles, but my mother looks horrified.

“What was that?” Bobeshi asks obliviously. “This is the nicest house you’ve ever seen? You should see the Dixon’s down the street.”

When I’m sick, it’s always surprising how quickly the effects of aspirin wear off. I hardly even notice my descent into fever along with my loss of inhibitions. I have enough awareness to change the subject. “What about art? What kind of awards does she have from that?”

“Art?” Uncle Shimon scoffs. “Art is a hobby; a passion, not a vocation.” He glances around the room, begging for anyone to challenge his views. “Now sports … they build character. But art, feh. bupkes, like that ridiculous dance class.”

“She’s really good,” I insist. I glance over at Vienna and she’s shaking her head. I don’t really understand why, but she wants me stop. She deserves better than that. “She’s more than good … she’s fantastic. I’ve seen her paintings at the university’s museum. Hers are the best ones there.”

Vienna takes her heel and jams it into my foot. “Ow!” I pull my foot back.

“She has art hanging in the Stony Brook museum?” Aunt Liz says. “I didn’t know about this.”

Ever since he quit smoking, Uncle Shimon has always eaten a ton of raw carrots. He holds one like a pointer and waves it at us. “I didn’t even know they had an art museum. I may have to contact the Board of Trustees.”

“Crusty?” Bobeshi says pointing to her pumpkin cobbler. “I like it crusty,”

Oops. I look at Vienna with an expression which is supposed to be apologetic. I guess they don’t know about her nudes. “Um … not now. I mean last year. I think you had one of your cat … um … Toby, right?”

“That wasn’t a painting,” Vienna says. “It was a charcoal sketch.” Her eyes are like claws … and I can feel them.

“I’d love to see it,” my mother chimes in. “Maybe you could give us a tour while we’re in town.”

“Speaking of sports,” Vienna says …

“We weren’t speaking of sports.” Ashley starts laughing so hard, she snorts. “We want to hear about your art. I know there’s a story in there somewhere.”

“Speaking of sports,” Vienna repeats. “Who’s going to drive me next week?”

Aunt Liz says, “Can’t you walk? It’s not that far.”

“Are you crazy? I’d never make it back to school on time.”

“What happened to her driver?” Uncle Shimon asks with a new carrot. “Chloe right? She was nice.”

“She quit a month ago,” Aunt Liz says. “This was Victoria. She left after your little yente destroyed the poor girl’s cell phone.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Vienna says. “She was arguing with her boy friend. I was going to be late for gymnastics.”

“What?” Shimon says. “Did her phone smash itself?” That comment earned a turbo-eyeroll from Vienna. “That’s the third driver in the last two months. Or is it the fourth?” His teeth go flat out Bugs Bunny on that carrot. “I guess I’ll have to pay for a new phone, too.”

“Don’t know, Dad.” Vienna shrugs. “So, who’s going to drive me?”

“It’ll have to be you,” Shimon says pointing to Aunt Liz. “I’m meeting with investors all week. Tuesday I’ll be in Toronto.”

“I can’t do it,” Liz says. “I have patients scheduled all week. My only day off is Thursday off, but I have tennis practice and a meeting with my charities. I can’t just drop everything and chauffer our spoiled little prodigy around. Maybe Rosalita can drive her?”

“You know she can’t,” Vienna says, rolling her eyes. ”Rosalita doesn’t have a license.”

I’m shivering before I know it. I’m starting to lose track of their argument. The words bounce of ineffectively. I’m just glad Ashley dropped the artwork subject. I feel like I escaped until I hear my mother say, “Kyler, you don’t have a job right now. Can’t you drive her?”

“That’s fuckin’ righteous,” Ashley says. She has both feet up on her chair with her arms wrapped around them.

“I have classes,” I say wondering how I got dragged back into the fray.

Uncle Shimon shakes his head. “Kyler couldn’t even make it to dinner on time. Look at him. I think he’s on drugs.”

“You take that back,” my father says with a wheeze. “You don’t do drugs. Tell him Kyler.”

I draw a deep breath and shudder. “No, Dad, I don’t do drugs.”

“His eyes are glassy,” Liz says nodding her head. “I think he’s on something, too.”

“Maybe he tried one of your valium/codeine cocktails,” Ashley says. She tries to say it seriously, but she starts cracking up midway through.

“I need to have my drugs refilled,” Bobeshi says.

“Oy gevalt, Ima!” Shimon says. “We’re not talking about you.”

“I still need my drugs.”

“Kyler’s the one taking drugs,” Shimon says. “I know what that college is like. What is it? Heroin? Marijuana? Something new?”

I can’t even bother to defend myself. “Just aspirin,” I whisper. I’m barely holding my head up.

“Oh … dear … God. You guys are idiots!” Vienna says standing up and pounding her hand against the table. “Look at him! You’re supposed to be the stupid fuckin’ doctors.”

“Watch your mouth,” Liz says. “What are they teaching at that school?”

Vienna ignores her. “Even I can tell he’s sick – a worthless artist made of goat droppings.” She places her hand on my forehead. “He’s burning up -- like a hundred ten fucking degrees.”

“I’m not uh …,” I want to say something. The fever, the headaches, the arguing – it’s all settling right in my stomach with a thud along with gravy, butter and the cranberry sauce. Vienna jumps back as I start to gurgle.

My vomit purge all over their table cloth and carpet probably says enough to prove Vienna right. It seems awful right now. The cranberry sauce is going to stain everything, but it’s all really nothing unusual for our annual Thanksgiving dinners.

“I know how you feel,” Bobeshi says waving her hand. “Nosh for awhile, then plotz.”

>>21046
I'm guessing that victor fucked his ass or something
bumpen

>>21065
That's what Kyler thinks, but he's wrong. Hopefully, it will something of a surprise, but it will be a few chapters before Victor makes a reappearance.

Chapter 10

I am being helped upstairs by Vienna and Ashley. .. maybe it’s Vienna and my mother. My carriage is aided by an elevator the Stegman’s installed so Bobeshi could navigate between floors. I drift between awareness and hallucination. I vaguely remember kissing Vienna on the top of her head and saying, “I love you, Mom.”

My dreams are just as surreal. A mélange of sexual imagery and torture which can’t be real, but scares the shit out of me. Victor Vandeprave holds up a stub of his amputated arm and guffaws as he rams it up my … well, you know. In another dream, I judge a derriere beauty contest between Khandaya, Ashley, Celestina and Vienna. They’re all nude except for a tiny g-string. Vienna won, of course, but the results are closer than I expected. With a dozen roses and a jeweled crown she thanks the audience profusely. Her sash read, “Miss Fant-Ass-Tic” or something like that.

Once again, I wake in a bedsheet encased in a slimy film of sweat. This time, for the first time in days, I remember warmth, cocooned as I am under a succulent goose down comforter. My mid-section is bound to the bed and something taped to the back of my wrist – an IV tube.

I try to get my bearings. Windows are all dark. The room is classically decorated in Victorian style lamps and flowery furniture. Everything fits the theme including a large tapestry of a fox hunt. One bare lamp impinges on the darkness. Next to it, hidden partly behind a canvas and easel, is my cousin wearing a flowery camisole and matching shorts.

Concentrating so diligently on her artwork, she doesn’t seem to notice that I’m awake. I don’t want to disturb her -- like I’m intruding on an intimate moment. She shakes her head with a silent “tsk” and makes a correction with a cloth. She furrows her brow and assaults the canvas with a flurry of brushstrokes.

For the first time, I think that her artwork is more than a harmless diversion. It’s a shell -- an escape from a life of isolation and judgment. At twelve, I see how the perfectionism eats away at her confidence. It’s like she needs to prove to her father that her skills have value and she needs to prove to her classmates that she has the maturity to belong with the older students.

Finally, after I can barely take it anymore, I interrupt with a simple, “Hey.”

She looks up and smiles, “Hey.” She sets her brush down and jumps up. “You’re awake. Let me get mom.”

“No,no, … wait,” I say. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to break the spell. Not yet. “What happened?” I ask.

“Well, let me tell you,” she says walking over to the bed. “Mom, wanted to take you right to the hospital, but Dad wouldn’t hear of it. Major fights ensued. He was worried about the publicity before the secondary stock offering. Finally, Mom set up a little hospital room right here.” She walks up and places her hand on my forehead. “Normal is good. Your fever must be broken.”

“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to break anything.”

She accidentally paints my forehead with remnants of colored oils from the side of her hand. She licks her thumb and wipes if off.

“Help me up,” I plead, trying to figure out how I’m attached to the bed.

“You were rolling around so much; we thought you were going to get tangled in your IV tube.” Vienna reaches under the bed and unties the strap. She glances furtively at the door.

I place my hand on her shoulder to restrain her and rotate into a seated position. “Wait,” I say. My adult diaper crinkles as I sit up. “That’s attractive,” I smirk.

I sit there for a few moments to catch my breath after the effort. Vienna’s pajamas are snug with a pair of tiny nipples pressing into the fabric. Now, she’s between my legs, twisting back and forth as if she’s trying to see if I catch a glimpse of her rear. I can’t really stop myself. Her shorts stop just below the crease between her thighs and ass and her quads and calf muscles are toned from her gymnastics.

“I recognize this room,” I say. “Have I been here before?”

“Yeah.” Vienna grins. “You and Ashley came to watch me a couple years in the summer. This was your room.”

“Ah, I remember now.” Her parents traveled to a medical conference for two weeks every summer. “What were you? Five or six?”

“Five and six.”

“You were such a devilish little troublemaker back then,” I say. “I whined and moaned about those trips. I wanted to stay in Schenectady with my friends, but the days flew by once we arrived. We all had separate rooms, but you girls climbed in bed with me every night. I don’t remember getting a lot of sleep with you rolling around so much.”

“I never wanted you and Ashley to leave.” She looked at the ceiling for a moment. “Sorry about your comic book collection.”

“I got over it.” I brought two suitcases with me each year – one with clothes and the other with comics. One year she hid all of my comic books to try to convince me to stay. I sigh. “You used to be so cute.”

“What?” She wears a fake hurt expression. “You don’t think I’m cute anymore?”

“Nah,” I say. I lean in and whisper to her. “Now, you’re hot.” Vienna turns bright red and glances down at the ground. The effect is lost when I remember that I’m wearing that damn diaper.

Fishing for a stronger compliment, she says, “I’m not hotter than Celestina, am I?”

“How can one judge between Monet and van Gogh?” I say. Then I correct myself. I remember that goofy little five year-old girl, and I see what she has become. It makes me wonder what surprises she has in store in the next six years. “Celestina is two dimensional, like a beautiful painting. You’re a sculpture -- just as beautiful, but with more depth.” I give a shrug. “I don’t know if that make sense. Could you apologize to Celestina for me? I was worried I might be contagious, and I didn’t want to explain.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” Vienna says. “You were right. She is a total schenectadore.”

I chuckle. “Yes, she is that. Who am I to judge? This world needs a few schenectadores.” I feel like I’ve regained some strength. “Can you help me up?” I ask. “I have to use the bathroom.”

“I’m supposed to get mom, if you wake up.”

“Not yet,” I say. I stand and grab hold of the IV stand. It’s on wheels, so I can use it like a walker. My muscles ache from bruises and inactivity. “What day is it?” I ask.

“Saturday.”

“Saturday?” Shit. I have to get back to school. “And my parents?”

“They had to go back home. They want you to call as soon as you can.”

Each bedroom on their upper floor has its own private bathroom. Which is awesome. Once inside, I tear off the diaper and let the floodgates open. It feels so good that I close my eyes in euphoria and almost fall over. I feel scuzzy. I want to take a shower, but I figure I’m not ready for that. I find a washcloth and scented soap and give my entire body a quick bird bath in the sink.

This bedroom, with its private bath, is orders of magnitude nicer than my apartment. Vienna doesn’t live that far from campus. Why can’t I stay here? -- Pride and independence. If you don’t have those, then what is the point? I’m no charity case.

I walk out the door, returning to the bedroom. Vienna is back at her easel, fine tuning the details on her painting. She gasps when she sees me, and then recovers from the surprise. A private game we’ve been playing since that first art class, but we don’t know the rules. We both pretend like we don’t care that I’m naked. In order to escalate the game to the next level, I stand next to her easel and study her painting.

At first it looks like nothing -- an oil work of mostly muted blues, yellows and beige. The more I study, the more the image appears. In the painting, my eyes are opened, but glazed. The distinctions between the colors are minimal, but I am almost brought to tears.

“It’s not finished, yet.” Vienna says defensively. “Most artists use harsh colors like red or orange. I’m trying more subdued coloring to capture both your pain and your peace. I don’t think I can do it.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “The fact that it’s me makes it all the more painful.” This painting shows me everything. For the first time, I see how my misjudgments affect those around me. “It’s perfect.”

“I can do better,” she insists.

Even though Vienna is speaking to me, I notice her staring at my crotch. I feel like a predator dangling bait for an unsuspecting victim.

She reaches up and pushes on my rear to make me rotate. She ponders my wounds the same way I study her painting. “What happened to you?” she asks.

“I’m not sure,” I answer truthfully. “Is it bad?”

She nods. A voice in the hallway saves me from answering any further questions. Then I realize its Aunt Liz – and I’m stark naked in front of her twelve year-old daughter. I hustle back over to the bed, hauling the IV behind me, and squelching a cry of pain. I make it under the covers just as she arrives.

“Ah, I see you’re awake,” Aunt Liz says. “Could you excuse us Vienna?” She says it with a little twist in her voice like she’s irritated that Vienna had not called her when I woke.

She checks my pulse at the wrist, then checks my temperature with an electronic, forehead thermometer (those things are so cool.) She lowers my covers and listens to my heart beat and breathing. “Do you mind, if I … ?” she points to the covers like she’s going to lower them further.

“Yes,” I say more quickly than I intend. I place both arms on the comforter. I don’t want her to see that the diaper is removed.

“All right,” she says with a laugh. “Your condition has improved.” She removes the catheter from my arm and replaces it with a cotton swab.

“What’s the prognosis?” I ask. “I want to try to get back to my studies.”

Aunt Liz takes a deep breath and begins with the simple version. “You were severely dehydrated with widespread internal infections. I drew blood samples, but I don’t have all of the results. In the mean time, I’ve treated you with broad-based, high dose antibiotic therapy.” She takes another deep breath and looks me straight in the eyes. “Kyler, there’s something I need to ask you ... “

“Shoot.”

“We’re you sexually assaulted?”

“What?” I try to look defensive. “Uh, no. What makes you think that?”

“I processed a rape kit on you. I didn’t find any semen, but you bear unmistakable signs of forced sexual trauma.”

I steel myself trying to prepare an answer. The last thing Uncle Shimon wants is a police visit, but she would call if I said the word. “Aunt Liz … I need you to understand. You guys have made it, but you made it on your own. I’m trying to do the same thing.”

It’s a veiled hint that I’m a male prostitute with a client who got out of hand. She seems to take the bait. “It’s so much tougher now than when we were young. You don’t have to do it alone. You have family.”

I’m not even sure if I understand my reasoning. Same family, but different worlds. It’s as though if I accept their help, I give up the struggle. Such comforts would allow me to relax.

“You have to be more careful,” Aunt Liz says. “You almost died. Your uncle may have a solution for you. A job, if you’re up for it.”

Uncle Shimon enters the room on cue. His first stop is the easel. He glances at the painting for a moment and shakes his head. “Look at this mess,” he says. “There’s paint all over the carpet.” Then he walks over to the bed. “Kyler, my boy, five hundred dollars a week. What do you say?”

Holy fuck – five hundred a week! I’ll have spending money. “What’s the job?” Like I have a choice.

Driving Vienna to her activities before and after school. “It’s not all mercenary. You aren’t covered by our medical insurance,” Uncle Shimon says. “I expect you to reimburse us for these expenses.”

“Of course,” I say. I’m a little surprised at his insistence. I want to throw an ethnic insult about Jewish greed, but my Polish sensitivities agree with him.

“The cost of the medicines and supplies ran us about two thousand dollars.”

Whoa.

“I figure two hundred dollars per week for ten weeks would take care of it.” It’s like indentured servitude without all of those pesky laws restricting it. But I get it – it’s not about the money.

“It’s a deal,” I say. Ten weeks. I can handle it, as long as there are provisions for finals and the holidays.

Aunt Liz says she won’t let me leave before tomorrow morning. “I can give you a sedative to help you sleep.” And I need to prove that I can keep solid food down. Rosalita makes a bowl of chicken noodle soup while I check in with my parents.

Vienna pulls up a tray table and has a bowl of soup along with me. We laugh about memories from those summers six years ago. I’m tartled to learn that those are some of her best memories – ever.

“So, are you crawling in bed with me tonight?” I ask. “I’m still naked under here.” She blushes. It’s a mild shade of pink which seems to pierce her armor. Then I turn the charm on a little stronger. “Maybe later … after your parents go to sleep … you’d be up for giving me a sponge bath.”

“What do you think I did last night?” she says. I wasn’t expecting that. She makes me laugh so hard, I spray some of my soup.

Now I have about ten weeks to figure out why Vienna’s drivers keep quitting on her. She has had three drivers in two months. Uncle Shimon is buying a driver; he’s buying security.

awesome update OP. Keep it coming you magnificent bastard.

Chapter 11

Brutally early, I drive around Stegman’s large oval driveway with my eyes wedged open enough to greet the dawn patrol. I’m almost never awake at five, unless I’m just getting into bed. The Stegman’s have two sweeping curved sets of stairs leading to ionic columns designed to impress first time visitors. Vienna sits at the base of the first set of stairs in sweats with a gym bag, her foot rapidly tapping the intricate brick driveway.

I pull the car next to her. With the engine idling, I jump out and greet her cheerfully. “Ready to go.”

“You’re late.” She leaps up, leaving the gym bag on the ground and climbs into the back seat.

“Only a few minutes,” I say. I pick up her bag and hold the door for her.

“Seven minutes.” She has her arms crossed in front of her. I throw the bag on top of her and slam the door shut.

After I get behind the steering wheel, I pull out. “Traffic was heavier than I expected, but we’ll be okay. Which way to the pool?”

“It’s not a pool,” Vienna says, “It’s a natatorium.” I have no idea what the difference is, but I let it rest. Then she says. “Just use your GPS for directions.”

“It’s not working,” I say – which my clumsy way of avoidance. I have no interest in telling Vienna that I can’t afford digital services with my cell phone provider. Maybe next month.

She rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Here use mine. I have it all typed in.”

Vienna’s schedule is simple enough. Each day I pick her up at five-thirty for swimming. Afterwards, I return her to the academy for school. Then, at three-thirty in the afternoon -- dance class with a light snack in the car on the way to gymnastics and return to the academy before curfew at nine pm. As a middle-schooler, she is not permitted to spend the weekend in the dormitories unless her family is overseas. Which means I have to collect her early Monday mornings at the manse and drop her off Friday evenings at the end of a very long week.

With the help of her navigator, we make our way to the natatorium. I stop at the front curb with door to door service. “Look, we have two minutes to spare.”

She opens the door before the car comes to a complete stop and hauls her bag. “I have to change, dumshit. Then I have to take a shower and go through warm-ups.”

I find a seat on a window ledge outside the girl’s locker room and begin my wait. I pull out my Orgo text and begin reviewing for today’s class. Usually, I’m racing to first period with barely enough thought to grab a Pop Tart and brush my teeth. It’s the first time that I’ve gotten up early to prepare for classes and I already see the benefits.

Nearly three text books later, Vienna exits the locker room in her private school girl clothes and her damp hair pulled back into a pony tail. “Let’s go,” she says while dropping her bag at my feet. “I have to be in my seat by second bell, or I’m tardy.”

“You forgot something,” I say. She ignores me. I pull out of the parking lot and head back to her academy.

After a few minutes of motoring down route 347, Vienna gets really excited. “Where’s my gym bag?”

“You left it on the curb.”

“Why didn’t you pick it up?” She had her arms crossed and her eyes bugged out.

“You didn’t seem to think it was so important,” I answer with my own juvenile smarmy attitude, “so neither did I.”

“Well, you’ll just have to go back and get it.”

“Yes, your royal haughtiness.” I turn my signal on and make a move to take the next exit ramp.

“Not now,” Vienna squawks, “after you drop me off. I’ll be late.”

I stare at her through the rearview mirror. “I’ll get your bag for you, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t treat me like dirt … like I’m some paid lackey.”

“Did you miss that part of the deal?” Vienna said.

“Is this bugging you?” I ask. “You know, I almost thought this would be fun. We haven’t spent much time in the last six years. I was hoping I could spend time being your cousin and not just your bitch.”

Surprise, surprise – there were Mercedes, Lexuses and Beamers, but only one rusted out Datsun B210 sullying the immaculate appearance of the private school. Several of the kids scoffed as I veer to a stop, others laughed openly.

“Sorry,” she says with an angry grunt, but she’s not looking at me. She’s staring out the window at other students being dropped off in romantic couples and groups. They stop what they’re doing to see who arrives in this trash dump of a car.

She jumps out, quickly. “Vienna wait,” I say. I exit the car, race around the back, and open the liftgate. Inside is her gym bag. I’m feeling very parental, and not necessarily in a good way.
“Just remember,” I say, “different is good. You want to be unique. Don’t let it turn you into a bitch.”

A little pressure seems to seep out of her. “Thanks,” she says. “Maybe this weekend, you can be my bitch.”

“That could be fun.” I don’t believe she knows what that means.

xXx

My day at university is surprisingly pleasant. I approach each instructor at the beginning of class and plead for a mulligan on the assignments I turned in before Thanksgiving. I have a note from Aunt Liz explaining my “illness,” but each professor seems already very much aware of how sick I was before the holidays.

My Medieval Studies Prof returns my rough draft with an incomplete. “I was really worried about you,” she says. “I thought you might drop dead on the spot.”

“Yeah, I was too sick to appreciate how sick I was.”

“I don’t care about that. This is my class. Drop dead on your own time.” She’s chuckling when she says it like she’s relieved she doesn’t have any liability.

After classes, I stop at the art department to thank Dr. Hebetyria for the short term employment. I may need her again. I figure I can’t rely on my new ‘job’ forever. Plus, the thought of posing for nude for Celestina makes me want to keep these channels open.

One more time, off to get Vienna. I’m already feeling the rut. Conversation is stilted on the way to Madam Abuso’s Studio of Dance. She asks me if I watched her swim practice that morning.

“I didn’t know I could watch,” I say. I can’t even imagine how watching swim practice could be the least bit entertaining. “Do you have a specialty?”

“Diving,” she says with a shrug. “I keep begging Dr. Tormentus to let me try some of the race events, too. I’m not really built for it. We don’t really have any good breast strokers, so he’s letting me try that.”

“I’m a pretty good breast stroker,” I say. I instantly regret it. This is my twelve year old cousin.

Vienna chuckles, but then she says, “Don’t you take anything serious?”

“Sure. I used to think I took everything serious. Now that we’re getting reacquainted, I’m not so sure.”

That answer doesn’t cheer her up. As we pull into the dance studio, she starts to tense. At first I think it is me, but then I realize this is her game face. I always thought extracurricular activities were supposed to be fun.

We’re early, so I take a seat at a bench outside an observation window while she changes. A class of little kids -- like six or seven years old -- are just getting out and the entry is crowded. They are all pretty cute with their hair in buns, but their chatter is annoying. “Mom, can we go get ice cream … pleeeeaaase. Jessica’s getting some.”

After the little kids leave, older kids filter into the dance studio. It’s a large area which looks even larger with the full length mirror on the opposite side and several dance bars lining the walls.

The first dancer places her ankle up the bar, and I’ve discovered my true calling – watching tweenage dancers get ready. It’s cold in the Hamptons this time of year, so a little flesh, even on girls, gives me a charge. I didn’t even know they made dance outfits like those. She has her hair up in a tight bun and is wearing a skimpy, two-piece skimpy leotard. If I did, I might have tried out for dance. Dang, she’s limber. They should let boys know about this. It would be a fantastic recruiting pitch.

Leaning into her extended knee reveals each individual strand of muscles in her. I realize I need to exercise more. I lean to the side to get a better view at her backside. A few more girls enter the class. Taller or shorter, they are slimmer and more lithe than the first, but when they join her at the stretch bar in becomes a chorus of nimble nubility. When the first girl turns, I can see that I’ve been staring at Vienna. Whoa! This outfit works better for her than that frumpy private schoolgirl blazer.

About the same time, I hear a mild cough from behind me and, in a feminine voice, “Excuse me. Who are you?”

I turn and I see the mom-club cackling away, disrupting my peaceful meditation on the provocative child form. The leader is an ageless dowager in a suit with pancaked makeup and bright, platinum-blond hair. I make the snap decision to exaggerate my motions effeminately and mimic Vienna’s superior tone. I hold my hand out with a limp wrist and say with a slight lisp, “I’m Vienna’s cousin, Kyler. And you are?”

She seems suitably chastened for suspecting me of devious intentions. “I’m Kitty Hinshaw. That’s my Caroline in there.” Kitty shakes my extended fingers. “I had no idea that Vienna hand any family who cared about her. She’s so quiet.”

She introduces me to a few of the other dance moms who begin to complain about the absent moms almost right away. “Can you believe Tiffany’s solo last week?”

“I know. It was dreadful.”

“Well,” Kitty says. “Tiffany takes three separate classes. Of course she’s a favorite.”

“It’s just not right,” another says, “If she can’t do the dance, it makes the whole studio look bad.”

“Kyler, do you dance?” Kitty asks me.

What would a gay person say? “No, I’m afraid I caught the bug too late in life.” I’m already tired of this act. These ladies are quickly grating on me. Somehow in the conversation, I mention that I’m in premed at Stony Brook.

“Maybe you’ll be a gynecologist,” Kitty says with a chuckle. “We’d be safe with you.”

I steel my gaze and say, “No.”

That seems to serve as a good transition to studying. I sit down and pull out my Bio textbook. I hear one of them say, “Why’d you say that, Kitty? You offended him.”

“It was just an innocent question,” she says with a scoff. “They’re so sensitive.”

Yes we are.

I can’t really concentrate on the textbook. Orchestral pop music blares over the loudspeaker and Madam Abuso provides constant direction. “Head up. Point your finger. Toes. Firebird leap. Now down. Shoulder roll. Caroline, look at me. Arch your neck. Pirouette. Scissor leap into an arabesque. Caroline, point your toes. Caroline,toes dammit.”

The music stops for a moment and Madam Abuso starts lecturing little Caroline like she’s the spawn of Satan. Little Caroline’s fighting back the tears. The other girls look away in other directions, like they’re bored. “From the top.” Abuso starts the music again with constant direction.

This time little Caroline can’t follow the steps from the get go. She ‘s a step behind on everything while trying to watch the other dancers. “Right hand out. Barrel Leap. Shoulder roll. Glide. Point. Your toes, Caroline, point your damn toes. Twirl. Plie. Caroline!” It only last a few minutes this time and Abuso turns the music off. “Where is your head?”

“I … don’t … know,” she stutters. I sympathize with little Caroline. Her chin quivers. I want to take her and hold her and stroke that cute little ass in comfort.

While I’m thinking about Caroline, Kitty jumps up and enters the studio. She starts dishing her own abuse at the instructor. Abuso has none of it and tells her to remove her little brat from the advanced class. For a good five minutes, the madam vents her frustration on the interrupting dowager dance mom.

That was fun.

For the rest of the class, I learn that Abuso is an equal opportunity victimizer. She takes a few shots at all of the girls at one point or another. Most of them hold back the tears and nod. Vienna is stoic when it’s her turn. Then she’s angry. Her anger becomes determination. Compared to the others she’s stronger, more muscular. Abuso is using that in the dance, but she tells Vienna to flow through the steps gracefully. “Don’t force it.”

After the class, Vienna grabs her stuff and scurries out of the studio. “Let’s go,” she says. “We only have ten minutes to gymnastics. I need to change in the car.”

I peel out of the dance studio and head to the other side of town for the gymnasium. She downs a protein shake and then begins changing. I shouldn’t adjust the mirror – she’s a kid. I tell myself it’s an unconscious reflex action, and I adjust the rearview mirror for a better view.

“Hey!” she says. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

An article of clothing strikes me in my ear. “Is this a bra?” I say. “Why do you need that?”

That was probably the wrong thing to say. A dance shoe, with a hard plastic sole, flies to the front, strikes me in the temple, and then bounces off the rearview mirror. I swerve for a moment. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“Just be happy it wasn’t a tap shoe,” she says.

I touch my finger to my temple and feel the dampness of blood.

I wonder what gymnastics has in store for me. I hope it’s as delightful as dance.

Chapter 12

Mostoyovich’s gymnasium has an atrium with a snack bar and trophy case which overlooks the man-girl hoards during their warm up. Compared to dance class, the girls all look like they’re returning from war with ankle wraps, knee wraps, hand grips and shoulder tape. Vienna wears a one piece red and blue leotard which ends in shorts, like a wrestling outfit. The one piece is more conservative than her dance leotard, but just as revealing.

As I watch these girls warm up for class, I confront my own personal conversion of religious significance. As short as a few weeks ago, I could only be classified as a “breast” guy – the fleshier, the better. These two dozen muscular girls have completely different builds than their dancer counterparts, but both interpret a unique vision of beauty. The sum total of all of that breastastic tissue would disappear inside an A cup. And, yet, I’m aroused. Go figure. Their legs and asses are incredible.

There’s one black girl with broad shoulders and formidable thighs who could moonlight as a five foot tall linebacker. Her leotards ride up like a g-string, wholly incapable of sheltering that marvelous ass. It’s obscene! And I mean that in a good way. I picture myself pressing my lips into her crack and motorboating that thing. She’d crush me, but what a way to go.

Sergei Mostoyovich enters the room and calls all of the girls over. Just like at dance, Vienna stands out from the crowd. Unlike dance, next to the other gymnasts, she looks svelte and graceful.

One by one, Sergei leads each one to the scale and weighs them. He’s helped by two other Russian brutes and his wife Olga. ”Too fat,” I hear about every third kid. He pokes them in the solar plexus. The rest of the girls giggle rudely at these pronouncements. By the time Vienna gets to the front of the line, I’m ready to declare a war on Russia to explain how everybody gains a little weight during Thanksgiving.

They begin as one a large group. Sergei’s whistle pierces the quiet, leading them in stretching and strength exercises. It’s amazing what these girls do – leg lifts on the bar, handstand races, toe-touches from splits and impossible back bridges. Then they split into smaller groups at specific apparatuses. Vienna gets the balance beam along with the linebacker-bubblebutt and a few other man-girls. Each one ascends a bar which is only a few inches off the floor. They practice handstands, rotations, and one-arm walkovers. This crew seems to handle those basic maneuvers without trouble.

A blonde -- pretty, about ten years-old -- prances into the gym. “Sorry, I’m late Mr. Mostoyovich. I had a doctor’s appointment.”

“No excuses,” he says pointing to the high bar. Apparently, the punishment for tardiness is pull-ups in a pike position. A lot of them.

The advanced group, with Vienna, assembles around the normal height balance beam. With a spotter, the linebacker starts her routine. I don’t know much about gymnastics, but she looks fantastic to me. She’s doing flips and turns while the other girls look on in silent awe and wonder.

The little blonde -- doing pull ups on the high bar -- falls for the first time. Nobody else seems to care.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a miniscule Hispanic girl race with straight arms strides in goose steps towards a vault. She does a flip then lands off center on the mat with loud cry before she crashes to the mat.

“Get up,” her Russian overlord says. It’s not Sergei, but one of his clones.

She stands and hobbles over to the beginning of the vault. “Again.”

I see a mother with her hand to her lips watching intently. The Hispanic girl sprints toward the vault, this time with a noticeable limp. Before she reaches the vault she collapses in a puddle of tears. Her mother shakes her head in disappointment.

“You should get that x-rayed,” I say to her.

“There’s nothing wrong with her,” the mother says. “She’s just not very tough.”

“Maybe,” I say. All of these girls look tougher than me. “Or it could be a fracture.”

On the high-bar, the girl’s arms quivers spasmodically, and she falls again. Even a second-year premed major recognizes lactic acid build up. Her muscles are pushed beyond their capabilities to exercise and are burning their own strength anaerobically. It’s a self-destructive cycle which any gym own should recognize. After a few minutes and a glare from Sergei, the girl gets up and leaps back to the bar.

I’m distracted by Vienna’s turn on the balance beam. She mounts it and does a few one armed hand somesaults. She’s unsteady, but seems to gain confidence as her routine continues. I’m even more impressed when she does a hand stand into a split and then rotates. After two forward flips, she does a reverse flip, but seems to lose sight of the beam. She over rotates and lands awkwardly with her neck and shoulder taking the brunt of the punishment from the beam before she collapses to the floor.

“Whoo, whoo. Well done,” the bubblebutt/linebacker says with a clap. Even Sergei smirks at her performance. Her peers follow their leads and start laughing as though this is the Keystone cops. Sergei tells her to get back on the beam and start over. I don’t buy it – after a fall like that, she should be examined.

I turn and head down the stairs. The Hispanic child’s mother says in a snotty voice, “Maybe she needs an x-ray.”

I arrive at the gym floor just as Vienna is getting up and brushing herself off. “You’re not allowed down here,” she says.

I ignore her and examine her neck where a bruise is already starting to form. “I don’t trust the Marquis de Sergei to care.”

“I’ve had a lot worse,” she says pushing me away. “I’m fine. You shouldn’t be in here.”

She jumps back up on the balance bar to spite me, finds steadiness at the end of the bar, flexes her knees, and completes the back flip. Sergei waves me away. As I leave, I notice the blonde girl has collapsed for the last time into a blubbery mess on the mats beneath the high bar. Everyone does their best to ignore her as some sort of scarlet letter community shunning or something like that.

I march outside of the gymnasium giving Sergei the Jakubowski stare down (which he ignores). I continue completely out the double glass doors and take a few lonely laps around the building. I’m angry for Vienna’s sake. Madam Abuso was cold, but factual. In the end, I could understand that she is a perfectionist driving for perfection in her students. Mostoyovich is altogether worse. He’s a graduate of the Victor Vandeprave School of Sadism. He’s getting paid for it. Parents dutifully place their children in his hands as part of some visceral dream where they’re transformed into Olympic level athletes. If their childhood is lost in the process, so be it.

By the time I return to the gym, the class is letting out. I take two steps at a time to get my books and then find Vienna hanging outside the trainer’s room. “Are you ready?” I ask.

“Not yet,” she says coldly. “At the end of the day, I have a thirty minute rub down.”

“I can handle that,” I say. Then I skip a beat when I realize that statement can be taken two ways. “I didn’t mean the rub down. I meant I could handle waiting another thirty minutes. Well … I could handle the rubdown, if you want.”

Vienna looks at me queerly and shakes her head.

I sit on the floor outside of the trainer’s room and pull out my Bio text to read ahead. Much to my surprise, I’m getting a lot of free time for studying with this job.

I hear Vienna grunting a few times from the intensity of her massage. “Aaahh,” I hear her cry out. “Stay away from my shoulder, okay?”

“S’okay,” her Romanian muscle head says.

They’re quiet for a few more moments until I hear Vienna cry out, “Watch it, Denis. That’s a little too close for comfort.”

“Naw, s’okay.”

That’s goes on for a few more moments when I hear, “Jesus Effin’ Christ, stay away from my ass, ya creep.”

“S’okay.”

I had pretty much had it with Denis at that point. I stand up, walk right up to Denis with my finger in his face, and say, “No it is not s’okay.” He whacks my finger away contemptuously, like I’m a gnat not worth the trouble of consideration.

I look around and realize that a lot is not s’okay in this setup. Vienna lays face down on the table wearing only her panties. She sits up quickly with the sheet held tight against her torso. Her face contorted in red, blotchy anger. “Kyler, get out! I can handle this!”

With a growl, she jumps down off the table and heads through a door in the back of the trainer’s room labeled “ladies”.

I few minutes later, I greet my cousin as she storms out of the ladies room in a mussed up private school outfit. “Vienna … .“

“Just shut up,” she says with her talk to the hand motion.

By the time I get to the car, I find her sitting in the front seat staring at nothing which happens to be one hundred eighty degrees away from me.

“Vienna,” I try to say again, but really I have no idea what is going through her mind. Finally, I ask, “How’s your shoulder?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m not this fragile little princess that you think I am.” She wipes moisture from her cheek. “If you can handle being ass-raped, then I sure as hell can handle a little bruise.”

I begin to remember that she is just a twelve year-old girl. She may not be physically fragile, but she’s an emotional mess.

“I didn’t handle it,” I say backing out of the spot. I’m a little despondent when I realize the truth of that statement. “I needed you to stand up to your parents … for me. All of those girls have their parents. I know I’m not a parent, but I’m on your side. I might be the only one.”

She doesn’t say anything for awhile. When I stop at a red light, I take a moment to look over at her and see her staring out the side window. I see her reflection in the dark window.

“You don’t understand,” she says.

“Why don’t you try me?” I shift the manual transmission into first and pull away ... concentrating on the road. Before I know it, she removes her seatbelt and threads her arm behind my back. She rests her head in my chest with her other arm around my waist. Tension seems to seep out of her.

“Excuse me for just a second,” I say placing my hand between her legs to shift into fourth. Then I place my arm around her shoulder with my hand at her hip.

“This day didn’t go anything like I thought it would,” Vienna says. “All weekend I was thinking about it.” She sniffs and wipes her cheek again. She still isn’t looking at me. “In my dreams, I was brilliant. The coaches raved about how great I was. You beamed with pride and bragged that I was your cousin.”

I feel her finally relax for the first time of the day. All of this constant competition with her peers and I didn’t help her relax … not a bit. I added to her tension by being late and then flippant.

“You were perfect,” I say. “Beautiful. The problem is those coaches.”

She chuckled, but it was a sad, mirthless chuckle of insecurity and self-punishment. “First thing in the morning I screamed at you. You didn’t even watch my diving.”

“I was studying.”

“I thought you were pissed,” she says. “I felt like a fool. Then, I made so many stupid mistakes at dance and fell off the beam.”

“You’re trying too many things,” I say. I don’t even realize it, but my finger is caressing her thigh at the seam of her panties. She doesn’t say anything. “That gymnastics is bad,” I continue. “Those guys are rejects from the former Soviet Sociopathic Republic.”

“Is that the Jakubowski answer to things? When the going gets tough, you quit.”

“No,” I say wondering if that really is the root of our failures. “I’ve got some of your stubbornness in me, too. “

It’s quiet for a few moments. I’m enjoying the close contact with her, so I drive the long way around to her school. Then I remember that I never saw her sharing anything with the other dancers or gymnasts. “Do you have any friends at school?” I ask.

“Sure, I have lots of friends.”

“Someone you can talk to? Someone you trust?”

“Not really,” she says.

I reach another stop light and reach between her legs to downshift. As normal, I rest my hand on the stick while idling. This time it’s a little crowded down there. Even though awkward, she settles into that position wrapped around me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. I run my thumb up and down inside her knee.

When the light changes. I press the clutch and shift into gear. Fourth gear is now awfully close to the forbidden zone, but I have to drive. When I shift, she lets out a squeal.

“Sorry,” I say to be polite. And I am a little sorry.

In answer, she squeezes her thighs together and holds my hand with her vice grip quads. “I’ve got you now,” she says in her best Darth Vader. My jeans are getting really uncomfortable.

“Do you think so?” I say with a little chuckle. “I have powers beyond your comprehension.” To prove my point, I wiggle my fingers until they just barely brush the narrow center of her panties. She squeals again, but releases her grip. “I probably shouldn’t have done that,” I apologize – expecting some retaliation.

“I grabbed your … you know … to impress Celestina,” she says. “I guess I had it coming.”

I wrap my arm around her shoulder and kiss her on the crown. “I love you, mom,” I say in a mock repeat of my fever. These last minutes seem to make up for a tense day. Unfortunately, the night has to end. Vienna has a curfew and I need to get her back to her school.

>>21296

Unf.

The sexual tension is killing me. I love this story, dude. Keep it up.

Chapter 13

The night is young, and, with most of my homework completed during Vienna’s activities, I have spare time on my hands. I should work on my lab write-ups for Bio, but I’m feeling a little tense after that drive ... if you catch my drift. I think I’ll do a little surfing. First stop www.Sergeisgymnasium.com.

An introductory page – featuring gifs of nubile nymphets tumbling and conducting splits in symphony -- is way hotter than it should be. I find tabs with some biographical information on their best gymnasts. Nayalena Williams, the mini-linebacker with the bubblebutt, is Sergei’s pride and joy for good reason. She won the northeast regional junior all-around last year and made the junior national traveling team.

Sergei was kind enough to upload videos of all her routines from nationals.

Her uneven bar routine is phenomenal with the flips and twirls. The crowd roars approval each time she enforces her will on the vibrating high bar. Her muscular ass flexes with its own agenda, like it’s an animated CGI special effect. What really captures my attention is the pattern of white chalk across her dark leotards. That stuff is plastered all over everything without mercy or prejudice. After her hips strike the bar, that nefarious chalk highlights an adorable set of camel toes at the very sharp V between her thighs.

Whoa ... whoa. That is wrong in so many ways. I’m developing a permanent zipper pattern pressed into my cock. It’s painful, but I think I’ll watch that video again.

After a view more views, I notice advertisements for leotards running alongside the page. All day I wondered about the difference between dance and gymnastics leotards (really, I’m not making this up) so I check it out. There are pages after pages of an adorable ten year old girl wearing brilliantly colored, form-fitting outfits. She is posed with one arm at their waist, the other raised in a gymnastic salute with a very adult arch to their back. It forces her ass to stick way out.

Using only my mouse, I can rotate each picture and magnify distinct parts of her anatomy … I mean the leotard print patterns. I wonder why creeps bother with child pornography sites. I grow vaguely aware of how my internet search pattern could be used as evidence during my own pedophilia trial.

During such a moment of weakness I clear the browser history. Sigh … for some reason I haven’t learned a bit about the difference between dance and gymnastic leotards.

I meander to Celestina Pucci’s relatively wholesome Facebook page. At fourteen, she seems positively ancient compared to the child leotard models. Sometime over Thanksgiving Celestina launched a new fragrance with her own brand name -- “Presumed Innocent by Celestina” -- complete with an eroticized video and photographs.

She wears a private school girl’s outfit in a style I can only describe as “sloppy slutty”. It’s not the uniform from the Stony Brook Academy, with a very short skirt and very long knee socks. Her hair is mussed up, her shirt only has one button hooked in the wrong hole, and the skirt is rumpled askew. Her back is arched (they must all know this move), except this time there is a shirtless bald male-model behind her who benefits from the slow rotation of her hips. His hands reach around front – one is snaking through her unbuttoned opening just beneath her breast and the other is finding its way under her waist band.

I click “Like” on the video before I realize that I just informed all of my friends, family, and bare acquaintances that I enjoy tawdry softcore gyrations of a fourteen year-old girl. That’s probably a mistake that I’ll regret.

The advertising campaign also caught the notice of a New York City morning show who interviews Celestina’s mother about the shameless exploitation of her daughter. “I don’t understand,” her mother says with a thick Italian accent. “The ad campaign is beautiful and artistic.”

The morning show panel disagrees profusely, but they’ve cemented Celestina’s first step to domination of post-Kardashian America.

I glance down at the computer clock and notice it’s almost midnight. Dear God, I’ve been surfing for almost three hours, and I have to pick up Vienna at five thirty tomorrow morning. My mom always said the internet was the darkest of all evils. I’m not sure she’s correct, but it definitely contributes to sleep deprivation.

I set the alarm for four-thirty … then four forty five, and I park my clock about ten feet from my bed to make sure that I can’t accidentally strike the snooze alarm. But I can’t relax. You would think it was Nayalena Williams or Celestina Pucci who kept me awake, but it’s Vienna. Her emotions were all over the map today, and it makes me wonder what tomorrow will be like. I play my guitar to distract myself and settle down.

xXx

I arrive at Stony Brook academy almost five minutes early. Good job, Kyler – if I don’t say so myself. Vienna can’t be pissed off about that.

Wrong again. She climbs in the passenger side of the car without a word, leaving her gym bag on the curb.

I decide to be cheery. “Good morning, Scuttle Nugget.” She doesn’t bite. I race around the back and load her stuff in the back.

I pull away from the school and make it half way to the natatorium before she says her first words. “Are you going to watch me practice today?”

“I will if you want me to,” I say. Vienna nods, but she doesn’t look at me.

After we arrive, I pass through the boy’s locker room on the way to the main area to discover what a natatorium is. It turns out that it is a lot like a pool. I’m kidding – it’s an entire litter of pools. There an Olympic sized swimming pool, a diving pool, a warm up pool, a water polo pool and a Jacuzzi.

The kids are different, too. They’re athletes without the sharp muscular definition of gymnasts or the delicate grace of the bunheads. Lanky, broad shoulders, wide hips, long arms and legs, massive prehensile hands, and flipper like feet. Vienna, the mighty mite, stands distinct from the rest.

There is another huge difference from her other activities – boys. Not just any boys but athletic, hormonal boys … in Speedos. This early in the morning, I didn’t need the very clear confirmation of what big feet imply. It really bugs me the way the sausage fest interferes with the panorama aesthetic of scantily clad girls.

They start out in the pool with group warm up exercises before they split off into groups. The divers have a trampoline for practicing flips and turns before they make their way to parallel springboards. One by one, they listen to a dive announced by the coach starting with relatively simple double flips (only when compared to my ornate belly-flopping expertise). All of that gymnastics and dance work is obvious in the height of her dive and grace of her body control. I lose thought of my lab report to watch her. Like a kingfisher, she breaks the surface with barely a ripple.

I can’t believe she’s only twelve. She is crazy sexy in her swim suit.

The dives grow progressively more difficult with each whistle blown. Toward the end of practice, the coach announces a dive for Vienna. I can’t hear it, but Vienna gives her coach a look of disgust. She marches to the end of the board and turns around with her heels hanging off the edge. The coach blows the whistle. Vienna bends her knees and bounces hard against the springiness of the board, but her toes slip just as she’s pushing off into a twisting motion.

The splash sounds almost as bad as the collective sympathetic groan from her teammates and the few spectators. As she pulls herself out of the pool, her coach tries to give her pointers. Vienna is yelling angrily in return. It’s something about a stupid pet trick. She marches past the other divers to the ladder for the diving board. In her anger, she kicks the ladder.

From the stands I can tell that’s a bad idea in bare feet. I scrinch my toes in sympathy.

Vienna yelps and shakes her foot from the pain. She tries to soldier on, but the blood is pooling from each step. She follows through with the same dive. It’s better this time, but far from perfect. It must be a really difficult dive for her. A stream of red snakes behind her in the water from her foot.

The coach says nothing about the dive. She points to the trainer’s room to get her foot bandaged up. I wait for her outside the girls’ locker room.

“Don’t say anything,” she says when storming out of the locker room dressed for school. Her foot is wrapped up in enough bandages to keep a family of pharaohs supplied for a couple of centuries. She throws her gym bag in my direction and almost knocks me over.

Halfway back to her school, she fights back the tears. “I don’t know why I try,” she says. “That was awful. My worst practice, ever.”

“I thought you did incredible,” I say, “at least until that last dive. I’m no diving expert, but I thought I saw a little splash.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she says kicking the floorboards with her good foot.

“I’m not,” I say. “You were fantastic. I think this stress is killing you.”

Vienna wipes her tears away and glances out the window.

I suddenly have a revelation. “Is it me? Are you stressed out because I’m watching?”

“I don’t know,” she says kicking at the floor again -- which is as good as a yes. I think I hear rust giving away underneath her.

“I could never do any of those things you do,” I say. “I’m in awe of you.”

“I just wanted it to be perfect.”

“You were better than perfect,” I say. And I mean it -- right up until she kicked that ladder.

“You’re just thrilled to see me wearing next to nothing.”

“In Ancient Greece they competed in the nude,” I say. “I figure, you’re over-dressed. It’s only fair that you should do the same.”

She blushed. Some of her tension seems to drain away, until we arrive back at her school when the steely eyed Vienna returns. She quickly dries her eyes and steels her expression for the onslaught of private school peer pressure.


Her classmates, many of them paired off in couples, give my ride that look of utter contempt. The funny thing is -- it doesn’t bother me in the least. I’m proud that I earned the money for this forty year old junker myself. That’s pride I don’t think these rich kids will never understand.

“Vienna,” I say to get her attention as she exits of the passenger side. I run around the back and get her gym bag. I have a whim to break her out of this self-destructive perfectionism. When I hand her the satchel, I reach around her neck with the opposite hand and pull her in for a kiss. I exercised restraint. My tongue wanted to join in, but I held it in check.

She jerks away. “What was that for?”

I shrug with a sly grin. “No reason.” I can’t help but notice that half of the schoolyard conversations come to a screeching halt. High school kids are so predictable no matter their station in life. “I’ll see you this afternoon,” I say. I’m looking forward to it.

>>21450
Thanks for the update OP

My intrigue is piqued and my desire to know more Endless, i look forward to the next update, you have a Very compelling and interesting story going here, a real page turner as they would say. The greatest curse here is that i cannot know when it will grow, but i hope dearly that you get to complete it

Chapter 14

Bio lab is over before I know it (a successful lab – no accidents, no obvious skin rashes, no singed eyebrows). I have all afternoon free. I don’t remember a time where I wasn’t studying, working, or looking for a job. I’m not even sure what to do with myself. I grab a quick bite of lunch at the Student Union Building while completing my lab write up.

The spare time gives me a chance to reflect on what I’m driving toward – the brass ring with an M.D. behind my name. It’s been fun getting reacquainted with my cousin, but I can’t afford to get waylaid by a pretty young face and a tight, athletic body. A far cry from that goofy little girl I spent summers with, yet, she is still only twelve. The quickest path to expulsion from Stony Brook along with abandonment of all my dreams is for her to tell one person that I tickled her crotch.

A lesson I had to learn over and over again as a curious child – if you touch something hot, you get burned. And Vienna is smokin’ hot. I feel the need to eviscerate this excess energy at the university gym. Honestly, it has nothing to do with trying to impress a child whose muscles have their own zip code.

Afterwards, I consider meeting Vienna at her art class on campus, but she’s required to travel back to the academy and sign out before I collect her for afternoon activities. I wait at her school when the van returns with the advanced art students. Vienna disembarks and waves in my direction. She heads into the school lobby to check in, and then check out.

Celestina exits the bus after Vienna and sashays over to me. “Hi, Kyler,” she says with a snarky grin. “We missed you at art class.”

I’m not really sure how to respond to her baited barbs. Finally, I dismiss it outright. “I enjoyed your perfume advertisement. Innocent?”

“Presumed Innocent,” Celestina says. “I’m a guest on an episode of SVU airing tomorrow night. Do you think you’ll catch it?”

“Truly?” I say. “Are you the victim?” Celestina might be about as special as victims get.

“No,” she says with a cackle, “I’m a suspect with a heart of gold.”

“I’ve never watched SVU before,” I say. “Maybe I’ll give it a shot.”

“You better.” She winks at me and heads into the school as Vienna heads out in a bull rush with a bag of gear that looks like it weighs more than she does. The distinction couldn’t be clearer. With an effortless pirouette of her hips, Celestina oozes sexiness in a short skirt (not that there’s anything wrong that.)

With my eyes magnetically tethered to Celestina’s catwalk strut, Vienna quietly sneaks into the passenger seat. My cousin seems to be from a different planet than her class mate, one far more intriguing. A place of innocence where she doesn’t understand how she activates my auto-erectile response mechanism.

I toss her bag in the back, get behind the wheel, and pull out. Vienna stares straight ahead, very quietly ignoring my presence. For a moment, I think I’ve irritated her by my lustish stare at Celestina.

Halfway to dance class she finally speaks. “This morning … why did you kiss me?”

My face grows warm and flush. I’m not really sure how to answer it, but I suddenly realize it may have had a bigger impact on her than it did on me. “I don’t know,” I say. “It just felt right at the time. Don’t read too much into it.”

She doesn’t say anything in response, but I can almost hear her wheels turning. I pray that wasn’t some mythical ‘first kiss’ that she’s going to remember for the rest of her life. “Is it okay that I kissed you?”

Vienna nods, but she still doesn’t look at me. I imagine a thousand questions rumbling through her thoughts. Questions about life and love; of a metaphysical magnificence that I haven’t considered in years, if ever. I hope I haven’t destroyed her sense of childish wonder with a kiss.

“I won’t do it again,” I say, “not if you don’t want me to.”

“It’s okay,” she says in a way that answers nothing. “Celestina wants to know when you’re going to model again.” She chuckles.

“Doesn’t she have other male nudes to fondle?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Vienna laughs, “but they’re all queer. She doesn’t have the same sort of influence with them.”

“What kind of influence does she need for someone so broke they need to model for an art class?”

Vienna shrugs. In that shrug I see the opposite side of the equation. I wonder what Celestina says to her in the hours between art classes. My two week modeling career is a cudgel for Celestina, not a lever.

When we get to Madame Abuso’s, I say. “You can relax during practice. I won’t watch until you tell me you’re ready.”

“What else are you going to do?”

“I’ll hang with Kitty Hinshaw and the gang,” I say. “I’m way out of the loop. I need to catch up on class gossip.”

And sure enough, Kitty is all smiles when I enter the room. “Kyler,” she says like I’m her new best friend. She wraps her arm around mine and leads me to an empty sewing station. “Do you want to help us with the dance outfits? You guys are good with sewing, right?”

“Not really,” I say. I have to remember to act gay for these ladies.

“Let me help you get set up,” she says.

I take a seat and listen to the mom chatter. Before long I focus on the needle chattering up and down. The fabric has an olive green camouflage pattern and sparkles. Sewing is tougher than I expected, but I’m getting the hang of it. I wish the fabric was red. Then, they wouldn’t notice my drops of blood.

I’m startled by Kitty’s daughter, Caroline, when she lets out a chirp of surprise. I glance up and notice that she’s standing next to me in her bra and panties waiting to get fitted. She’s cute, but with more of a typical adolescent girl shape – mismatched breast nubs, no hips, and a waist that hasn’t shrunk, yet. An awkward stage through which all girls seem to travel … except Vienna. Caroline’s panties are riding deep up into her crack. I want to reach up and straighten them. An urge I resist with all my will.

“I can leave if it makes her uncomfortable,” I say.

“Don’t worry about him,” Kitty says to her daughter. “He doesn’t like girls.”

Secretly, I’m glad for her understanding “accommodation.” Standing would not only be painful, it would reveal my sexual orientation (which I used to consider as stodgy, plain-Jane hetero, but now I veer toward the creep-o-sexual side of things.)

After Caroline tries on her new leotard, Kitty runs her fingers up and down the contours of Caroline’s back, smoothing out the wrinkles. I’m captivated by the way puerile flesh reacts to the pressure of fingers running across it. Willowy and responsive. I swear, nothing is quite like it.

I coerce my thoughts back to my work, ignoring that adorable little girl standing next to me and the desire swelling in my crotch.

I am so fucked up.

With the outfit on, Kitty asks Carline to spin a few times. The fabric attached to her arms flutters with the motion. Mottled colors ranging between chartreuse and violet, with wings, movie like the wind. “What do you think of it?” Kitty asks me.

“Ah ... hmm … well,” I wonder what someone gay would say. “She’s transplendant”. I’m not even sure what the word means. I think I made it up. “Like a glittering snowflake flickering from sunbeam to sunbeam.”

There, that out to do it. Just saying it makes me want to go purchase a handgun and a huge pick-up.

I almost shoot my load when Kitty reaches into Caroline’s crotch to straighten a bit of fabric. Fuck. This is just like watching live kiddieporn – one of those videos where the mother teaches her daughter about sexual satisfaction. (Not that I know what’s in kiddieporn. The site said the girl was eighteen!)

I bite the inside of my cheek and return my focus to the sewing machine until Vienna exits with her gym bag. “Ready to go?” She says.

“Just let me put this stuff away,” I say.

“We don’t have time for that,” Vienna pleads. “I have eight minutes until gymnastics.”

“I’ll do it,” Kitty volunteers.

“Thanks,” I say. I think my tension has almost diminished. I can stand up, pain-free.

In the car, my inner voice is dying to shift the rearview mirror for a better view of the back seat. Instead, I crane my neck, trying to be less than obvious. I catch a glimpse of a nipple. She’s in a rush, so she doesn’t seem to notice my glance. I make a mental note to shift the mirror for a better view when Vienna isn’t around.

I keep true to my word and don’t watch her gymnastics lessons. Instead, I concentrate on preparing for the next day’s classes while enjoying a bucket of cheesy fries from the snack bar. I wonder how many deadly sins I’ve checked off for the day.

After practice is over, I make a very obvious display of sitting insider he massage room so that Denis’s fingers don’t wander astray. He mutters incoherently to himself in Romanian. I’m sure it is a complaint about Big Brother always watching or perhaps it’s a curse handed down by Vlad Dracula.

Vienna looks fantastic. Denis uses just enough oil to make her body glisten. Her back muscles are defined and sharp. She has more than I knew existed … and I’ve studied Anatomy. Bruises from yesterday’s fall purples most of her left shoulder. It looks agonizing, but Vienna barely reacts.

Massage is a sort of physical therapy in the medical field. I should look into it as part of an internship.

In the car, I hope that a relaxed Vienna would slide right over to me just like last night. Instead, Vienna is still keyed up from a competitive practice. When she buckles her seatbelt, she lets out her own string of curses about that “friggin’ diva Nayalena.”

“What’s up with her?” I ask. “She may be a diva, but she seems to have earned it.”

“I guess so,” Vienna mutters. “She works out like six hours a day at the gym. Like who has that kind of time?” She furrows her brow at me. “I thought you weren’t watching practice.”

“Um … well … I wasn’t (not very much). I was curious about Sergei, so I checked out his website last night, including a number of sample videos. Nayalena’s routines are amazing.”

“I think she might be getting a little full of herself.” Vienna pulls her knees to her chest and stares out the passenger window. Her pleated skirt slides down to reveal a patch of white panties. “I guess that means you don’t think I have the nicest ass you’ve ever seen anymore.”

I almost laugh, thinking she must be kidding. “Nayalena does have an impressive ass,” I say, “too large to fit in my apartment, but perfect for a carnival sideshow act. A nice ass is not all it’s cracked up to be.” I stop at a stoplight and place my hand on her shoulder. “You’re incredible at everything. I know you’re every bit as great as her … even better.”

“You always say those sorts of things,” Vienna says. “I almost think you believe it.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like the art. You told my parents that mine is the best at the school. Which is totally sweet … and all … but it isn’t true. You don’t know anything about art.”

“Hey,” I say in mock offense. “I won a governor’s art award in third grade.”

The light changes to green, and I accelerate through the gear changes. Vienna remains on her side of the car, out of my inadvertent groping radius.

She chuckles then wipes away a tear. “My art is okay, but everyone says it’s too clinical.”

I want to say she’s only twelve. She shouldn’t expect perfection, not yet. But that’s not even true. I know more about art than Vienna realizes. Both of our mother’s were budding artists waylaid by family and careers. Some of my mother’s watercolors decorate our wall. Her talent isn’t accidental.

Vienna is not a great artist for a twelve year-old. She’s a great artist … period.

“If you could concentrate on one thing, would it be your art?” I ask.

We’re almost back at the academy, but this conversation seems too important to let go for another day. I turn in the opposite direction to take another circuit around the town.

“Yeah, I guess,” she says, “that or music.”

“You play piano and flute,” I say. “I’d love to hear you play sometime.”

I detect a slight shift in mood. For the first time today, she begins to relax. The day’s worth of competitive stress drains from Vienna. She unbuckles her seatbelt, slides over straddling the stick shift, and snakes her hand behind my belt. I know I should say something about impropriety, but I can’t bring myself to complain.

“Why don’t you quit the other activities and concentrate on your arts?” I suggest.

“I can’t. I told you that.” She wraps her other arm around my chest. “Dad hates art. He doesn’t believe it’s practical. He told me that he would put me in another school, if I drop the athletics.”

I caress the inside of her thigh, exactly like last night.

“What about cutting out some activities, but not all of them. Then you could schedule four hours a day at the gym. You’d show Nayalena.” I stop at another stop light, placing the car in first with my hand resting on the stick between her legs. It bounces to and fro between her thighs, reverberating in tune with the engine. I try not to think of this personal vibrator so close to the forbidden zone.

“Why would I want to spend four hours at that place?” Vienna asks. Then with a sigh, she adds, “Mom wants me to keep a broad activity schedule, so that I can discover what I’m best at.”

“That’s going to be tough, when they find out your best at everything.”

“I’m not great at everything. I don’t like math and science.”

I pull away from the light in first gear, and then shift rapidly through second and third. “That’s good to hear. If you were good at everything, I don’t think I could stand you. I could probably help you with those subjects.”

I shift the gear into fourth gear which places it right in Vienna’s crotch. She squawks, and then slams her thighs shut. In her best Darth Vader voice, she says. “I’ve got you now.”

I should have been better prepared for that. I adopt my fake southern gentleman persona. “Why Miss Vienna Sophia Lynnea, I believe you are taunting me.”

She wore a wicked sort of grin. “It’s not going to be so easy to get away this time. I’m on to your shenanigans.”

I groan. “Vienna, I can’t be tickling your privates every night on the way home.”

“Then I guess you’re trapped.” She laughs her evil laugh. They must have a large drama group at her arts school.

I tried to pull my arm out, but she was too strong. I wait a few moments, hoping that she would relax and release me. No good. If anything, she squeezes harder. Worse, I’m now on the opposite side of Stony Brook with engine vibrations radiating through the shift and doing the devious work.

I relent and allow my two smallest fingers search for buried treasure. Her thighs relax for a moment, but I’m too slow. The death grip returns and keeps me prisoner.

“I told you, I’m onto your games,” she says in that deep growl. “You won’t escape this time.”

I feel my breath skip. I have to wet my lips to speak. “Vienna, I can’t be touching your privates,” I say. “I’m supposed to be watching out for you.”

She says nothing.

After spending the day with nearly nude children, I’m not thinking straight. Kitty Hinshaw fondled her daughter – and nobody else seemed to mind. Why am I making such a big deal about this? I knew this would happen. Heck, I wanted it to happen. Now that I’m trapped, I can’t think of a safe, prudent way out.

I don’t even so much as glance in Vienna’s direction, but God I wonder what she’s thinking about me. My stomach feels like it’s going to wretch and my skin tingles. Driving around the night time streets of Stony Brook, I’m growing faint. I worry that I might pass out. And my hand remains stuck in no man’s land.

This is all Datsun’s fault. It’s all because of this stupid, forty year-old manual transmission. Under my breath, I swear, “God get me out of this with my college degree in tact, and I’ll get an automatic first chance I can.”

Fuck it.

I press two fingers hard into Vienna’s fly trap and leave them there. She squirms (which only makes things worse,) but she doesn’t release me. I wriggle the fingers around the seam of her panties until I sample a taste of dampness.

Vienna squeals like a prom queen in heat and opens her legs.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it.” This is it. My life is over.

Vienna starts laughing hysterically. “Holy, shit. I’ve never felt anything like that,” she says. Her legs bounce up and down on rusted floor boards. “For a second, I lost all feelings in my legs.”

She wraps both arms around my torso with her head in my chest. I’m sure she’s listening to my heartbeat racing at two-x hummingbird wing speed. I rest my arm across her back.

“Is that how it felt when I touched your … your cock?” She giggles. “That’s a funny word, ‘cock’.”

“No,” I answer truthfully.

“What do you mean?”

“It felt humiliating.”

“Why?” Vienna asks. “Celestina says boys love it when you touch them there.”

“You and Celestina? Do you discuss my cock often?” I ask … a little offended and intrigued.

“Not really,” Vienna says.

“I don’t think you should always trust Celestina’s judgment on guys,” I say. “Those sorts of things are better when you’re alone. Not in front of a dozen other art students.”

My Spidey sense starts tingling. Vienna is not listening to my heartbeat … she’s staring right at my crotch. Checking for some sort of reaction.

“You mean like now?” she whipers.

The car swerves just a little to the right and I tap the brakes. “No,” I say in a clipped voice. “Not now. You don’t want to cause an accident.”

We reach the academy at a few minutes past nine. I hope she isn’t in trouble with her curfew. I turn the car into the entrance, keeping the transmission in fourth gear. The engine stutters as I coast to the front entrance.

“Thanks,” Vienna says. She pulls herself out of my chest and exits the car.

I meet her around the other side. “For what?”

“For not treating me like a little kid.”

When I hand her the bag of gear, she stretches up on tiptoes and kisses me with unpracticed lips.

“What was that for?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says, “I just felt like it.”

Damn, she’s messing with me. If she tells anyone about tonight, I’m doomed. I resolve to keep things at status quo. I can handle that. I can’t lead her further down this road, but I don’t think it will be right to pretend none of this playful teasing really happened. That would fill her with guilt rather than confidence.

My stiff resolve works great for the rest of the week. At least until Friday.

The plot thickens...

liking the story lots op, keep up the great work!

Great stuff

please update its may already....

I'm trying to get an update out every couple of weeks, but I am running behind. It will be soon (I hope.)

>>21697
I'm sure the wait will be worth it.

i found this story today and i fapped and came, very good shit man good nice, the way u write his thoughts and opinions is really good more sammy more sammy sammy more

(I actually cut this a little short. Good news is that the next chapter is halfway done.)

Chapter 15

All week, I’ve been puttering away on my Singer sewing machine while half-naked girls try on dance outfits. They’re within a few feet of me, but I’m actually pretty clueless. Sewing is tougher than I expect and it requires my rapt concentration. Most of the girls had the presence of mind to ignore me.

Except for Kesia Mgboyo (I don’t know how to pronounce it, either.) Taller, heavier, and more developed than the other girls, she leans over my table with her arms around her breasts, enhancing her natural cleavage, and thrusting them into my face, “So, you don’t like these, huh?”

I glance up for a second and say, “I don’t like talking about it.” That should be enough, but I’m tempted to reach up and tweak her nipples. Wouldn’t that surprise the piss out of her? I bet they be perky and responsive.

Stop that, my internal voice screams. I wonder about the world that drops a potential predator in the midst of young girls because they are afraid of being perceived as homophobic. I wonder about that world, but I have a front row appreciation for it.

Anyway, I’m such an idiot. I’ve been banging away on this Singer, and it never once occurs to me that Vienna will be the little girl standing next to me in her underwear until she’s right there. “Whoa. Nice outfit, nugget,” I say more out of shock than anything. It’s not any more revealing than the dance outfits she’s been wearing, but it’s underwear which is half-way home.

Vienna smiles and says, “Is it ready?”

“I think so,” I say. It looks so small compared to Vienna. I don’t see how it’s going to fit, but the fabric is stretchy. “You want to try it?”

I place my fingers in her left leg hole and lower it so that she can step into it. My face is so close to her crotch that I catch a mild whiff of amino acids. I hope it’s sweat (not really.) Then the right leg. I start to help her pull it up. When it gets mid-thigh, I realize that everyone in the costume room is watching us -- Abuso, a few girls, and every single mom. I start to lick my lips, then stop myself. Any hint of arousal and I am doomed.

My skin tingles from the conflict between desire and fear. I help Vienna gingerly pull it up over her shoulders. “Your shoulder is looking better.”

“I told you that it was nothing to worry about,” she says anxiously, like she’s worried I’ve messed up her dance outfit.

I instinctively run my fingers up and down her back to smooth out any wrinkles – all the way from her shoulder blades to the small of her back with it’s sharp, arching muscles. I am terrified by the responsiveness of her flesh under the Lycra. For a moment, I close my eyes. Bad idea -- my imagination is far more depraved than reality. My stomach twits in knots. I hold my breath and count. One, two, three, …

“He has been working so hard,” Kitty Hinshaw says as I pass the number eight. Her voice jars me out of my stupor.

Tangled in bunches, her right leg elastic band refuses to lay flat. My fingers, with a mind of their own, trace beneath the elastic, caressing bare flesh. Mentally, I can resist the seduction, but other parts of my anatomy tingle in rebellion.

Vienna flexes her glutes a couple of times and laughs with a gaspy chuckle that makes me wonder what she’s thinking. It is so damn erotic, dancing this game in front of all these uptight women, that I almost lose it.

Kitty Hinshaw pushes past me and tweaks various parts of Vienna’s outfit. She tugs on the Lycra at Vienna stomach and next to her breasts to check the fit. Just like with her own daughter, she shamelessly straightens the fabric around her crotch. I’m beginning to think Kitty and I have something in common – a shared fascination with young girls.

I locate Vienna’s skirt with an elastic waistband and shear camo pattern. I still haven’t found my voice, but I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. When I pull it up around Vienna’s hips, I gain another jolt of contact. Thin fabric drapes across both sides of her ass with a clear depression in the center. It’s a tease the way it cloaks her ass, yet accentuates it.

My mind screams, “Just grab it. Grab hold with both hands and pull close for one moment of erectile nirvana.”

Fuck, I am so messed up. “Wow … um,” I say. “Do you want to try the jacket?”

She nods. I’m not even sure if it should be called ‘a jacket.’ It’s a waist coat, cut to look like a short flak jacket, with a strap across her chest for an ammo belt and thin cardboard tubes sewed in as ‘ammunition’. Vienna stares in the mirror with a grin.

“I didn’t think you’d have time,” Kitty says, “so I worked on the helmet.”

The helmet she hands me is thick folded over khaki material with a strap around her chin, a camera sewed at the forehead and a microphone and ear piece running across her cheek. It’s heavier than I expect. “Is there batteries in here?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m going to sing during the dance,” Vienna says.

A pair of sunglasses and a toy machine gun almost as tall as Vienna, complete the outfit. “How do I look?” she asks.

She looks like a five foot tall killing machine in a leotard. “You look ruthless,” I whisper. She grins and only loses a little of the effect.

“I bet if she was a guy,” Kitty Hinshaw says, “you would think he was pretty hot.”

“If she were a guy,” I say, “I’d probably take him on the sewing machine right now.” It’s only a small lie, but I have got to start wearing baggier jeans.

Vienna guffaws out loud, while Kitty choked out a mild gasp.

After recovering her composure, Kitty asks Vienna, “How’s it feel?”

Vienna flexes her knees a few times, executes a few flawless spins, and then places her foot on the wall for a stretch. “It feels good,” she says.

I catch a glance at the wall-mounted clock. “Oh, look at the time,” I say. “We gotta run or we’ll be late for gymnastics.”

“Oh, shit,” Vienna says.

“Leave the outfit here,” Madam Abuso says.

Vienna quickly, but oh so carefully, removes the dance outfit. She dons her stylish, fur-lined, double-breasted coat over her underwear, grabs her stuff and says, “Let’s go.”

She’s in her bare feet and it’s December. “I’ll carry you,” I say. I don’t give her a chance to argue. I throw the dance bag over my shoulders, place my arms under her knees and back, and lift. She wraps herself around my neck.

I race out the dance studio, like I’m carrying her over threshold. Before we make it out to the car, her jacket slides off her side. “Cover up, you little tart,” I say. “You want the whole world to see ya?”

Vienna just laughs like it was the funniest thing in the world. She pulls herself up and kisses me on the cheek. “Ohmygod,” she says, “that was so hot.”

I shove her in the back seat along with her gear. Before long we’re motoring on to the gym, but she’s still giggling. I need her to focus. “We’re going to be there before you know it,” I say. “You better be dressed.”

She takes off her bra and wraps it around my neck. “You’re mine, now.”

“Cut it out!” I say whipping the bra off of my neck. “You don’t want me to have an accident, do you?”

Vienna leans back against her seat with breasts clear in the rearview mirror. She finally stops laughing and wonders, “Why did you think that was humiliating?”

“It’s not the same thing as art class,” I say thinking of the class when Celestina was manipulating my member. Then I wonder if an exhibitionist would think differently. “What made this hot was the surreptitiousness.”

“What’s that mean?” she says, digging a new sports bra out of her bag.

“It’s our secret, like we’re getting away with something in plain view of everyone.”

“Ohhhh,” she says in a long drawn out way that makes me wonder if she might test this theory at the worst possible time.

I drop her off at the front of the gymnasium and find a place to park. I find my usual seat in the mezzanine. I’m pretty much caught up on my homework for the week, except for the rewrite of my Medieval Studies paper. I can’t work on my paper here. I have little else to do – except think and worry and ponder how much risk I’ve assumed in the span of one short week. What the hell and I doing sitting in the same room as scantily clad young girls?

I start humming the “Everything is Awesome” escapist song from the Lego movie. Despite my doubts, this situation is sort of awesome.

By the time I hear Sergei berate Vienna for the third time for her lack of concentration; I need a trip to the men’s room. If my left hand is Celestina, and my right hand is Vienna, is that a ménage a trois?

Everything is awesome.

I should have taken care of that first. Now, I can really think. And boy do I regret being able to think? I am such a mess. No longer tempered by the bliss of erotic Novocain, my thoughts are pretty self-destructive.

Good thing is that I have a weekend of homework coming up to forget my week of insanity.

>>21705

Thanks OP. I really like your story.

Is it strange that I read elit because it's interesting or whatever? I mean, i don't fap to it or anything.
tl;dr good story

Chapter 16

After gymnastics, I pretend to read a textbook in the massage room, but I can’t concentrate. Vienna relaxes on the massage table watching me watch her. It should be hotter than it is, but there’s a third wheel -- Denis. And his heart is not into the massage like it once was. I wait through Denis’s incoherent muttering. He jabs and pokes at Vienna’s back and neck for a few moments. He throws up his hands. “I can’t work like dis,” he says. He completes the lame massage and storms off after less than ten minutes.

“You’re not paying him for that, are you?”

Vienna doesn’t seem to care. She jumps up from the table and says, “I’ll be dressed in a jiff.” A few minutes later, dressed in zebra print sweats with “Juicy” embroidered on it, she’s ready to rock.

“Were you watching me at gymnastics?” she asks giggling and bumping into me as we head out to the car. When I tell her I wasn’t, she says, “Good. That was one of my worst practices ever.” She laughs like a poor practice is a daring form of pre-adolescent rebellion.

It’s Friday, and we have the lengthy drive back to the Stegman Estate in the Hamptons. We clamber into the car and head out of town.

“I’m not used to these hours,” I say. “It’s early on a Friday night, and I’m ready for bed.”

“Whoo hoo. Thank God it’s Friday,” Vienna says. “You can stay at the manse, if you want.”

“Nah,” I say without really thinking about it. “I have to rewrite a paper this weekend.”

Accelerating onto the Long Island Expressway, Vienna unbuckles her seatbelt and slides over next to me. “You’d save time, if you stayed at our house.”

I am able to remove my hand from the shift before I face my nightly moral dilemma. I still suffer from the effects of post-mastabatory apathy, so I find it easier to ignore her carnal signals. In fact, I’m a little disturbed by them.

“How do you figure that?” I say. “The library is back at the University.”

She rolls over, looking up at me with her head on my lap. I place my arm around her midsection while her sneakers tap the beat to some familiar song on the passenger window. “It will save you time when you come get me tomorrow morning.”

“Aw, man,” I say with a groan of disgust. “On Saturday?” So much for sleeping in.

She pushes my hand aside and sits up with a contemptuous eye-roll. “I didn’t know I was so much trouble. I thought you maybe you enjoyed spending time with me.”

“With you, sure,” I say. “But I spend most of the day sitting and waiting. And I need to get this paper done.”

She stares out the passenger window and says nothing.

I sigh in that way guys do -- suitable for any time that females are completely unreasonable. I’m too used to my independence. “What’s tomorrow’s schedule?”

“You don’t have to drive me anywhere,” she says. “I’ll walk.” She has her arms crossed in front of her, looking away from me. I see her furrowed brow reflected in the windshield.

I can’t help it, but I chuckle. “I’m not going to let you walk to Stony Brook. Do I have to get you at five-fifteen?”

“No,” she says. Slowly, I weasel the Saturday schedule out of her. “The swim meet is at nine-thirty. You can probably get me at eight.” Followed by a quick lunch, private music lessons -- piano and singing, gymnastics, and finally a dance recital Saturday evening.

“Wow, that’s a long day for a Saturday. I don’t have to drive you anywhere on Sunday do I?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, I have Sunday off.”

“I don’t know how you’ll stand the downtime. You must be bouncing off of the walls by Sunday evening,” I say sarcastically. “I’m exhausted, and all I do is drive. Maybe you should cut back.”

“I can’t,” she says. She twists around with her feet straddling the head rest and her head almost on the floor.

“Is that comfortable?” I ask.

She starts picking away at rust from the floor boards. “I think I can see the road,” she says.

“That’s my ventilation system.”

Her finger pushes through and knocks a four inch hole just below her head. “Whoa,” she says. “What’s holding this car together?”

“It’s hard to believe, but forty years ago, this was the peak of Asian technology.” I wrap my arm around her legs, and pull her upright. “What do you want to do when you graduate High School?”

I’ve asked this before, in different ways, but I haven’t really gotten a straight answer. I’ll keep trying. It’s not so much about getting her to figure out what she wants, but she should start narrowing it down. I wrap my arms around her and pull her tight – mostly to keep her from falling through the floor.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Some days, I want to be a concert pianist or a rock star, other days … an Olympian or a world famous artist. Then, I have a terrible class and I realize how utterly stupid it all is. We have at least thirty artists at the school and maybe sixty musicians --- yet we have exactly one distinguished graduate of any renown. I aspire to be the one who looks back on my life only to realize I’ve done nothing since school.”

“I think that’s your school motto,” I say. I try to keep it light, but it all sounds pretty depressing.

“How did you decide to become a doctor?” she asks.

I start fiddling with her sweatpants at the furrow created by the seam of her panties. “I don’t know,” I admit. “It just seemed right.”

“Is it because of your father?”

“Maybe,” I say. It’s because he’s had a life of struggle and nothing to show for it except a massive open heart surgery scar.

“You want to help him, don’t you?”

“What?” I say surprised. “Nah, he’ll be dead long before I can get my medical degree.”

“So, you want to help others like him?”

“It would be great to help other people,” I say. “I’m more interested in financial security.”

“That’s it?” She starts to pull away again. “You don’t care about the patients? You’re just selfish?”

“Um,” I find I’m missing the contact. “Well … sure, I want to help others, too.” Whatever. We’re heading down Montauk Highway. Almost there. “It’s like your parents. They help people, but they live in these great neighborhoods. That’s a good life.”

“My parents?” She scoffs. “They don’t care about anybody, but themselves. I would trade for your parents any day.”

That seems like more childish foolishness. “You just don’t appreciate what you have.”

“I do,” Vienna says thoughtfully, “but do you know what I remember from Thanksgiving Dinner?”

She lays back into my lap and gazes at me with her earnest brown eyes, willing me to understand her grand philosophies of life. I don’t.

“My stomach purge all over your table.”

“Before that,” she says. ”Your parents defended you.”

“And then Dad nearly had an aneurysm.”

“Then there was one moment. Something I’ve never seen before.” I must look like a total dweeb. I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Your mother took care of him. She looked so worried.”

“Don’t you get it?” she asks in that twelve year old sort of way when she’s about to explain how Justin Bieber is the greatest poet in two generations. “My mother would take a Valium and call a servant. She sure as hell wouldn’t risk exposure to bodily fluids or let it mess with her charity events. That kind of love is worth more than money. A lot more.”

I wonder if we all see our parents in the worst possible light. That voice that tells us when it is time to leave home is the same voice that tells us we’ve outgrown them without understanding anything about them. What drove their successes and failures? Why did they make the choices they did? How does one child live in poverty when her sister becomes a gazillionaire?

“Your mother isn’t like that,” I say. “She took care of Ashley and I when we were younger. She was a lot of fun. You guys have it all. You think it’s easy to live in a house which is one step removed from the third world?”

“I’ve never even been to your house,” Vienna says a little puzzled. “For some reason it’s off limits.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “There was some big family blow out before your parent’s wedding, Prababka starts spitting out Polish epithets whenever Liz’s name is mentioned.”

“Who’s Prababka?”

“Our great-grandmother. I don’t understand what she’s saying, but it had something to do with the war.”

“The Iraq War?”

“Nah, I think it was long before that – maybe even World War II.”

We pull into that grand circular driveway. Vienna makes one more plea, “Please? Come on … spend the night.”

“I didn’t bring any stuff,” I say. “I wish you would have asked me before the end of the day. I could’ve packed.”

She gets out of the car with the engine still running and rolls her eyes. “I’m sure Rosalita can find something for you.”

In the worst way, I’m tempted to stay the night. I’m tired and hungry … and I wonder what could possibly go wrong. Which is exactly why I answer, “I really have to catch up on some work. Maybe next week.”

“All right, next week,” she sighs. “What about dinner? You’re hungry, right?”

I’m famished. “But your parents haven’t seen you all week. They’ll want to talk to you.”

“Yeah, right,” Vienna says. “That’s what your parents would do. I’ll eat alone in the kitchen. Maybe Rosalita will ask about my week.”

I hesitate. I am starving. And I can’t stand the idea of Vienna eating alone.

“Come on. It’ll be fun.” She says.

“All right, all right.” I turn of the engine and grab her bag from the back seat. It’s just dinner. I have to eat somewhere. I hope that my resurging hormones aren’t speaking for me. “But I can’t spend the night.”

“Next week,” she says, “You promised.”

I don’t remember making a promise.

Chapter 17

I’ve never been inside this kitchen before, not that I remember. A scope of audacious excess that I can only think of as Rosalita’s Empire. An arsenal of cabinets looks new, but intentionally weatherworn -- distressed, antique white, almost gray. But the kitchen is dominated by a twenty-foot long granite island, dotted with burners and four (… count them four) … stainless steel ovens. It’s a far cry from the sterile white cabinets shown in magazines. If anything, it looks richer.

Rosalita jumps up from a small, square table where she’s eating a snack and watching a cabinet-mounted, flat-screen television. She gives Vienna a kiss on the cheek and says, “Buenas noches, Senior Yakubowski.”

“Good nachos to you, too,” I say. Maybe I should make more of an effort with my Spanish. I swear, as soon as she learns to say the “J”.

“Kyler’s staying for dinner,” Vienna says with the command of a twelve year-old.

“Of course, Senorita.”

Before I can blink, Rosalita turns off the television, clears the table, and adds a second place setting.

“What do you want to drink?” Vienna asks me.

“I’ll have milk.”

Vienna pinballs all over the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets. Finally, Rosalita says, “Settle down, Chispita. I’ll get it for you.”

Along with the milk, she dishes up some soybean mush mixed with tofu, rice and some spicy meat which could be goat. Rosalita makes a quiet exit from the kitchen to leave us alone at the small kitchen table.

“Yummy,” I say a little sarcastically, “what is it?”

“It’s my normal Friday night protein paste extravaganza.”

I try to peel the concoction from the top of my mouth so that I can answer her. “This is really thick,” I say to bide my time. I wash it down with a gulp of milk. It hits my stomach like a lead brick. “What made you pick this?”

“I didn’t,” Vienna says, “A nutritionist designs my weekly meal plan.”

She sits down next to me with some sort of gray, slimy, blended juice to drink. It looks yummy. She pulls her chair into the corner next to mine and starts yammering about her buddies at school. “Everybody’s been talking about you,” she says, “Yvette thinks you’re some sort of spy or a prince and Imogen says you’re a drug dealer. They think,” she giggles, “it’s fashionable to look poor.”

She’s talking non-stop, like she’s afraid of quiet. She’s pulled her chair almost in the corner of table, just a few inches from me. Her leg bounces up and down so fast against my leg that I’m worried about the friction fire hazard. “I’m sure Celestina set them straight,” I say.

“Celestina is in high school,” Vienna says. “Most of the kids in my grade don’t talk to her. In the dorms, Celestina told them you are a male model.”

“That’s kinda true,” I say. “Why are they talking about me so much?”

Vienna blushes a slight shade of pink. “Cause you kiss me every morning. They think it’s sweet.”

I feel my neck get warm. Here I was worried that Vienna would think too much about a kiss in the morning. Now the entire seventh grade was involved. “Don’t they have anything better to gossip about?”

“I really like it,” she says while stirring her high-octane gruel. “It’s my new favorite part of the day. What about you?”

“You have all of those activities, not to mention art and music lessons – and a kiss is your favorite part of the day?”

Her leg is bouncing even faster. She looks like she’s holding her breath while she nods. She looks down at the table with darting glances at me.

“You’re a little vixen, aren’t you?”

She says nothing, but her pink shading does the talking for her.

“Well, I like that morning kiss … a lot,” I say. “But my favorite part is …” I lean in close to her and whisper the final words, “… when you change your clothes in the backseat.”

Her eyes open wide and she lets out a little squeal. “You’re not watching me are you?”

“Um … no,” I say and allow my eyes dart around the room. Then I grin. “Only a little,” I admit.

She smacks me on the forearm and says, “You’ve been sneaking glances at a twelve year-old girl, you creeper.”

“That’s me … Little Bo Creep.”

Vienna sucks a long drag of gray slime through her straw. Then she says, “I guess you need to be punished for that. Hmmm.” She taps her finger on her chin as though it is helping her to think. “I know. You have to spend the night in the manse.”

“Next week,” I say.

“Aw, come on!”

Like a dog moments before an earthquake, Vienna senses something. Her leg suddenly stops moving and her head cocks to the side. The saloon-style door between the kitchen and main dining hall opens. Aunt Liz enters wearing a short-sleeved lime green hoodie and matching shorts complete with wrist bands.

“Hey, Auntie,” I stand up and greets her with a kiss on her cheek. I feel vindicated that her mother cares about her, but Vienna remains seated with her arms crossed – challenging her mother.

“How’ve you been doing this week?” Liz asks me.

“Pretty good,” I say. I glance over at Vienna with a childish “I told ya so” look. She sticks her tongue out at me.

I return to my seat. Liz takes out a chair and sits down at the small table across from Vienna, “Guess who I spoke with today?” Vienna shrugs. “Your vice principal … Dr. Tullis.”

Vienna leans forward and rests her chin on the table with her arms in her lap. Only her head is exposed, as though she’s tuning her mother out. I feel a hand caress my knee … then the inside of my thigh. I do my best to relax and pretend that Vienna merely needs a little comfort during the routine parental lecture about school.

“You got a C- on your Geography exam … “

“Who cares about Geography?” Vienna says.

”I do,” her mother says seriously, “and you failed to turn in two assignments for Math.”

As her mother speaks, Vienna moves her hand up and down my thigh. Each stroke moves closer and closer to my nethers. I want to believe the action is an unconscious tick, like her leg bouncing up and down. Yet, I know she’s chosen this instance to test my axiom of surreptitious eroticism.

I have very, very strong mixed feelings about that.

Worse, yet … it’s working. My cock twists in knots as it swells in reaction to her tease. I can’t reach down and straighten it out … I can’t react without getting the wrong kind of attention. All I can do is allow my mind to wander with a blank, vapid expression.

“I’ll get those homework projects done,” Vienna says. “Mr. Schwenkenhammer doesn’t take any points off if it’s late. And, I still have a B in Geography.

“One more thing,” Aunt Liz says, she tilts her chin confrontationally. “Dr. Tullis tells me you might have a new boyfriend?”

“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Vienna says.

“Aunt Liz,” I say, “I bet Dr. Tullis thinks it’s … “

My statement is cut short as Vienna slides her hand all the way into my crotch and gives me a quick squeeze. I try to keep my composure as that jolt of libido shoots up my spine. That effin little minx. Vienna leaps up from her seat, slams the chair against the table and says, “I don’t know what Dr. Tullis is talking about. I don’t have any boyfriend.” She turns and heads out the back kitchen. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

After she leaves, I grab a couple of quick breaths and swallow my pride. “Every morning when I drop Vienna off, I give her a quick kiss goodbye.” I’m still having trouble sitting straight. Instead of relaxing, every little shift of my hips rubs denim against my erection.

“Why would you do that?” Liz asks.

“It’s nothing, really,” I admit. “Vienna seems isolated compared to the others. I thought it might add to her mystique.”

Aunt Liz sighed. “She’s supposed to make friends in all of those activities.”

“Even though they are team sports, she’s basically alone,” I say. “And everyone is so competitive.”

“Yeah,” Aunt Liz nods and gets a far off look for a moment. “I miss those days,” she says and I don’t think she’s talking about Vienna. I set my fork down on the china plate and the clink rings through the kitchen, highlighting the hollow loneliness of this grand mansion.

The noise jars her from her stupor. “Have you given any thought about reporting your sexual assault?”

“I wasn’t assaulted,” I say.

“I have experience working with rape victims,” she says. She removes her sweaty tennis wristbands and waves them around while talking. “I am constantly amazed when people blame the victim, even family and friends. Some people say, ‘she dresses provocatively’ or ‘she knew what she was doing, drinking with those guys.’ There are a million and one reasons people use to justify rape.”

“That’s got nothing to do with me,” I say trying to keep my voice steady. “I wasn’t raped.”

She picks up my glass and drains the rest of the milk. “What surprises me is when victims believe the same stories. They are confident it was their fault.”

I’m getting a little irritated at her insistence. I look her straight in the eye and say, “You’re talking about somebody else, not me.”

“All right,” she sighs. She acts like she’s going to stand. Then she leans forward and shakes those wrist bands right at me. “Don’t be stupid. You may not care for yourself, but if you were raped – this jackass isn’t going to stop there. He’s going to find other victims.”

Aunt Liz stares at me for a few moments, waiting for some response, but I got nothing. I’ve never been the type to ask for help or blame other people. She shakes her head, stands up and leaves through the swinging saloon door.

For a moment, I sit there wallowing in silence. The door behind creaks open and Vienna bounds in wearing her pajamas – a thin, spaghetti string top with polka dot, fleece(and very snug) pants. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

“Nah,” I say. It no longer seems quite so fun and innocent. It’s not Vienna I’m worried about, but Khandaya. Aunt Liz got me thinking. Seven kids were in that house including that poor young girl with only one arm. I’m sure she’s already a victim.

“I’ll walk you out then,” she says.

On the way out the foyer, she asks, “If you can’t tell my mom, can you tell me what happened?”

I shake my head. “I would,” I say. I’m solemn and withdrawn. “But I have no idea.”

She opens the front door for me (which seems kind of backwards) and I head out to my old, rusted Kyler-mobile.

My mind is miles away. I keep walking and don’t even notice that Vienna has stopped. I’m ten feet in front of Vienna when I hear her call, “Kyler.”

I glance back. The front walk has lights built flush with the concrete and stone which bathes the walkway and Vienna in a mild glow. She grips the hem of her pajama shirt with both hands. In one motion she lifts her shirt up over her head and then pulls it back down with just a brief glimpse of her perky nipples protruding in the cold air.

And it’s funny as hell. It’s maybe the one thing that could shake me out of my funk. “Oh man, you are a wicked tease.”

“See what you’re missing tonight?” she says with a squeal. She bounces on her feet like a ballerina who can’t keep still.

“I’m already missing it,” I say.

She whips her shirt above her head for another flash of bare, childish nibs. This time I don’t stand still. I saunter over to her without saying a word. She looks worried. Her eyes seem to ask if what she did was okay.

I scan the nearby windows to make sure nobody is watching. “You are going to be the death of me,” I say. I place one hand around her neck, bend down and kiss her. Not just a quick peck, but long enough to feel her cashmere lips shit into contours which match mine; long enough to push my tongue past her lips and touch the tip of hers; and long enough to trace my fingers down her back, just barely touching her ass.

I’m sure she feels my shaft growing between her thighs, but she doesn’t back away.

Finally, before I need to breathe, I release her and I see stars. She stumbles into the wall and says, “Wow.”

Yeah, fuck wow.

“See what you’re missing?” I say.

She can’t answer. When it comes to being a tease, she’s a clumsy amateur. I leave her standing there in the doorway. I wonder if she’ll still be standing in the same spot when I pick her up tomorrow.

On the way back, I spend a few moments wondering if that kiss was a colossal mistake. I was messed up and out of sorts when thinking about Khandaya.

Aunt Liz practically begged me to abandon my selfishness. It’s the same thing Vienna said in the car – she’s the daughter of American royalty, but I’m the self-centered bastard.

By the time I return to my apartment, I forget all about Vienna (it helps that I didn’t wreck the car while releasing the excess pressure build up for the second time today.)

For the first time I can remember, I believe something else may be more important than my medical degree. I’m nervous and excited as the thrill comes over me.

I dig through my dresser and find the note she left for me.

“I’m sorry. I tried to stop them.I hope you are not hurt too bad. {heart} Khandaya.”

Her handwriting is shaky and barely legible. The only real evidence I have that something terribly wrong happened. She tried to help me, and I have done nothing to deserve her kindness. What would I do to help her? Everything. I should sacrifice anything and everything. She deserves it.

He won’t be at that house, Victor Vandeprave, but he’s the key. I have to wait a few more days. Tuesday’s art class. He’ll be there, and so will I.

Damn, this went from 'pretty good story' to 'when is the next update you Bastard?! I must know more!' in one post. Bravo Random.

Damn, this is really good!

Op, this is one of the best stories i ever started to read. not only in terms of eroticism and build-up, but even in terms of plot and characters. please do co tinue to write! also , have you ever written and uploaded soething else?

I second the posts above. Good shit m8

Thanks a lot for the positive words. I have a few stories on fictionpress.com. I have a tendency to over-plot and over-write. I'm fighting hard against that tendency here. The one story which is furthest along is called "The Shattered End of Hollow Canyon."

>>21791
I've started to read that story, and that shit is good.
You guys should read it.

>>21791
OP, chapters 48 and 49 are identical, and chapter 48 is labeled as chapter 49.

Sorry about that. Thanks for the note, it's been fixed.

>>21823

Jesus Christ. My dick is diamonds. I can't handle this.

yeah that shattered end story is really good, started reading it the other day. Definitely worth it.

I am Pleased, Continue.

I don't have a FictionPress account, so I'm letting you know about my thoughts on SEoHC and this story here. Guy needs to die in a fire, and if Cody fails in protecting Ceila, I'm going to pull a Liam Neeson on you. Bravo for making compelling and deep characters, but I just can't take any more bad things happening to our heroes.

I'm seeing a bit of that story creep into this one: wanting to free a young girl from someplace abusive. I have a bad feeling about what is going to happen next. Though I have been enjoying the developing relationship between the mc and Vienna.

I look forward to both projects moving forward. Thank you for sharing them.

Thanks a lot for the feedback. I appreciate it. One of the reason that I developed this story was to explore some ideas that I couldn't find the space to explore in the other one. So, there are definitely some similarities.

Every protagonist needs to have a goal of some sort (which makes sense in the context of the story.) In my Fiction press story, the goal is defined as something which is impossible to achieve. The protagonist will need to understand that before the end. That's the main difference between this story (that, and I wanted to play around with a first person present POV.)

I'm trying to keep this story from being as dark as that one. I have to admit, something in my sensibility tends toward darkness

Finally, this was tougher than I expected. Believe it or not, I cut it down from my first draft.

Chapter 18

The thought of trying to find Khandaya fills me with nauseating dread. Up until now, my life has pretty much happened according to a plan that I could sleepwalk through. Good grades in high school and good SAT scores lead to college, ultimately leading to financial security. Now that I’ve decided that I want to help, I have no idea how. My mind races with all sorts of solutions and the subsequent catastrophes.

Even if I can find her, how do I get her away from Victor? He’s not going to just let me walk out the door. I may have to go all Phineas and Ferb on him. I can’t even try until Tuesday. I have three days for this doubt to percolate.

At least I have a term paper to distract me, and Vienna, of course.

When I pick her up on Saturday, she is adorable in her plain gray, form-contouring, sweats that are probably worth more than my entire wardrobe. I’m quiet the entire drive from the Stegman’s to the natatorium. She too, is silent in a meditative trance. I figure that is her uber-game face for her swim meet. We probably don’t say more than three words to each other the entire drive. I drop her off at the natatorium. “Good luck,” I say and head to the library for research on my term paper.

At the end of the day, Vienna has completed her swim meet, music lessons, and gymnastics. She won the Springboard dive. Even though she was happy with her time, she came in last the Breast Stroke.

All the while, I researched a ton about Pope Joan. There wasn’t really a Pope Joan, but most people refer to Marozia, the matriarch of the medieval Roman pornocracy and the lover of two popes. Six more popes descended from her, most of whom died young and violently, including the despicable Benedict IX. How did HBO miss this story?

I drop her off at dance for a bus to take them to the performance. Most of the moms ride with them. I suspect Vienna wants me to go too. Instead, I leave her at the studio and head back to the library. Even before I arrive, I’m regretting it. I only have one or two more references to check. Then, all I have left is proof read my write up. It’s all on my laptop, so I can finish the report anywhere.

Thirty minutes into the research, and I’m wasted with bloodshot, bleary eyes. I can’t do any more besides find more documentation for the same things I’ve already research, but it’s only a five thousand word essay. I pack away my stuff and decide to drive to the auditorium in West Islip. I wish I had Vienna’s GPS.

No problem. I find the auditorium only after a few wrong turns and a stop at a gas station.

Two tiny bunheads in matching black leotards hand out programs at the door. Inside, the auditorium is dark with tinny, orchestral music playing over the loudspeaker. Five young girls twirl on the stage with ribbons flowing behind them. I’m no jaded dance mom, but I can tell that they are out of Vienna’s league.

After they finished, the audience claps politely and the lights turn on for a brief intermission. I locate the Kitty club among the patrons in the third row in the front. When I get there, Kitty glows with an enormous smile and says, “Kyler, I’m so glad you made it.” She moves over one seat, to give me some room between her and Abuso.

“I didn’t want Vienna to know I’m here,” I whisper. “She gets nervous if she thinks I’m watching.”

The lights darken again followed by another group dance. The Mirlitons of Melville. Kitty gives me a running play by play until Abuso gives her the evil stare down. They know these girls, but they only practice a couple of days a week. That’s like amateur stuff.

Abuso’s glare doesn’t slow Kitty down. She leans closer to me and whispers, “We have a sleepover after every Saturday after the competitions. You’re welcome to join us, if you want.”

“A sleepover?” I say. “Vienna hasn’t said anything about that.”

“She’s always invited,” Kitty says. “I guess none of her other drivers would pick her up in the morning.”

I’m considering it. I think it would be wonderful for Vienna to have some bonding time with her dance peers. And Kitty Hinshaw isn’t really so tough. “Why would you invite me?”

“Oh, well … you know,” Kitty says. “My next door neighbor is a nice young man who seems a little,” she twirls her hand in the air, “… you know.”

Sigh. The gay thing. “No thanks. I don’t do well with matchmakers. Vienna is welcome to come, if she wants. Her mother may prefer to see her.”

“I was a year ahead of your aunt at Stony Brook. I can call her.”

The dance group is finished with a polite audience response and the final group begins. “Prepare to be amazed,” Kitty whispers.

The girls march out in a desert military formation with Vienna at the front. Vienna wears her sheer skirt and short jacket while the other girls wear a camouflage crop top, parachute pants, and matching squared-off caps. They’re all adorable in their desert camo’s cut to enhance whatever womanly figure they lack. Vienna calls out a military cadence in a musical tone followed by a one-word command, “Scatter.”

As soon as the music starts, they flip and twirl as they dive for cover like they are under attack. It’s not so much dance as performance art. Lights flash on and off as thought it’s a battlefield with explosions.

My heart is beating as though I’m watching the beginning of Saving Private Ryan. It’s that intense.

Kesia, wearing Bedouin white, crawls in from the opposite side with a mock-grenade launcher as a helicopter rises up on the stage. There’s not really a helicopter. It’s just light and a thwapping sound, but it feels like an actual fuckin’ helicopter in the auditorium. Struck by shrapnel, first little red-headed Tiffany falls, then Caroline Hinshaw. Finally, Kesia is taken out by a machine gun burst from the helicopter.

Vienna is the last one standing. She dances around the stage, checking corpses and searching for survivors. Shadows of a crowd of people rise behind her. The transition is so abrupt, it’s jarring. She marches in a parade with her rifle at her shoulder and Tiffany in a wheelchair next to her.

Caroline stands in front, holding out a rose, and Kesia carries a protest sign with the words, “Who’s the victim?”

Vienna looks confused. She dives, Rambo style, like she’s at the war one more time. In a prone, sniper position, she takes her rifle and points it at Caroline.

Music, that I didn’t even notice playing, ceases. In the quiet, Caroline falls to the ground. Pieces of the rose flutter in the air before they, too, fall to ground.

When it’s over, I rise to my feet along with audience. “You were right,” I say to Kitty. “I am amazed.” They weren’t just better dancers than the other groups. They were athletic and much more artistic. The dance was a thoughtful, disturbing, reflection on PTSD.

All of the moms carry bouquets of flowers for their daughters. I wish I had one for Vienna. She looks forlorn as the one dancer without recognition.

The dancing is followed by awards, which seem to go on forever. First, they have to thank Mrs. Gotschalk for the cupcakes and Mrs. Smith who arranged the auditorium. Then there’s the entire town council. I’m about to tear my eyes out when they recognize the magnificent contributions of the cleaning crew. They all act so surprised, as thought they don’t do this every year. I clap, but really I just want to escape this hot and crowded theater.

Finally, there’s actual dance awards. Abuso wins first place for the team. Vienna walks up and collects the trophy for the team. Finally, she sees me trying to weave my way through the crowd. He face glows when she sees me. She brightens when she sees me, runs to the end of the stage, and then leaps in my direction. “You made it,” she says. “What did you think?”

“It was phenomenal,” I say. “I still can’t believe I’m related to you.” Now, I have to ferry her back home.

She emerged from the dressing room a few minutes later. “If you want, Kitty Hinshaw invited you for a sleepover,” I tell her.

Vienna rolls her eyes in disgust. “She does that every week,” she says. “My mom doesn’t like Kitty Hinshaw. I think she made a pass at my dad or something in college.” Vienna guffaws like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Can you imagine? Shimon is such a dweeb. Who would make a pass at him?”

“Your mother saw something to love.”

She’s still laughing when we get in the car and pull out for the drive home. It’s farther than Stony Brook, but it’s more of a straight shot down Sunrise.

She undid her belt. This time she laid her head on my lap and rested her feet on the passenger window. I had to reach over her chest for access to the stick, but she didn’t seem to mind. After we reach the Sunrise Expressway, I placed my hand around her chest and caress her lat muscles. It’s a preventive maneuver on my part, but her muscles are incredible.

The first few minutes she spoke about the dance – how much fun it was to choreograph; how great it was to see it all work together. “It looked fantastic,” I say. Then she grew quiet again. The hypnotic rhythm of my tires running over the street joints was making me sleepy. I’ll bet she’s more tired than I am.

“We’re you angry?” she asks.

I glanced down at her deep, russet brown eyes in my lap staring back up at me. “Angry? No,” I say. “What would have made me angry?”

“You were so quiet in the car this morning.”

“You were quiet, too. I had something on my mind. I thought you were preparing for your meet. Why’d you think I’d be angry?”

“I thought maybe … you know … when I reached into your lap in front of my mom.”

“That was a shock,” I laugh. “Just be careful. If someone sees you, you could get in a little trouble, but I’d be in major trouble.”

She nodded as though she understood. She twisted her head around, reached up, and tweaked my cock with a giggle. “That was fun,” she said with a snarky grin. “Does it feel good?”

As always seems to be the case, the sudden swelling was awkward inside my jeans. I needed to work it around straight as the blood tried to rush past the kink in the hose. “Okay, try it now.” I probably shouldn’t have encouraged that.

My car windows, veiled in black, seemed to hold back the outside world. With very little traffic around, my car had become some sort of oasis for Vienna and I alone. Their rules did not seem to apply in our little kingdom.

She reached around and grabbed it again. “Celestina always says it’s supposed to feel good.”

“Yeah,” I gasp. It feels much better than it should from a twelve year old girl, but I’m starting to warm to the idea. “I can’t really put up with too much of this while I’m driving. It’s more distracting than a cell phone.”

By this time, my arm is resting on her rib-cage. She doesn’t seem to be wearing a bra, so I drag my thumb over the far nipple to see if I get a reaction. Even though their small, they feel nice. The little bit of flesh on her breast, pools up with each stroke like a rolling ocean wave.

“Whew,” she giggles, “that tickles.”

“Does it feel good?”

“Yeah … I think,” she says. “It’s hurt’s a little, too. We’ll experiment more with that one.” I rub my thumb across it a few more times. “You are a pretty good breast stroker.”

That’s what it is … harmless experimentation. Right.

xXx

By Tuesday, my imagination works overtime with worry about Khandaya. I was able to get through my paper, although it took much longer than it should have. Then carting Vienna back and forth without letting her know what I’m planning. (Which feels important since I don’t know what I’m planning.)

I’m so distracted in my Tuesday morning lab that I’m not even sure if it’s Bio or Orgo. I somehow get through it by rote following the directions and letting my partner take the lead. Afterwards, I grab a lunch at the SBU, carry it to a wall outside the art building, and wait.

And wait, and wait.

I recognize some of the models (Zulima, intimidating as always) and the first students. There’s my tall, gangly blonde, whose name I never got. Victor is in the second class of the afternoon. So, I have to wait. I try to read a textbook, but I can’t concentrate. Instead, I get up and pace around outside the art building.

Students from the second class begin to arrive. I notice Billie Wong and Delana Rodriguez, both final year art undergraduates. Then an adult education student whose name I can’t remember. Students from the first class stream out of the building. They all disperse to their cars or their next class. About five minutes later, I notice Ivelisse Chabert’s dark curls bouncing behind her as she races to class. She’s always late, and always the last one there.

Dammit. Where’s Victor?

Maybe there’s a back entrance to the building. I decide to enter the building and casually walk past the classroom.

Paper covers the door window to maintain an illusion of privacy. Fortunately, I can see through a sliver into the room. I catch a glimpse of Zulima, nude (of course). She is impressive. I lean in close, to catch a better view of the entire room.

“What are you doing there?”

Shit. It’s Shoki Dinkins, the Assistant Director of the Arts School. “I needed to speak with Dr. Hebetyria about my project,” I say without a better answer.

“She has posted office hours,” Dinkins says.

“I know,” I sigh like a frustrated, disorganized student. “I missed them. I was going to try to make an appointment for another time.”

“Why don’t you leave a note in her office?” Dinkins suggests. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, of course,” I say. I head down the hall as though I’m going to her office. After I notice that Dinkins isn’t following, I keep walking out the back door. Then back around front.

I have no idea what to do. Maybe I should have just walked in and undressed for posing. It’s not as though anyone would be surprised. But then I would have to stay for Vienna’s class, and I think that would be worse now that I’ve spent a week with her. I have no idea what to try next. This was my one great plan to confront Victor at the one place I knew he would be.

I’m pacing around out front when I hear, “Hey Kyler,” and I think I may have discovered a new avenue. “Are you posing, today?” Celestina asks.

I wave her over with my finger and she picks up the pace. “Can you do something for me?” I whisper hoping Vienna doesn’t over hear.

“Sure.”

“Can you get information on the Tuesday night party for me?” I ask. Victor had invited us all to their party that first class. For some reason, I’m thinking this one will be the Stony Brook sado-masapalooza. Not exactly my idea of a good time, but I don’t have another idea. “E-mail it to me, as soon as you get it.” I glance up and see Vienna heading over. “Do not tell Vienna.”

“That sounds awesome,” she says. “Our secret.”

“What were you guys talking about?” Vienna asks.

“Our lips are sealed,” Celestina says. She grabs Vienna’s arm and maneuvers her into the art building.

xXx

The rest of the evening, I keep checking my e-mail whenever I get a decent Wi-Fi signal. At dance and gymnastics … nothing. I drop Vienna off at the school disappointed with my progress so far. Nothing. I’m going to have to develop a third plan. I wish Celestina would have given me something.

When I stop back at my apartment, Mrs. Watson runs up to me with a little stutter step that makes her look sort of like a guinea pig. “Kyler,” she says, “I hope it’s okay.” She’s holding a plate with a couple of pieces of warm apple pie that she gives me.

“What?” I ask thinking nothing could startle me.

“Your cousin stopped by.” Having nothing to hold, Mrs. Watsons fingers nervously play with each other. “She wanted to wait in your apartment until you return. She seemed like such a nice girl. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind,” I answer glancing over at the steps up to my apartment. It can’t be Vienna. I just dropped her off.

She seems to catch my uncertainty. “You do have a cousin, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The truth is that I have lots of cousins. Vienna is the only one on my mother’s side, but I have sixteen on my father’s side. That’s only first cousins. I can’t imagine why any of them would be here. “It’s okay,” I say.

I head up the stairs and poke my head in my own door. “Is anybody here?” I ask.

A mass of dyed-blonde hair pokes through the hatch to the upstairs belvedere. “I’m up here,” Celestina says. “This room is so incredibly awesome.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“We’re going to Hebetyria’s party, right?” she says.

Shit, that wasn’t part of the plan. “No, we’re not going. I’m going.”

She laughs like she knows she has power of knowledge over me, and I have no say in the matter.

Oooooh crap. This is going to go so wrong.

And I forgot to mention this in my review, but I commend you for sticking with your stories for so darn long. As a fellow writer, I know it isn't easy.

I'm not really into this whole Victor plot thing. Hoping you don't make a massive deal out of it.

I think I get you. It's definitely one of the problems that I have (over-plotting). Victor is the thread that will weave all of these diverse characters together. I will strive not to get bogged down with him.

The story is mostly about the relationship between Kyler and Vienna.

>>21954
A really good story OP; I've a feeling it's on the verge of become great. Keep it up and thanks

Just want to say, I don't like victor but... no such thing as overplotting

Finally, here it is. I took two weeks off at the beginning of the summer. Since then, I'm having a little trouble finding my groove.

Chapter 19

“How did you find my apartment?” I ask.

From her perch in the belvedere, Celestina gives it a dismissive wave as though it were not worth comment. She bobs her head toward my beat up guitar case and says, “Is that your guitar?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome sauce,” she says. “Can you play it for me?”

“A little.” I’m still surprised by the presence of a future super-model/diva in my apartment to refuse such a basic request that tears at the heart of my insecurities. “Mrs. Watson made you some apple pie,” I say holding up the sample. “I guess she likes you.” Now that the odor is filling up the small space, my stomach is looking forward to it.

“I have that affect on people,” she says. She places the back of her wrist against her forehead in mock melodrama, “Alas, I’m famished.”

I am, too. I grab two forks and stash them in my shirt pocket. With my guitar case in the other hand, I head up the narrow spiral staircase to the belvedere. Fresh apple pie smell arrives before me, chased the chimney effect from my overworked baseboard heat.

I set the pie plates and guitar case on the ledge. As soon as I exit the stairway, the mix between the hot air and the cold gives me shivers.

Or maybe that was Celestina’s long, pencil thin legs. Not nearly as muscular as Vienna’s, yet still enticing. She sits exotically against one wall, wearing only her white, button down shirt (mostly unbuttoned) and panties. She has much more developed breasts than Vienna, and I can almost sight a nipple.

As I try to figure out if this is remarkable good fortune or a curse, I try to act cool. “Don’t you have a nine pm curfew?”

“Such rules are for middle schoolers,” she says pinching off a piece of cinnamon crumble topping and placing it on her tongue. She licks powder from her lips, which has the effect of making me forget about such childish rules. “This is probably my last year at that school. My future is too maestoso to be restrained by artificial restrictions in the educational arena.”

Her acting and perfume careers must be taking off. I make my way up to the landing and hand her a fork. I take a moment to glance outside toward the Long Island Sound. A lighted barge is moving slowly along the dark waterfront.

Once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I notice that she has had her hair brightened with blonde highlights. It’s a slow steady progression to the pinnacle of beauty – the California blonde. ”I saw your Law & Order episode,” I say when I sit down. “You were pretty hot.” She was a volunteer helping the homeless who became a suspect in a tire-iron beating of a vagrant who she was scuffling with on a security video. The perp turned out to be another homeless man who was protecting her.

“Gratitudinous max,” she says. “Not really hot, it was a little juvenile, I think. You know what was hot?” I shake my head. “Posing nude for you cousin in art. Holy fuck, I was dripping. If my classmates weren’t around, I think I would have fondled myself.”

“We would have flown from art class to orgy in 3.6 seconds,” I say thinking about that first class when she was flashing me.

“Aw man, that would’ve been sick.”

Sick is about right. “It’s probably just as well. It’s not supposed to be performance art.”

“Still it was fuckin’ awesome. I knew you were someone I needed to hang with. My agent’s been bugging me to develop an edgier, sexier side. He thinks I will have more appeal.”

“That’s hard to imagine.” I don’t know what to make of that. “You made up for that with your perfume advertisements.”

“No, no,” Celestina says laughing, taking another tiny nibble from her piece. “I’m only just beginning. Next year, we’re planning on a scent called ‘Awakening’. Then ‘Innocence Lost’ in the third year. That’s going to be amazing. My image will be shadowed, but clearly nude.”

My last piece of pie disappears, and a chasm of uncomfortable silence fills the belvedere. I know she wants me to play the guitar. I’m dying to know how I sound to others. Yet, I don’t think I would have chosen Celestina to be my first public performance. I lift the guitar from its case and strum a few chords to check the sound. I tune a couple knobs to tighten the strings.

“Okay, here it goes,” I say taking a deep breath. “This is a song I wrote called Broken Compass.”

My hand hangs above the guitar ready to strike, but my heart is beating so loud that I can barely hear. The reason I learned the guitar was for the possibility of attracting girls, of … you know … the opposite sex. And here waiting for me to start playing is one who I could not possibly attract in my dreams. What am I waiting for?

I strum a few chords, then quickly break into the song. It’s a ballad decrying the deaths of our heroes. Instead of the founding fathers, we have Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber. Instead of Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. we have Lady Gaga. It’s really a pretty depressing song all around.

About thirty seconds into the song, Celestina places both hands across her mouth and just starts laughing. I play for a few seconds before I stop.

“I’m sorry,” she says insincerely. “I think I’ve heard this song before.” I don’t know what she’s talking about. I’ve never heard it before. “A few alley cats were singing it on my way here.”

“Ha, ha. Funny.” Fuck you. I wanted an opinion as to my ability. I guess I found it. I start to return the guitar to its case.

“Don’t sweat it,” she says. “I’m spoiled by great music all of the time. There are lots of talented guys at school. Not so much as Vienna, but they play all of the time.”

I flick the case shut and consider buying some super glue to prevent me from the temptation of playing for anyone else. “You should try not to rag on Vienna. She has a hard enough time fitting in.”

“She’s gotta lighten up,” Celestina says. “I’m just having a little fun. That’s what friends do.”

Oh, so that’s what friends do.

She sets down her half finished pie and wipes her hands off. “We can leave for the party as soon as you’re ready.”

“As soon as I’m ready?” I protest. “How about now?”

Celestina shakes her head and laughs even louder. “Please tell me you have something nicer to wear,” she says. “I brought you appropriate under-attire. I figured you had the proper outer-attire. I can’t show up with someone wearing the latest in hipster-vagrant chic.”

“As far as that is concerned,” I say cautiously, “do you mind sitting this one out?”

“Preposterous,” Celestina says. “I’m so ready for this. My agent agrees.”

“Ummm …,” I’m not really sure how to address that. “I think he just wants you to give him a blow job or something.”

“Been there, done that,” Celestina says with a shrug. “I don’t get the big deal. All the upper classmen seem to like it.” She stands up and brushes dirt off her ass. I realize that she’s not really wearing panties. She’s wearing a thong. Fourteen years old – that is so wrong, yet so right at the same time. I bet she gets away with a lot of stuff I couldn’t dream of.

But my biggest worry is that Celestina may not be taking the risks seriously. I’m attending this party for a mission – searching for Khandaya and the guy who raped and pillaged my ass. “I think they’re may be some really disgusting creeps at this party.”

“You think so?” Her eyes twinkle and she brightens into a huge grin. “That would be excellent.”

She reaches her hand over to help me up. “Have you been taking care to trim back your weeds?”

“My what?”

She reaches down and fondles my crotch. “You know … .”

“I’ll take care of that,” I say. “But I still don’t think you understand. I don’t want you to come along. It’s dangerous.”

“If you’re trying to irritate me, it’s working. I have to come along.”

“I think it’s better if you don’t.”

“You got no choice,” Celestina says. “Hebetyria gave me a stamp to wear.” She holds out her wrist. I don’t see anything. “It only shows up under a certain light. If you don’t have it, you can’t get in the party.” She starts heading down and I watch he marvelous assets disappear. “You’re lucky though. She said I can bring a date. The only reason I invited you is that it’s pretty far away. I need a car.”

“All right, you can come,” I say following her. I’m going to get it so much trouble here. “We’re only going for a short time -- to reconnoiter. But no illegal activity. That means no drinking, no drugs and no sex.”

“Ohmigod, you are a fuckin’ riot,” she says with a laugh that I know will haunt me at my Stony Brook student misconduct expulsion hearing.

xXx


I’m following the directions Celestina is giving me, “Left here. Right. Oops, make a U-turn.” She has the address typed into her GPS. I’m in agony the entire ride. My balls are chafing and my bare ass is rubbing against my pants. How is this possibly fun?

When we finally arrive at the destination -- a commuter parking lot. “Are you sure this is right? I think Hebetyria is playing with you.” In a way, I’m relieved. There are few clear rules in the world anymore, among them is that I shouldn’t be taking a fourteen year old to a sex party.

“No, this is it.” She points to the far end of the lot. “Over there. Park next to that limo. That’s our ride”

I park a few spots away and the driver gets out. He’s dressed professionally. He doffs his hat for us. “I’m Parker,” he says with a high-pitched, nasally voice. May I take your hand?”

Celestina holds out her arm. He flashes some battery operated gizmo at it and a picture of a skull with intertwined roses beneath it lights up.

“Very good,” he says. He opens the door to let us in. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ll be leaving momentarily.”

Whoa. Immaculate interior leather seats stretch out into a curved bench where there are two other couples dressed much more provocatively than we are. One couple is painted like a few Jellicle Cats. “Meow,” she says. The other couple, of indeterminate gender, are dressed like rejects from a rejected Dr. Seuss manuscript. One of them (female or a guy with very large manboobs) pulls Celestina into his lap, kisses her, and cops a quick feel of her breast.

Celestina squeals and bites his nipple in return. “This is going to be so much fun,” she says. She jumps up and sits next to me as the limo pulls out. “This is our first time here,” she says to nobody in particular.

First step of my reconnaissance plan has failed. I don’t have any idea where we’re going.
The windows of the limo are dark. We’ve turned and maneuvered enough that I can’t make out which directions we have turned. “You should get ready,” one of the cats says with a purr.

“Do you hear that, Sweetie?” Celestina says. “We should get ready.”

She reaches into my lap and starts to undo my belt buckle. It feels pretty good. I approach that numb, happy place where I figure I might as well enjoy the moment. While she pulls my shirt out of my waistband, I unbutton her blouse gaining a perfect close up view of her fourteen year old breasts. Damn, she’s going to be a star. I stroke them and pinch a nipple. She gasps.

Before long, I’m removing her shoes then her slacks (which are not regulation school attire.) By the time we’re both half naked, I have long forgotten about our limo-mates. One of the cats say, “She bears the mark.”

“She does,” the other cat says. “On her hip.” The Who’s gasp.

“What this?” Celestina points to a mark on her left hip. “It’s a birthmark.”

The Who’s get down on the limo floor on their knees. One says, “Forgive my presumption, mistress. I did not know.”

The cats kneel on the floor behind them without saying a word. Celestina looks bemused. She considers herself royalty, and they’ve confirmed it.

She crosses her legs and says, “Kiss my foot.” I can tell she’s doing it just for fun and is not certain they won’t get angry.

“Of course, mistress.” The Who leans forward and kisses the top of her bare midfoot.

Celestina chuckles loudly, but nobody else is acting like it’s at all humorous. Their eyes are shifting back and forth between Celestina and each other. The limo swings around a tight curve, and they have to steady themselves.

“If only I had a riding crop,” Celestina says wistfully.

“I have one, Mistress,” the Who says. He reaches over to his seat, finds the riding crop, and hands it to her with his head down.

Celestina takes it and runs her fingers along it. She looks at me and grins. I’m feeling a little bead of sweat pool on my forehead. She turns to the Who and prepares to swat him. Instead, she taps him gently on his shoulder. “You may rise.”

“Mistress is merciful and generous,” the Who says.

Celestina turns to me, “Now, Kyler, your turn. You may kiss my feet.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t think I will.”

“Aw, come on,” she says, whacking me with the riding crop. It stings like hell. The Who’s and the Jellicles tense like they’re going to force me into the position. The Celestina chuckles like were playing a clever game. She tells them to relax and enjoy the merriment. They all laugh on cue.

The limo finally stops, and the passenger side door opens. Celestina exits first followed by me, then the costumed critters. We’re inside a closed, rough stoneworks that is colder than my belvedere. We could be underground for all I know. We stash our clothes in lockers against one wall and enter through the door held open by the driver. “Good day,” he says.

Inside is a pair of desk clerks wearing little more than a bow tie and manning an electronic security post. They check Celestina’s wrist once again and notice the birthmark which is creating quite a stir. “Would you like any tokens?” They ask.

“What are the tokens for?” I ask.

“You can get into the main party without them, but special events will require tokens,” he says.

I have a little money in my walled, but I’d like to save it. Celestina gives me a glance which says, “Of course we want tokens.”

“Okay then, how much are they?”

“The bronze are a thousand dollars, the silver are five thousand, and the gold are twenty thousand.”

“Dollars?” I say. “I didn’t bring my wallet with the twenty thousand. I think we’ll pass this time.”

“Of course, sir. If you are interested at other times, we accept Debit or Credit cards.”

A diminutive guide takes over, and we follow him down a narrow staircase into a sub-basement. He can’t be more than ten years old, but I don’t recognize him. As I’m halfway down, I smoke rising up from the dance floor and hear music from a live band.

The stair case must have a fake wall. All the way down the stairs, pricks still out for those who want to experiment. I wonder what they had to do to qualify for that job. Celestina grabs each one in turn and says, “I’m so very glad to meet you.”

When we finally reach the main dance floor, I see a smoky haze permeating the basement. It has that distinctive odor from marijuana. I think it might be best to take home Celestina right now. She jumps into the sado-mash pits and begin dancing. She calls to me to join her, but I would like to survey the room first.

I have to believe there has to be more than 200 dancers on the dance floor. The Jellicle Cats have met up with a few more cat-themed participants including a tiger, lion, and panther. Quite the solid them in that corner. In another spot, I notice Hebetyria dancing with a young guy. Strike that, they’re actually engaged in sex on the dance floor. However, in all my searching, I could not find the distinguished figure of Victor Vandeprave.

Celestina tows me into the dance floor and convinces me to start dancing. The smoky haze, mixed with sweat and a lot of rubbing helps to relax me, and I’m enjoying myself rather well. After about twenty minutes of intermittent grinding and groping, Celestina decides she needs a quick break to freshen up. I’m not thinking very clearly, so I let her travel to a quiet area on her own, while I dance solo. I’m trying to blend in with the crowd and move around every few minutes.

I move myself around the crowd – all of us dressed in skimpy attire. Nobody seems to mind when I rub up against them.

I’m nearly to the opposite side of the dance floor, and I still haven’t seen a sign of Victor. Which is pissing me off. I turn and look back across the mountain of people gyrating to the music, and I see no hide nor hair of him.

From behind me, a hand reaches to my waste. It’s a tiger. She must be affiliated with those women who are all dressed as some sort of cat. “I had no idea you were interested in this sort of party. Are you having fun, Kyler?” She says this as if she knows me.

I twirl around to get a better look at my acoster. “I should have known,” I say. “Kitty Hinshaw, how are you doing tonight?”

“Meow,” she says. “Would you like a dance?” I figure, ‘why not?’ She’s old, but she looks great. Dancing with Kitty can’t be as hard as it seems.

I just wanted to pop in to say that I'm a huge fan of two of your stories (PedoCella and this). I hope that you keep writing. It's a shame that you probably won't get published because of your subject matter since you definitely have the talent.

Thanks for the feedback. Funny thing -- I write other stuff, but I get few comments on those.

I think as soon as I'm done with Celia, I'll get back on Shimmer Child. I think it's a cool concept, but I have a lot more development needed on the characters and plot. That being said, it is clearly PG.

This plot is pretty good. I'll check out your other stories on fictionpress (besides the celia one, that one is good too)
Also, I don't mean to worry you or anything, but there's a chapter in the shattered end of hollow canyon where you accidentally put Celia's name in place of Angelika. Don't remember exactly which chapter, but just a heads-up.

>>22165
Eh, should've extended the limo scene (blowjob from the Whos while Celestina sits in his lap, maybe) and started with the party in the next update.

You're right -- I let you down. In fairness, the party has only just begun.

I won't let it happen again.

Chapter 20

Life in Schenectady left me completely unprepared for this panoramic 3D eye-ecstasy. Erotic Comic-con for grown-ups. Morally destitute and physically impossible are phrases that would come to mind if I had the capacity for a complete, rational thought. Inebriated by the steamy mass of sexuality and cannabile vapor, I descend into a goofy, primeval stupor.

A mass of bodies press against me in the seductive, carnal mélange which reeks of sweat and sex. Some clown (literally, with huge red shoes) brushes against me and spills half his drink on my ass followed by a race to see who can save the drippings from reaching the floor. I will proudly bear those teeth wounds for at least a week.

With both of us in bare feet, Kitty Hinshaw is shorter than I expect. I rest my chin on her shoulder clinging from the notion that she’s legal in every way, which somehow makes it okay. I don’t notice when the music stops. She runs her fingers along the string in my ass-crack. It feels pretty good. I could get used to this.

Kitty gently nudges my shoulder while holding my hips against hers. “I didn’t realize you were quite so adventurous,” she says with a wink.

“I have eclectic tastes,” I say wondering when I became this adventurous. “You make a great tiger.” I admire her feline grace. She’s not completely nude under her body paint. She wears some little doily to guard her crotch from mine. If I wriggle a little more, I might break it free.

My hand caresses a path along one of her stripes, across her nipple. “You have cute little tits,” I say with a high-pitched giggle. I don’t know where that came from.

She leans in closer to my ear, which pulls my face into her chest. “After my pregnancy, I had them reduced. My husband, Blair, prefers them small. Nice work don’t you think?”

Her words take a few days to register. Only a few inches from the nipple, I open my mouth and bite down. I roll her nipple between and taste the very tip with my tongue. Her body paint is cherry flavored.

“Whew,” she says with a shiver. “You like them childishly small, don’t you?”

“What?” I say. I jerk my head back away from her, flustered. “No, no … that’s not it.”

“You simply must come to my next sleepover. We’d have a wonderful time.” Kitty runs her hand over the back of my neck, and gently draws me back into her chest. “Vienna must be an absolute treat for you?”

I pull away again. Is that what she thinks? “No, I would never do anything like that.” My throat is parched. I’m faint, dizzy from the harsh smoke which fills the room. I wonder when Celestina will return with our drinks.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Kitty says. “You’re secret is safe with me. I didn’t even know you were a disciple.”

“Of what?”

“Why Skull and Daggers, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” I say. “Are you one, too?”

“You must know better than that. Skull & Daggers is a fraternal organization,” Kitty chuckles. “Skull & Roses is the sorority. I’ll never forget my touchstones. Magnificent. The ritual fills you with an incredible sense of power – almost immortality. Your uncle, Shimon, was my second.” She shrugs. “I don’t know why your aunt hates me for that. It was just a ceremony.”

None of that makes any sense. What the hell is a touchstone? My cock is pretty firm – like a stone. She can touch it.

“I went through a phase in college where I just had to taste that that rough, hand-circumcised scepter,” Kitty continues. “I think there are supposed to be four more touchstones tonight. Oh, here’s your date now.”

I turn to see Celestina weaving her way through the rolling waves of epidermal sea. She carries two plastic cups over her head through the parting waters.

Kitty cranes her neck and whispers in my ear, “You were ballsy bringing her here. I hope Victor doesn’t find out. Celestina and Vienna … they’re perfect. If Caroline was like either of them, Blair would be the next president of Europe.”

“There is no President of Europe,” I say.

Kitty laughs and pulls away from me. “I hope you don’t mind me keeping him warm for you, Mistress,” she says dipping her eyes to the ground. Kitty glances in my direction. “Oh, look, Nagini is peeking of his den.” Kitty reaches down and pulls what little fabric I’m wearing over the tip of my clearly exposed manhood. I have a sudden rush of pleasure when Kitty pats the top of it before dancing away.

“Who was that?” Celestina says handing me a drink. “It looks like she left you with a bad case of stripes.” She wipes her finger along my cheek and removes some body paint.

I take a long swig of the punch to cool me off. “I thought I said ‘no alcohol.’”

“Nah, this is just punch.” Oh, okay, I guess. She takes a sip of her drink and drapes her other arm over my neck I catch a grand view of her near-perfect breasts. Her nipples are thick and deep with almost no areola. I think I want to kiss them. “Sorry I took so long. This place is wild,” Celestina says. “That dyke from art class has barbed wire wrapped around some guy’s nuts.”

“Zulima?” I say, “She’s not a dyke. She’s a sadist.”

“Whatever,” Celestina says. “Oh, and I saw a couple of little runts running around naked. It was funny as hell. The Indian boy had the cutest little hard on.”

Somehow, my mind found its way through the fog and remembered why I was here. “Where’d you see him?”

“Over by the water cabinet,” Celestina says. “Isn’t that a funny phrase? That’s what my mom calls it.”

I scan in the direction that she’s pointing. I see a rough-hewn gap in the stone wall, but I can’t make out much more. I suck down my drink and say, “I’ll be right back. I want to see these kids.”

She grabs my hand and says, “I’ll show you.”

Celestina sashays in front of me. Fourteen, right? Her hips draw notice from every eye around us. Twisted characters from children’s stories in old, worn-down bodies can’t compete with that. (Although, Little Bo Peep is endearing in a totally fuckable way. “Baa, baa little black sheep,” I growl like a big-bad wolf. The way she gyrates with her penis-shaped shepherds’ crook is true talent.)

We reach an opening -- to one side is a lounge area with a few thousand pounds of bare flesh rolling orgiastically around the furniture, to the other side are a few, very talented bartenders with limited ID checking skills. Distant noise from the band is quieter in this area.

“I don’t understand,” Celestina says. “He was right here a moment ago.” She pulls me toward the orgy room. “Maybe they’re in here.”

Perhaps it’s my Catholic upbringing or a few too many penises in the mix, but I don’t see that could be fun. I always considered sex as a form intimacy not a communal, public activity.

This group seems to take pleasure in having an audience. There is even a rooting section for a ginormous black guy, who satisfies four people at the same time. His fingers are thicker than my boyishly cute Polish manhood. I don’t see what so impressive about him until he withdraws from one of the girls accompanied by a slurpy, sucking sound. Simultaneously, Celestina and I say, “whoa”.

I regain my composure first and say, “Come on.” I tug on her arm, pulling her outside the orgy room. “Nobody here matches your description.”

Beyond the bartenders, there is a narrow hallway, running downward. I notice a flicker of movement in the shadows. “I see something.”

She’s walking away from us with her hand on the wall. She has stringy, dark colored hair on a very short head. “Chai,” I yell as a guess.

She looks back over her shoulder and sees me. It is Chai. She flashes a toothy grin, and then turns and runs away from me. “Shit,” I say chasing after her.

“Where are you going?” Celestina says. I ignore her. Down the one sloping passageway, then turn right.

An armed guard in latex police chaps steps out from behind a pedestal and raises his hand. “Stop,” he says. He holds out an electronic tricorder. “Thumbprint scan.”

“I just need to talk with someone,” I say to the guard. Celestina catches up to me, wheezing to catch her breath. The thumb print scanner approves her admittance.

“No problem, just one brass coin for each of you,” the guard says.

“A thousand dollars?” I say wide-eyed. “Each? What for?”

Celestina whacks me on my arm, “I told you to by some of those tokens.”

“You bring the money, next time,” I say.

I try to figure out if there is a way past this guard without drawing attention. He doesn’t seem so tough. Of course, neither am I. “Can you call her for me? Her name is Chai. She’s about that high.” I hold my hand out to my shoulder height. “I just want to ask her something.”

The guard sighs.

Before he can respond, my skin crawls. I shiver from a slight breeze. Like when you are home alone, and you know something is outside in the darkness. I recall figments of blinding pain, and I hold my breath and pray it disappears. An erect penis presses into my ass and a hand comes down on my shoulder. My legs go numb.

Shit, where did he come from?

“I’m sorry Mr. Vandeprave,” the guard says, “I was taking care of him.”

“That’s quite all right, Hans,” Victor says. It’s all right for him. I can’t breathe. Hell, I think my nervous system stopped functioning and my limbic system blew a fuse. “Celestina, would you please excuse us?”Vicotr asks.

Celestina chuckles. She taps victor on his shoulder with the riding crop and says, “You must refer to me as Mistress.”

“No,” Victor says, “I don’t believe I do. But I will contact your school and let them know not to worry about you.”

Celestina gulps and backs away leaving me alone with Victor and a very dark-skinned Hans.

“Are you enjoying yourself at my weekly soirée?” Victors says. His hand held a firm grip on my shoulder. I feel my carotid pulsing in my neck.

“Uh, sure,” I cough.

“I’m afraid I must apologize,” Victors says maintaining his grip. “I had no idea who you were when I invited you to my house. I trust Shimon has taken good care of you.”

“I could have died,” I say trying to catch my breath.

“That would have been a shame,” Victor says. “I could not know the company you kept. Your friends are not insubstantial.”

A shame? Fuck. Dying would be a lot more than a ‘shame’ to me. “What about the kids?” I ask gaining some measure of confidence. “I thought I saw Chai a moment ago.”

“Is that what this is about?” Victor releases my shoulder and pats my back. It seems affectionate, but feels possessive. “Hans, would you locate Chai for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Hans says. He has a receiver inside his pedestal. He picks it up and whispers into. “She’ll be out shortly sir.”

“Thank you,” Victor says.

We wait quietly in the cave-like passage. Minutes tick by. It’s unnerving, particularly since we’re all practically naked. To break the silence, I decide to ask, “Where are we?”

“We’re underground, of course,” Victor says with a chuckle. Hans joins him in his mirth.

That chuckle – I can almost feel his sharp rod penetrating my ass, shredding my lower intestines. My back pinned in an unnatural arc.

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Somehow, I have to find a way to push away those memories. “You’re name is not really Hans, is it?” I ask. They both chuckle a little more boisterously. Shit.

Finally, I hear footsteps on the stone. A naked little Chai comes walking up the walkway just like I remember her. “Hey Victor, what’s up?” she asks.

“Kyler saw you and was concerned about you?” Victor says. “He wanted to make sure you were okay.” He’s caressing his hand across my back, while Chai looks at me expectantly.

“Well,” I cough to clear my throat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, a’course I am,” she says. This is so weird talking to a naked twelve-year-old girl in the presence of three grown men.

“Nobody is hurting you?”

“No way.” Chai smiles with a broad grin. “I was nothing in Bangkok. But here, I’m like a movie star. Everybody loves me.”

“Good,” I say. The narrow cleft, between her legs is puffed, swollen pink. I remember why I’m really here. I glance at Victor and then back to Chai. “What about Khandaya? Is she okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” Chai says. “She’s doing fine. It’s a pisser about her arm. If she had both, she’d probably be as good as me.”

I glance back at Victor. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. I turn back to Chai. “Well, I guess that’s it then,” I say. “Tell Khandaya I asked about her, okay?”

“Thank you, Chai,” Victor says. “You are dismissed. With that, Chai turns and does her duck-footed walk back down the passage. Her tiny little hiney disappears into the darkness.

“I’m glad that’s settled amicably,” Victor says. I still haven’t breathed. “You’re welcome to stay, of course,” he continues. “I simply ask that you respect our rules.” I don’t even know what those rules are. Then he adds, “Khandaya, hmm? She’s a sweet child. If you are discreet, perhaps she can be yours someday.”

“What about Celestina?” I ask, but I’m more concrened about Vienna.

“Don’t be greedy,” Victor says. “Oha, and don’t dawdle too long. I would consider returning Celestina to her school very soon. I’m sure she is missed.”

“I think that would be wise,” I say mirroring his stilted formality.

“Oh,” Victor says very pointedly. “Respect Celestina in every way. I would hate her to be … um … diminished. Both her and Vienna are very important to me.” He grabs my shoulder again and stares at me to make sure I understand. “I don’t need both of them, if you catch my meaning.”

I nod my head and swallow what little moisture I can find. It’s a threat as clear as can be. For some reason he wants Vienna and Celestina, but problems with either one could be life affecting. I am a fucking college student – with no money or resources, my car is one bolt away from rusting away completely. How the hell am I supposed to help them?

It’s got to be an idle threat. Uncle Shimon is a mega-zillionaire and Celestina’s father is a state senator.

I turn to walk away, rapidly, with all of the self-possession I can muster. Once I turn the corner I begin to jog into the party where I find Celestina playing with the kitty club. Kitty Hinshaw is kissing her while teasing her … you know … her kitty. I grab Celestina’s arm more forcefully than I intend and say, “Let’s go. I’ve done what we came for.”

“Aw, we’re just getting started,” Celestina says.

I don’t give her a chance to back down. I interlace my fingers with hers and retrace our steps to the entrance where we left the limo. She raps me a few times with her riding crop. The car is there waiting to take partygoers back.

“Are you finished, Mistress?” the maitre de with the precious coins asks.

“No,” Celestina says with glee. The maitre d smiles.

Another servant finds our clothes and hands them to us. The driver holds the door open. I climb in after Celestina and take the seat next to her. We’re alone in the spacious back.

As the limo begins to back out of the cave, I catch Celestina eyeing my crotch. “You look you’re pretty excited,” she says. I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just give a quick shrug. As the limo picks up speed, Celestina straddles me with a knee on each side of my lap. She says, “I’m fucking horny as hell.”

What a coincidence.

I feel the warmth of her vulva burning through both of our underwears. She bends in close and bites my lower lip. Her hips press against me and slides lengthwise up my shaft.

I forget all about Victor and shudder in pleasure. I reach my hands between us and cup her breast. A moment I’ve salivated about since that first art class. They’re perfect. She whimpers when I pinch her nipple.

Celestina kisses my cheek with a vengeance, then moves to gnaw on my earlobe. I move my other hand to her ass and explore it with my finger.

“Ooo,” Celestina groans into my ear canal. She begins to move in rhythm.

My hand slips lower between her legs and sample the dampness. Unconconscously, I writhe in harmony with her. I place both hands behind her and drag her along my shaft. At the peak of each swell I hold her up for a second to sustain the intensity all the while pushing away from the seat. With each wave, our bucking grows louder. I think I’m about to push through the floor.

“Fuck, Oh fuck.” Before I can fathom, I pull her to the top of my cock and Celestina squeals. I hold there while I shoot waves of jism into my g-string.

When I’m done, I hold her in place until the sensitivy dies down. “I think that was the best sex I ever had,” I say. It wasn’t even sex, not really.

Celestina bends her head back and smiles a broad gasping grin. “Fuck,” she says. “That was so fucking awesome.” She rolls off me, and I realize I am covered in sweat. She is too. She reaches over to fondle my shaft and giggles. “You’re still hard.” She leans down to my cock and licks off my jism while I can only find the energy to pant. “I’ve never felt anything like that,” Celestina says. “I can’t wait to tell Vienna.”

“No,” I plead. I remember where I am all of a sudden. “Please, whatever you do. You can never tell her. You can never tell anybody about this.”

“Why not?” she asks.

“Just please. I could lose my financial aid or go to jail.”

“Okay,” she grins. She peels back my g-string and licks up the final bit from the tip. “As long as we can come to the party again next week.”

Fuck. Celestina is not the type who keeps secrets. I am so screwed.

And now there's death threads and massive conspiracies. No longer interested.

>>22255

Well, what did you expect. Smelled like international child pornography and sex trading all along. Let him tell his fucking story.

I debated with myself about this conspiracy. It's not my favorite approach either, but it gives me a way to develop Vienna's character as more than just an object of Kyler's affection. I thought her character was too weak in my initial outline.

I usually rewrite my stories based on ideas that I try, but don't seem to quite work when I get there. I would appreciate anybody else's feedback or suggestions.

Thank you for the feedback. I can keep writing for a little while -- the next chapter would not be affected.

>>22271

You should just write the story that you want it to be. Plot-heavy stories are usually pretty appreciated here and often end up gaining the biggest followings (My Private Camwhore, that Roommates story that only updates once a year but is still on the first page constantly). Don't change your vision just because of some random whiner on an imageboard who hates to read. None of the best works of art have been made via compromise.

You do need to take more care in editing and proofreading your text though. I saw plenty of basic you're/your mistakes and other such things in the last chapter. It makes you look a bit careless since these types of mistakes are easily spotted in a single read-through.

>>22271
Your work shows considerable potential, The web is getting Incredibly tangled to the point where it's getting hard to keep track of things and even harder to foretell anything, All I can ask is you keep writing. The mass conspiracy is an interesting touch and I look forward to seeing how it influences Vienna. I also hate Victor more with every meeting...

I'm getting bad feelings again.... Victor is another slimeball that needs to die in a fire. May he get the fate he deserves.

But please keep writing, or the suspense may be the end of me.

i come to this page everyday just to see if this story or Roomates has been updated.

>>22271
I was really happy with the street rat x rich girl theme in Kyler and Vienna's interactions. The moment Kyler came to the conclusion about his involvement with Celestina earlier in the story I took that as a permanent shift away from these shenanigans.

Everything involving Victor feels like an annoying hindrance to what I want from this story and these characters. Not going to lie, the moment Celestina showed up in his flat I rolled my eyes and figuratively threw my hands up.

I hope others enjoy this and see it to its conclusion, but I won't.
You are a good writer though, some solid characterization, and mostly enjoyable prose. I'm just not interested in the story anymore, not against drama, but this doesn't jive with me.

Cheers.

This is one of the best stories here, in my humble opinion. Keep it up, OP!

Sorry for taking so long. I had to resolve my nightly migraines that have been occurring since the beginning of summer. I'll keep it up, but I don't think I'll be able to maintain the same pace I had before.

Chapter 21

My head throbs mercilessly. I shut my eyes and lean my head against cold glass to get some relief. I’m trapped in a brain blender stuck on puree. I detect the door’s telltale-warning click just before the blinding dome light blasts a hole through my retinas.

“Shut the door,” I moan.

“You would not believe what happened last night?” Vienna says jumping in the seat next to me, ignoring my misery.

I think I might believe just about anything. I crack open one eye and ask, “What?”

“Celestina did not make it back for curfew. The director was livid. We had a midnight bed check and muster in the dining hall. They searched the grounds.”

“I thought the high schoolers didn’t have a nine pm curfew,” I say trying to remember exactly what Celestina told me.

I put the car in gear and focus on the small increment of road ten feet at a time. This forty-year-old Fred Flinstone-mobile has devoured my entire life savings and it is not responding well to the cold. I probably should take it in for an oil change or tune-up or something, but my funds are running low. Uncle Shimon hasn’t paid me, yet. I have to avoid those mighty brick pillars lining the entrance to the academy.

“Don’t be foolish,” Vienna says. “Their curfew is at ten. Hey, don’t forget my stuff.”

I notice it back there on the curb. Rather than attempting a treacherous reverse maneuver, I jump out of the car, with the engine idling, and jog back to get it.

When I return, Vienna continues her story. “Oh my God, can you imagine? A senator’s daughter and she flew the coop. The police showed up and everything.”

Oh, wow. My pre-med degree is over.

“Then, at two in the moring,” Vienna continues, “the police just leave with no explanation. Celestina shows up like ten minutes later. Strolling through the door as though it was just another day at the beach.”

“She’s safe then?” I ask. I dropped her off by curb about a half a block away from the school.

“Of course she is,” Vienna says. “I don’t think she’s going to make it to class this morning. What happened to you?”

“I pulled an all nighter,” I lie. “I had a massive project. Did she say what she was doing last night?”

“Nope,” Vienna says. “She spent the rest of the night groaning about a headache.”

Using pure muscle memory, I somehow weave my car to the natatorium. When we stop, I ask Vienna, for once in her over privileged life, to carry her own stuff. I lean my head back against the window to grab a few more winks when I hear Vienna sigh. “You better shape up,” she says. “You’ve got to be ready by Friday night.”

“Um, sure,” I say. I don’t quite remember the deal, but perspiration starts to bead on my forehead.

“Good,” she says, “I’m still working out the details to maximize your punishment. It’s going to be a doozy.”

Punishment … now I remember. She plans on “punishing” me for glancing in the back seat while she was changing. My imagination revs up its turbo-charger.

How bad could it be? I wonder. She’s only twelve. I know better. Vienna has a brutally efficient imagination.

For the rest of the week, I try to concentrate on my classes. Vienna keeps dropping hints, like “Rosalita has purchased supplies for our session: clippers, dye, and gorilla gel.” She cackles with a high-pitched Joker laugh. I’m glad I can be so entertaining for her. “Bring a pair of shorts,” she says, “short shorts.”

“I don’t have any short shorts,” I say.

“Oh, thanks for telling me. I’ll make sure Rosalita gets you a pair.”

My greatest dread is running into Kitty Hinshaw. Now that she knows I’m not gay, I don’t think it would be wise to make an appearance around young girls in leotards. I manage to avoid her through Friday. I catch sight of her once from the vantage point of my car stakeout, but I duck down.

Thursday morning, Celestina runs over to my car. She seems chipper. “Hey, Kyler,” she says, “Are you ready for another go next week?”

I wince without an answer. I didn’t achieve anything last Tuesday beyond a nasty migraine. Why would I possibly make that sojourn again?

Friday, after gymnastics, we take the extended drive to the Stegman empire. “Are you anxious? Are you worried?” Vienna asks with a chuckle. You would think all of those activities would drain her energy. Bouncing off the dash, the door, and the driver, she can’t sit still. She’s incredibly cute in that hyperactive, twelve-year-old girl sort of way. She adds, “You should be shaking in your boots.” She’s so excited that I believe my punishment will involve whips and horse tack.

I barely say three words on the drive besides, “Can you give me some idea what you have in store for me?”

“Nope,” Vienna says with that evil cackle. S&M it is, I guess.

I pull into her driveway and park the car in their small cutout next to their four-car garage. She tells me to put our stuff in our rooms and meet in the kitchenette. Rosalita greets me with a smile and “Buenos noches.” Vienna asks her if all of her supplies are ready. With a wink, Rosalita smiles at me, “Si, senorita.”

I savor my bowl of mush, which tastes a lot like a last meal. I try to convince myself that Vienna likes me. It works until I remember that she and Celsestina speak every day. What sort of sexual perversions have they been discussing? I didn’t worry about Celestina beyond her casual hotness and access to Victor’s party. She was already well on her way to post-modern sexual celebrity. I had nothing to do with that.

Vienna is different. I would feel terrible if I created a psychological mess with her.

Finally, I finish my meal and say, “I’m ready.” I can’t even look her in the eyes.

“No, you’re not,” she says. “You have to change into your shorts.”

I picture something like those 1970s era basketball shorts like Magic Johnson wore in college. When I get to my room to change, I discover they are black, short, spandex boxers … and very snug. High school football beefcakes always seemed comfortable wearing them outside. I’m not an exhibitionist by nature. I don’t think I could get used to that sort of exposure.

But this is for Vienna. Underwear that looks a lot like shorts doesn’t seem to be that big of a deal. I throw on a long t-shirt and leave the rest of my belongings in my temporary bedroom.

When I return to the cleaned kitchen, Vienna commands, “No shirt.” I shamefully comply with her demands. Even though I’m not nude, I feel my scrawny torso is exposed in Vienna’s kitchen. Rosalita or her parents could enter at any time.

I sit in the chair she has pulled aside for me. On the counter, Vienna has an array of torture implements available – clippers, large and small shears, a scalpel, comb, and chemical vials. I gulp. “What’s in store for me here?”

“Heh, heh, heh,” Vienna chuckles. She holds the shears with both hands. They look sharp. I don’t like the swoosh they make when she tests the functionality in the air. “Are you nervous?”

“A little.”

She runs her hand through my shaggy mop of hair. “I decided that you are going to be my art project for the weekend. First step: the hair.”

I breathe easier. “Do your worst,” I say. She places a large towel around my neck.

Of all of the possible scenarios that I imagined, being Vienna’s art project is the least worrisome. She could trim me like a poodle and I wouldn’t care. At college, I’m basically a loner. It’s such a frivolous waste of money that I haven’t cut my hair since summer. She has plenty to work with. Maybe she’s even doing me a favor.

“Have you done this before?” I ask.

She chuckles, “Does it matter?” I guess not.

Vienna activates the clippers and begins trimming without mercy or prejudice. She has some structure in mind. As she runs the clippers past my ear, it sounds like mosquito Mongol hordes buzzing me. She trims the right side of my head, leaving only a thin layer of stubby bristle-fuzz. Waste hair flutters to the floor beneath. Then she starts with shears to touch up my right side.

She positions herself in front of me and stares directly into my eyes. It’s intimidating. Finally, she picks up tweezers and a scalpel and starts to shape my eyebrows. I hold my breath and try not to move.

Aunt Liz makes an entrance and says, “What is going on here?”

Vienna jumps, but I offer an explanation, “I volunteered to be her art victim for the weekend.” I worry that she might notice my undershorts, but her tennis outfit and Vienna’s sweats are just as snug. I act cool and hold my breath.

“You’re a braver person than I,” Liz says. She seems tired and run down from a long week. She goes over the refrigerator and finds a blended energy drink. “I’m turning in early. Don’t stay up late. You have a meet tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Mom,” Vienna says. She looks me over with an evil glint as though her mother’s words were carte blanche approval to ravage me for the rest of the night. She doesn’t seem to worry much about the swim meet.

“Is your father around?” I ask.

“Nope,” she says. “He’s in Singapore or something.”

She finishes carving my eyebrows and blows off the excess hair with a category five, industrial strength leaf blower. She surveys her chemical concoctions and finds one that looks to be a sharp shade of burnt orange. Very quickly she dabs splotches next to my eye, then smoothes them in with her thumb.

Finally, I will myself to relax and just go with the flow. “I trust you,” I say.

She grins. “You won’t make that mistake twice.” After she completes the application of several layers of cosmetics from yellows, reds & oranges, she applies a thick layer of goo to my hair. She whips the towel from around my neck and says, “Next stop, the garage.” She grabs my hand and leads the way.

“Can I take a look at a mirror?” I ask.

“Nope. You said you trusted me.”

“But I’m curious.”

“Glad you’re not a cat,” Vienna says.

The cold concrete floor bites with each step. Vienna lines me up along the wall on a piece of cardboard, and fires up a brand new air compressor with a big red surge tank. Not that I know anything about air compressors, but this one is much more impressive than Uncle Woj’s. Nobody has to restrain it from walking across the floor.

She removes the towel from around my neck and tosses it on a shiny black BMW. Then she affixes a nozzle and stainless steel canister to the end of the hose, places her hand on my shoulder to twist me around, and sprays my back with something damp.

She works quickly around to my chest and then touches up the outside of my legs. She waves the jet carefully to diffuse the edges of the pattern. After she’s satisfied with one coat, she removes the canister and puffs a cleaning solvent through the nozzle. Then she follows with a second color. She sprays it onto a piece of paper to clear out any excess orange before the red stream is constant.

So intent, I could be a canvas for all the deference Vienna grants me. I begin to relax and enjoy being the object of her attention. She tugs on my waistband to try to minimize the sharp edge. When she reaches my legs, she pushes on the inside of my knee and sprays my thigh. It tickles, but Vienna doesn’t seem to notice.

Vienna works quickly. Before I know it, I’m covered with an autumn color palette. I have no idea what she’s creating. She steps back to take in the entire product, shakes her head and winces. I think my spandex shorts are interfering with the aesthetic.

“Do you want me to take them off?” I ask. I’m not sure if that’s an appropriate suggestion, but she’s an artist. Right?

Vienna shrugs and blushes as though I’m intruding on a private moment. “You don’t have to,” she says.

“I know I don’t have to,” I say. “Is that what you need?”

Vienna licks her lips and nods a firm yes.

I try to act nonchalant. It’s no big deal. She’s seen me in the buff before. But we’re alone in this four car cavern. This is a private moment, and I’m nervous as hell. I’m cavorting with my twelve year old cousin, naked except for a few layers of body paint. Worse yet, I’m in an unheated garage. I wonder if I need to explain shrinkage to her. My light, pubal covering makes it all worse.

She clears the old paint from nozzle and returns to the original orange. Tingles rage through my cock when she sprays it with the orange body paint. She doesn’t say anything, but she stops to stare at it for a few seconds before she continues. She walks around behind me and sprays the color into my ass. I feel so funky. I finally begin to relax when she returns to my front. As though she overlooks the human nature of her canvas, she places her fingers on my sack to nudge it aside. “Oops,” she says jerking her fingers away, “sorry about that.”

When she jerks her fingers away, my longing for her touch is so strong, it stings. My hips waver in her direction as though, in that split moment, I’ve become addicted to the contact. “It’s all right,” I say with a shiver. “Do what you have to do to make it right. I don’t mind.”

Which is about as grand a lie as I’ve ever told. I guess that’s why my second nose has gone all Pinocchio on me.

Vienna furrows her brow, bewildered by my growing cock.

“Truly?” she asks. I nod, momentarily mute. “You know,” she says, “I didn’t really think you’d let me paint you.” She hesitates for a moment, fingers my sack aside, and sprays some orange, then she shifts to the other side. Her fingers are rough, callused from her gymnastics. Kindling for desire.

“This is fun,” I say. “I enjoy being your canvas.”

She uses several stencil masks to sharpen the last colors – brown and gold. By the time she reaches my feet, I realize that it looks like feathers. She paints my toes like talons. “I’m a bird,” I say.

“Not exactly,” Vienna says.

“A phoenix?”

She finishes the final touches. “I’ll meet you up in your room for the final touches.” She hands me my shorts and wraps the towel around my waist. “Don’t let Rosalita see you. I’d get in beau coups trouble.”

Not nearly as much trouble as I would.

Hrgh!

I don't know what that means. I hope it's good.

Chapter 22

Vienna pours excess paint into a drum and rinses the canisters with a solvent. I offer to help, but she shoos me out, shrouded only in my large, extra luscious, bath-towel.

I make my way, swiftly & silently, up the back staircase to the bedroom that I have come to consider my room. The easel, where Vienna captured my near-death experience, remains standing where I last saw it. At the base of the stool, Vienna has left a variety of materials from charcoal to colored pencils and oil paints.

I’m captured by a childish whim. I toss my shorts and T-shirt on the bed and sit on Vienna’s throne. I scan the room for something and select an object on which to focus. Nothing particularly fascinating … an ornate vase with cattails stretching from the opening and faux grape vines rippling down the sides. I lose myself in the shape and pattern. With the colored pencils, I sketch the outline on Vienna’s drawing pad. I haven’t tried drawing something this difficult since high school.

It must be fifteen, twenty minutes later. I’m darkening in a grape leaf when I hear the door open. Vienna has changed into a short, pink nightgown that doesn’t even reach mid thigh. Her willowy legs retain a child’s slenderness. Her muscular quads grow taut with each step.

In her hand, she wields a six-foot long, wooden curtain rod. What is she going to do with that?

“Hi,” I say setting the pencils down on the lip. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She leans against the rod and studies my work. “It’s pretty good,” she says. “You should draw more.”

“No, it’s not.” I shake my head. “I was just goofing around. I can’t draw symmetrical curves to save my life.” I always enjoyed art class. My mother seemed to appreciate some minor talent, but art supplies were a luxury we could never quite afford. “What’s the plan?” I continue. “I can’t believe you’re going to bring your naked cousin project into school for a grade.”

“This isn’t for school,” Vienna says. “School assignments are always so structured. I wanted to try something different. Something that’s pure creation. Just for fun.”

She hands me the wooden rod. “You’re going to hold this like it’s a spear,” she says.

I’m not even sure what she means. I allow the towel to drop to the floor and cradle the back-end with my arm to brace it. I hold it in both hands and point it straight out as though I’m ready to do the pole vault.

“No, no, no, no,” she says. “In one arm over your head.”

I hold the wooden rod like a javelin throw, but I can tell by her expression that I’m not getting it.

“Here let me show you,” she says. She places one arm around my waist and the other under my elbow. “Now point it at the ground.” She sighs at my inability to read her mind. It’s almost like she doesn’t realize the insane cravings she ignites in me. “Wait. Let me get some pillows.”

She runs around the bed and grabs all of the pillows – the decorative and functional ones. She places them on the floor around my feet. “Stand on this,” she demands. She lifts my left leg up and positions it on the pillow. “Now, point the spear right at the head. You’re vicious.”

“I get it,” I say. “Like Saint Michael battling Satan. Except he carried a sword.”

“Kind of,” Vienna says heading back to her stool. “But you’re no angel.” She flips the page, hiding my amateurish cartoon, and maneuvers the easel to a better position for full-frontal inspiration. She chooses a red pencil as her weapon and begins the outline of the image. Within moments, Vienna is lost in her artistry. I am no more than a mural on the wall.

Very quickly, I grow restless. My arm wilts under the strain. “Keep holding it high,” Vienna says. How could she know? She hasn’t even looked up from her canvas.

I search around the room for something to distract my attention. The hunting tapestry hanging on the wall is unusual. Three riders in red jackets and black hats circle the foliage while four hounds lead the way chasing a fox. It’s the same tapestry that hung here Thanksgiving, not really all that fascinating. Hey, wait a minute … there are five hounds. One is poking his nose out of the base of a bush. It was there all the time.

God, I’m bored.

It doesn’t take long for me to fixate on Vienna. In her drawing mindset, her expression tightens. Her speed and focus are incredible. Like some sort of savant, she divorces herself from reality. Shifting around on the stool, she lifts one foot, then the other, without taking her eyes of her creation. Finally, she settles into an Indian-style position with her legs crossed in front of her. It gives an impression that she’s floating on air, like a Hindu Swami or the Last Airbender. I enjoy the glorious view of her scantily sheltered crotch.

The white fabric stretches across two slight, barely discernible bumps – clefts of fascination, aching to be kissed. Her thighs, too, are magnificent works of art. Flesh is smooth and inviting. Left and right curves of her proximal muscles, the sartorius and gracilus, form a hollow cave, which broaden as they approach her pubic tubercle. The fabric gapes open – just a little -- between her muscular grotto and the hem of her panties. It seems just barely large enough to fit my finger. I lick my lips as I imagine myself doing just that – mentally navigating the shadow of wanton decadence.

“Why does it grow like that?” Vienna says, not even glancing up. She shakes me out of my trance.

“What?” I say.

“You know ... your penis … .” She points the back end of her pencil toward me, then continues to draw. “It’s got a little Miraclegro in it. Why does it do that?”

“Um … .” Shit. A good thing I’m encased in body paint. I consider responding crudely -- describe my shaft as a laser-guided, heat seeking spear. Instead, I forego my ego and remain clinical. “It’s an involuntary neuromuscular response,” I say, “An unconscious reaction to ... um … desire. I can’t really stop it.”

I hope those are big enough words to allay her curiosity. I think I’m lucky when she pinches her lips and tilts her head to the side. She makes another long sweeping arc on the sketchpad with her pencil. Then, for the first time, she looks up, her eyes open wide, and she drops her pencil on the floor. “Me?” she asks. She starts laughing like a goose. “You have the hots for me?”

“Yeah,” I say chuckling along with her. I rest my spear (the wooden one) on the ground. “Is that so hard to imagine?”

“Well,” she shrugs. “I’m just a kid. I didn’t think you looked at me like that.” She raises a good point. I have no response.

Vienna returns to her drawing. She doesn’t get very far. She searches through the pencils and can’t seem to find the one she’s looking for. “I got my father’s huge nose,” she scowls. “And everybody says I look like a boy. I got no tits at all.”

“Aw Nugget, you definitely do not look like a boy.” In the few weeks that I’ve been driving her, I never once considered that she thought of herself as plain or ugly. “Everybody’s got a nose. Some are plain, but yours is unique. A whole lot different than your father’s.” It’s a lot smaller for one thing.

She rolls her eyes. I’m not doing very well. I’m not even sure how to address her anxiety on her chest without sounding sillier. “As far as tits are concerned – you have plenty. Trust me. The size is not that important.” At least not since Thanksgiving.

“You’re sweet,” she says. I can tell that her mind is mulling over my ideas. She doesn’t seem to be buying my theory on female beauty. I mean, practically every girl in her gymnastics class and dance class has less.

She starts to draw a little more, shading in a spot of orange. I return to my pose, launching the spear into arm-straining territory. It’s killing me, but I don’t want to complain. Complaints would not impress Conan the Gymnastian. I try to think about anything other than this cute, young girl in front of me.

After a few moments, Vienna shakes her head. She sets down her pencil and sighs, “This isn’t working. I have to take a break.” She flexes her fingers a few times. “Would you like to see what I have so far?”

“Sure,” I say with a grin. I gladly set the end of my spear on the ground and use it as a walking stick over to the easel.

Her sketch is an outline of two figures – me standing over a demon with my foot on his knee. Surrounded in flames, two huge wings stretch from my shoulders. My spear is pointed right at the head of the other guy while his snake-like tongue swirls around my neck. It’s brilliant and disturbing, but I have no idea what it is supposed to mean. We’re both nude, so it looks a lot like rape.

“Great works of art are often based on religion or mythology,” Vienna begins to explain. “I decided to try to mix them a little. You guessed right – you’re a phoenix.”

While she talks, her eyes dodge back and forth between the sketchpad and my cock.

“The phoenix rising from the fire is a metaphor for the sunrise,” she continues. “Um … I’m … uh …. I’m recreating a daily battle between good and evil with the darkness being a demon of some sort and the phoenix is sort of like an angel. Darkness will have a face that’s all cratered like the moon. I’ll darken it in with paints over the weekend. I think it will be pretty cool when I’m done.”

“At least I’m the good guy,” I say. The moon looks pretty tough. I guess we each win once a day.

By this time, she’s staring straight at my cock without glancing back. I’m trying to compliment her on the idea, but I don’t think she’s listening. My cock, the closet narcissist that he is, puts on a show for Vienna like a peacock spreading his feathers.

“It’s so funny looking,” she blurts out sharply. “It’s like a big ol’ hairy sack of elbow skin.” That was deflating. “Aww, now look, he’s going away.”

I have nothing to say. I just chuckle.

“You know, I’ve seen lots of nude male sculptures,” Vienna continues. “But you don’t really get perspective until you see it in the flesh.” Out of what seems like a moment of curiosity, she reaches and grabs hold of my sack and giggles. “It’s like there’s two marbles in there.”

I get that amazing jolt of tingle-iasis. I close my eyes and try not to over-react.

“Once, Tabita Wentworth and I stayed behind at the museum and checked out the sculpture’s nads. They were cold and solid.” Vienna bounces my nuts between my fingers. I try to mentally command her to be gentle. “You need to shave again. Your stubble is pretty sharp,” she says. “Is this okay? You said I could touch you if we weren’t in front of class.”

“I don’t mind,” I say. My voice squeaks. I know I should stop her, but … what the hell? She’s only curious. I’m starting to feel a little fuzzy. I lean more weight on the wooden walking staff.

All of a sudden, Vienna leans in and plant a kiss on the center of my shaft. That shakes me out of my daze. She pulls away with a little bit of red and orange paint on her lips.

“Celestina says that’s supposed to feel good,” she says. Her mouth stays open with her tongue pressed against her teeth.

“Are you guys talking about me, again?” I ask.

“No, that was before she knew you,” Vienna says. She pulls lets go of my sack. “Last year, in the lunchroom, she had one of those frozen ice pops. It was so cold that it stuck to her tongue.”

Vienna giggles, but she looks at me with curiosity as though asking me to confirm Celestina’s words. I’m on shaky ground here. I’m not sure how to answer her.

Vienna doesn’t give me the chance to stay noncommittal. “Do girls really do that with your penis?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” I admit wishing it might occur any moment now.

She tilts her head and studies me. “It looks nothing like an ice pop. I don’t think it looks I could do that.” She shuddered.

Aww, shucks. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I say.

“Celestina says guys expect it. She says it feels really good for them.”

“Just stop talking about Celestina.”

Vienna stuck her tongue out and touches it to my shaft for a moment. She glowers as if she doesn’t like the aftertaste.

She opens her mouth as if to ask say something else, but stops herself. She reaches up and fingers my shaft like it’s a flute. She’s barely touching it which makes me shiver and burn at the same time. I’m not even sure if I should encourage her. My knees waver. I probably shouldn’t be standing, but I can’t bring myself to move.

“Does it feel good when I touch your penis?”

“It feels really good,” I say.

Involuntarily, I push her palm against the tender underside, so that it forces my shaft against my abs. A jolt of excitement runs up my spine. Fuck, it makes me gasp. Almost immediately I realize how fuckin’ depraved that was. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You don’t have to do that.” I release her hand.

“I don’t mind,” Vienna whispers. She licks her lips and places her palm on my shaft again. “Like this?” It’s really warm.

“Move it up and down a little,” I suggest.

“You should see your face.” She grins. “Celestina says I can get guys to do anything for me when I do this.”

“Stop talking about Celestina,” I say more angrily than I intend. “I just don’t want to talk about her.” Hell, I don’t even want to think about her.

I decide to take a little more command of this situation. If I could, I would try to reach Vienna’s crotch, but it’s out of reach. Instead, I reach down and run my finger across her nipple.

“Ooh,” Vienna says with a quiver. She pulls away. “Is that what it feels like for you?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Do it again?” She places her hand back on my shaft to encourage me.

With a little more confidence, I place my hand under Vienna’s chin and contort my body to kiss her. When she tilts her head in response, I trace my fingers down her neck to her chest. I don’t know about those kids at her school, Vienna’s breasts are perfect. There’s just enough softness to form tiny swells under my touch. Her nipple stiffens when I roll my fingers across it. I barely pinch it and roll it between my finger and thumb. Her jaw becomes rigid. She tries to draw in her breath and takes my tongue with it.

Her tiny palm is moving steadily across my shaft. My knees buckle. I’m thinking I should warn her what’s coming next, but I can’t formulate the words.

I hear knuckles rapping on the door, but it sounds like it’s from a dream. Before I answer, the door knob rotates and the door cracks open. “Señor Yakubowski, are you awake?” Rosalita says in a lilting Hispanic accent, “I have fresh baked cookies and milk for you.”

Shit!

I pull away from the kiss and glance at the door. In one leap, I move away from Vienna, grab my shorts from the bed, and dive behind the footboard. I quickly try to shove them over my legs. I return to my feet and see Rosalita stopped in the doorway, glaring. A platter of cookies splattered on the carpet. If looks could kill, I imagine they would look a lot like Rosalita.

PERFECT (in every way)

I like complicated stories. The more complicated the better. I love that we have a conspiracy and an antagonist.

I can't imagine anything I would change to improve the story you're telling. You have a real talent and this is breathtaking.

More please?

I've missed this author. He hasn't updated this or his other story recently.

This is one of my favorite stories here, hopefully you haven't given up on it.

I agree with above - this is possibly my favourite too. I hope you haven't given up on this OP. Could you give us a sign please - just knowing continuation is on its way will make a wait easier to bear

I also agree. Please let us know you still live and this is still going...

Enjoyed it very much... but the cliffhangers are killing me!!!

still waiting

Dear Random Evername,

I'm a real fan of your story and I've been following it from the beginning, enjoying every chapter (particularly those that feature the play between Kyler and Vienna). I'm hoping you keep an eye on any new posts and are in a frame of mind to answer this and (hopefully) relieve our concern, as there hasn't been an update now for approaching 6 months (not even a response to a post). Are you planning to complete this? I'm hoping that it's just a 'can't find the time' thing - I can fully empathise with that as I have decided to write a story for this board and am having real problems getting sufficient words down to satisfy myself, never mind any interested readers! I hope it isn't your migraines continuing, because I wouldn't wish that on you.

So in short, it's clear there are many desperate fans of this story who would become so much less desperate if we just knew that some time - as soon as you feel able to do it - you will be continuing.

Thanks for the feedback. I do appreciate it. Since the beginning of last summer, I am a lot sicker than I thought. I'm managing, but I can't write nearly as much as I used to. I'm concentrating on my Celia novel first, then I'll try to get back to this one.

I'm bumping this up, JIC. Whilst I'm at it, I hope you're feeling better Random. Are you able to give us an update? We can be patient, but it's nice to know where we're at .

>>23410
Just want to let you know that I'm a fan of both, and I think you're a great writer.

Random Evername - I hope you're getting some respite from your symptoms. Just checking in. I'm surprised more people aren't doing the same - who knows, perhaps they are but just not commenting, as I don't most of the time. On this occasion I thought I'd send a note to you, just in case you look in every now and again.

You mentioned previously that you wanted to concentrate on your novel 'Celia', so 2 questions really:

(1) Is 'Celia' on line and available? Sorry if you've already posted details, but if not do you mind letting us know how/where we can See

(2) Do you have a feeling as to how long we may have to wait to see your continuation of this (excellent) story?

Lovin the story and i cant wait for the continuation. Also bump.

>>26077
god how many years since he last updated and im still waiting, would buy the novel.

Agreed, I read a novel or two a week, and this is better than most of them