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 G E N I T A__C L A N


Author: Brother Genita and Sister Genita
Title: The Waltons--The Family Secret (Chapter 2 of 2)
Part: 2/2 (this is one story; part 2 read out of order will make little
sense)
Universe: Genitaland TV, the world of television's "The Waltons" in
Genitaland, and overlapping with the world of Chaseton, America
Summary: In the early 1930s, 17-year-old John Boy learned some shocking
family secrets involving his parents, his grandparents, and his sister.
Keywords: MF, mf, bg, FF (watching and brief touching), best, fsolo,
inc, mast, f1st, m1st, cons, mast, oral (brief), ped, rom, adult, senior,
teen, child, ws (very mild), zoo
Language: English

   --------------------------------

   WARNING

   This fictional story contains explicit descriptions of sexual activity.
If you are underage for your jurisdiction, or not interested in such
stories, please go read something else.

   --------------------------------

   This story is copyrighted under a Creative Commons
Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.  In short, you can share
and adapt this work, even for commercial purposes, as long as you give
appropriate credit, do no imply our endorsement of you or your work, and do
indicate if changes were made.  If you make changes, you must license the
result under the same or an equivalent license.  Donations to www.asstr.org
would be appreciated.  This is erotic fan fiction, and no threat to The
Waltons copyright is intended.

   --------------------------------

   Main Characters (by age): Grandpa Zeb Walton, Grandma Esther Walton,
Daddy John Walton Sr., Mama Olivia Walton, Marcia Woolery, John "John Boy"
Walton Jr., Mary Ellen Walton

   Time: The main period this story covers is spring in the early 1930s,
but it contains scenes of earlier years.  The central part of the story
occurs at essentially the same period as "The Waltons: The Secret Recipe."
As they happen more-or-less simultaneously, the two stories may be read in
either order.  Each will explain a few small mysteries left unexplained in
the other.

   --------------------------------

   The Waltons: The Family Secret

   by Brother Genita and Sister Genita



   Two weeks and two days after my talk with Grandpa, I was talking to
Marcia Woolery after school.  I'd been building up to it during that time.
A warm breeze blew over us as we stood facing each other holding hands on
that Monday afternoon.  We were standing among the trees, a dozen or so
yards away from the dirt road that led from our school house.

   "Do you really think we might get married someday, John Boy?" asked
Marcia.

   "After I finish college and can support you," I said.  "I think it's
very likely."

   "And all you want to do is look," she said.

   "Look at what?" I heard a young girl say.

   "Elizabeth!" I said to my youngest sister, "what are you doing here?"

   "We were just walking in the woods," said my youngest brother Jim-Bob
who I saw was with her.  "We weren't doing nothing."

   "Well go do nothing somewhere else," I said.

   "Are you going to kiss her, John Boy?" asked Elizabeth.

   "Elizabeth and Jim-Bob, go home, now!" I ordered.  "Brothers and
sisters," I said to no one in particular.

   "I wish I had a brother or sister," said Marcia.

   "You can have some of mine," I said.  "Apparently you talk quite a bit
to my sister Mary Ellen."

   "Sometimes," she said.  "She doesn't have an older sister, and she wants
to learn from someone with more experience."

   I had planned to chastise her for telling Mary Ellen about us, but now
that it had been a couple of days and I was actually with Marcia, it didn't
seem to bother me so much.  I waited until I was certain my siblings were
gone to go back to what I wanted.  "Now where were we," I said.

   "You said you wanted to look at me.  Without my clothes on.  Is that
all?"

   "Marcia, I want to do a whole lot more than look.  But I won't do
anything you don't want to do."

   "But why on a full moon?" she asked.

   " I can't explain that," I said.  "I just do."

   "Do you love me, John Boy?"

   "I wouldn't be talking about getting married if I didn't."

   "Well, in that case . . .  Ok.  But I can't promise more than a look."

   "That's all I'm asking for, Marcia."

   * * * *

   During the month I had been planning to see Marcia Woolery in the
altogether, Mama and Grandma had been secretly planning what my grandmother
would do with Grandpa.

   First Mama got Grandma to model for her privately while wearing the
black and white French maid costume.  Grandma practiced saying "oui
monsieur," and "non monsieur," and "oui oui monsieur." All of their
practices were when the two of them were alone in Grandma and Grandpa's
bedroom and Grandpa was told very strictly to stay out because his wife was
working on a surprise for him.  It was harder a few days later to get
Grandma to sit naked on the bed with my Mama Olivia, and to look at and
name her "vulva" and "vagina," which my mother assured her were not dirty
words but medical terms, while using a silver-colored hand mirror.  It was
a little easier a few days after that to get Grandma to touch her own naked
body--but only above her waist and below her hips.  But even when my mother
was touching her own lady parts, getting Grandma to touch herself between
her legs was another story.

   "Oh, I can't, Olivia," said Grandma Esther.  "I only touch myself there
with a rag when I wash or with water closet paper after I relieve myself."

   "Haven't you ever touched yourself--your vulva--otherwise?"

   "Well, maybe a couple of times.  And once a month when I have to .  . .
lubricate myself for Zeb.  But I don't think it's right.  A woman's body is
made for her husband, not for herself.  I even told Mary Ellen and Erin not
to touch their lady parts unless it was a necessity.  I told Mary Ellen
several times."

   "Oh, Grandma," my Mama said to her mother-in-law.  "I wish you hadn't
told them that.  Knowing Mary Ellen, she probably found a way around it,
but I don't know about Erin.  I'll have to have a talk with those girls."

   "Grandma," my mother continued, but then said "Esther.  A wife
pleasuring herself is a pleasure to her husband.  I'm touching my vulva,
and it's a pleasure to me."

   Finally, Grandma hesitantly, tentatively, touched herself between her
legs.  After having washed her hands three times.  "Oh," she said, "that
does feel nice, touching my lady parts."

   "Touching what?" said Olivia.

   "My, my vulva, the lips of, of my . . .  vagina."

   "That's better," said my mother.

   "Now rub it more.  Think of things very pleasant and romantic and
exciting.  A walk with Zeb through the trees, or alone on a picnic, or
eating a candlelit supper, or riding in a small boat on a river.  The two
of you alone together."

   "I'm thinking, Olivia," said Grandma.

   After a while, Grandma suddenly stopped.

   "What did you stop for?" asked my mother who continued caressing her own
nether lips.

   "I'm, I'm getting, well, moist down there," said Grandma.  "I should
stop."

   "Don't stop.  You're lubricating," said my mother.

   "Oh, I've never done that without Zeb.  When we're, together, sometimes
I use a little warm lard . . .  "

   "Lard?" said Olivia.  "Women have been using petroleum jelly for years.
It works wonders.  I'll get you some." Olivia soon returned with a jar she
handed to Grandma who, after some hesitation, began rubbing it on the lips
of her vagina.

   "That's nice," said Grandma.

   "Olivia," said Grandma after a while.  "I heard that sometimes women,
younger women, sometimes when they're joined with their husbands . . .  "

   "Mating," said Olivia.

   "Sometimes they get as . . .  excited as the men until they, well, lose
control of their bodies and have spasms."

   "It's called an 'orgasm,' Esther," said my mother Olivia.

   "That's not good, is it?"

   "Oh, it's wonderful," said Olivia.  "It's the best feeling in the world.
Haven't you ever experienced an orgasm?"

   "No, I don't think so."

   "Well, I'll show you how.  When you're feeling very excited, you can
stick your finger inside your vagina."

   "Oh, I could never do that."

   "You let Zeb inside there, don't you?"

   "Only because I have to," said Esther.

   "Well let's try rubbing something even better.  Up at the top of your
vulva there's a little fleshy bump.  You don't want to touch it much when
you start, but after you're feeling exciting, rubbing it can feel
heavenly."

   "A bump?" asked my Grandmother.

   "Feel for it," said my mother.  But after a while, my Grandmother gave
up.  "I don't think I have one, Olivia."

   "Well sure you do," said my mother.  "Want me to help you find it?"

   "Oh no, I could never . . .  "

   "You'd let a nurse or doctor touch you there, wouldn't you?"

   "Only if it was a woman . . .  oh, I see what you mean.  All right,
Olivia, show me."

   My mother didn't have to feel very long until she found it.  "Oh," said
my Grandmother.  "It's too sensitive.  That almost hurts."

   "You aren't stimulated enough, Grandma.  Keep rubbing and thinking.  And
use some more petroleum jelly."

   After a while, my grandmother said, "Oh, Olivia, I touched it and now it
feels very nice.  Oh, Olivia!"

   "Try sticking a finger inside your vagina and rubbing at the same time.
That will give you a feel of what it's like rubbing yourself while Zeb is
inside you."

   "Ok, Olivia.  Oh, this feels very nice. . .  Very nice . . .  Oh,
Olivia. I think I might just have an organism."

   "Orgasm," said my mother.

   "Orgasm.  I might just have one."

   In the next few minutes both Grandma and my mother grew more and more
excited.  Both of them were thinking of their respective husbands, but they
wouldn't admit to each other that seeing another woman pleasuring herself
was also quite stimulating.

   Finally, it happened.  My grandmother Esther had lubricated and rubbed
and fantasized her gray-haired vulva and wet vagina to the ultimate.  "Oh,
Olivia," she said.  "I'm having an orgasm!  Oh, Olivia!"

   "Me too, Grandma; me too!" said my mother.

   After a few moments, my grandmother said, "Oh, thank you, Olivia.  After
all these years.  I would hug you if we weren't both . . .  nude.  Naked.
We're both naked and we both just pleasured ourselves together.  And now I
can do it with Zeb!" But Grandma still washed her hands six times.

   * * * *

   "Do you have any idea what this 'surprise' that your Ma is planning for
me is?" Grandpa asked John my father.  The two of them were alone taking a
work break, sitting in our family sawmill.

   "None, Pa, except I know Olivia is helping her with it."

   "Well, I have some idea," said Grandpa, grinning to the point of almost
cackling.  "I saw Esther, your mother, hiding a black and white French maid
costume."

   "What for?" my father asked.  Then he saw how much his father Zeb was
grinning.  "Oh," he said.  "Pa, I really don't need to know about that. 
What you and Ma do when you're alone together is your own business."

   "Oh, you always were a little prudish for a Walton man," said my
grandfather.  "Speaking of French girls, I should tell you about that
French chorus girl I saw dancing during the Spanish-American War."

   "You've told me about her many times.  Pa . . .  or do you mean about
her private show?  You said I had to wait until I'd been married 20 years
to hear that.  It hasn't been 20 years."

   "Close enough," said Grandpa.  "Considering all that's been happening
lately . . .  The private show was just for a few of us select Army men, a
very few.  The beginning of her show was exactly the same as the public
one. She danced wearing . . .  "

   ". . .  Black silk stockings and peacock feathers and little else," said
my father.  "Then she stripped and those were all she wore."

   "Yes, and she was as beautiful and well made as you could imagine, son,
with pert little breasts with dark pointy nipples, a round little white
belly and a dark brown bush at the top of her creamy white legs.  But then
things got so extreme . . .  This is the part I haven't told you.  She had
a pet that was a wolf, part dog I think, that came out.  Son, you simply
will not believe this.  The creature went straight to her, and right away
starting licking her between her legs!  Licking her furry vulva right there
in front of us!"

   "Oh, Pa, I didn't need to hear that."

   "But the girl liked it very much, very much," said Grandpa, tittering.
"The creature kept licking and licking and she began moaning louder and
louder.  Then she screamed!  She really screamed!  Oh John.  We knew the
greatest show we would ever see was over."

   "Fine.  Now can we go back to . . .  "

   "But it wasn't.  She asked for a volunteer from the audience, the very
small audience, all service men.  I raised my hand, but for some reason she
picked Henry.  I outranked him and was more rugged and muscular than he
was, but she picked him.  She told him to take off all his clothes which he
did.

   "Then she got some maple syrup and poured it into her hand.  She took
her hand and started rubbing it into his male member, his penis, and his
testicles.  His penis was as hard and erect as any you'd ever see."

   "Pa . . .  "

   "Then she called her wolf-dog over, and the creature started licking
him, licking his penis and testicles and licking and licking.  You could
tell Henry was in heaven.  He was practically drooling as he gazed
feverishly at the beautiful French chorus girl standing next to him naked
while being licked to the point of no return.  Then suddenly he cried out,
'Fifi!'" He shot spurts of white cream into the air and on himself and on
the floor and on the girl and even on the wolf.  Then the animal licked
that up to!" said my grandfather, laughing a big belly laugh.

   "Pa, I waited almost 20 years to hear that?  I could have waited another
20.  That's perverted."

   "You know, son, in some parts of Europe and the Far East, wives do that
to their husbands.  Lick their male members, I mean."

   "Not in America, Pa," said my father.

   "No, in America 19-year-old men impregnate unmarried 15-year-old girls."

   "You know I didn't plan it that way, Pa; I planned to marry Olivia long
before Lunette was born.  If her mother hadn't stopped us getting married .
. .  I never did figure out what changed her mind.  Why did she wait until
after Olivia left town to go to her aunt's and gave up Lunette for adoption
and then let us get married?  We'll never know our first child, our oldest
daughter.  It still hurts, Pa."

   "I'm sorry, son, for bringing it up.  Let's talk about something else.
Like your oldest son and what he's about to do with Marcia Woolery."

   "What's that?" asked my father.

   "What you did, with Olivia.  Don't you know?"

   "Oh Pa," said my father John.  "Don't let him do it.  I wish he'd talk
to me about those things, but I always get my tongue tied up."

   "Oh, he'll be protected," my Grandpa Zeb said.  "I'm getting him some
sheep skin prophylactics."

   "And how are you getting those?" my father asked.

   "Oh, I have someone who will give them to me.  He told me, 'Zeb Walton,
if you have a need for them at your age, I'll be happy to give some to you
without charge.'"

   "Well," said my father, "John Boy is 17.  And as long as he's protected
so he doesn't have to go through what I went through . . .  "

   * * * *

   It was perhaps the longest four weeks of my life, but finally, Saturday,
the day of the full moon, came.  Marcia Woolery barely talked to me at
school on Friday the day before.  She had responded with no more than a
slight smile when I said to her, "Tomorrow, 10 p.m., in the barn.  Be
there."

   Grandma and Grandpa had each, separately, been anticipating that night
themselves.  Grandpa had given no hint to his wife that he knew at least
part of her secret.  That night at 9 p.m., he lay in bed with his body in
his light-colored long johns and his eyes closed in anticipation.  He had
bathed, his wife Esther bathing separately, and his blond-white hair on his
head and even the gray hair on his mustache were brushed.  Their small
bedroom was lit by candlelight with a hint through the curtain of the light
of the full moon.  Esther had told him to keep his eyes closed and to not
fall asleep.  But sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

   Finally his wife Esther said, "I'm ready, monsieur.  You may open your
eyes."

   Grandpa saw his wife lit by candles and moonlight.  She was coming out
of a curtsey in the shortest thing Grandpa had ever seen her wear, her legs
exposed three or four inches above her knees.  Her short black French maid
dress had short sleeves and a skirt with white lace on the bottom and over
it a white lacy apron.  Her face was made up more than he'd seen in decades
and her gray hair was pulled back and almost unseen behind a lacy white
maid's cap.  Her legs were as shapely as they had been 30 years before. 
"Oh, Esther," said Zeb, "you're beautiful."

   "Call me 'Fifi,'" said Esther.

   "Fifi?" said my grandfather, stroking his gray mustache.  "Oh no, you
went to all this trouble for me and are looking so beautiful and desirable.
I want to call you by your name, 'Esther.'"

   "No, Zeb; if you call me Esther I can't do it.  It has to be Fifi,
monsieur" said my grandmother.

   "All right, then, Fifi," said Grandpa, grinning to the point of
chuckling with delight.

   "Now, monsieur," she said.  "While I turn my back, remove all of your
clothes."

   "Oh yes, I'll do it, Fifi," said Grandpa as she turned her back.  He got
out of his long underwear faster than he'd done since the day his cousin
dropped a lit cigar on his lap.  He hadn't even touched his male member,
but it was already halfway erect.  "I'm ready, Fifi," he said.

   She sat on the bed, and Grandpa started to move, expecting her to lie on
her back as always.  But she said, "no, monsieur, stay as you are.  But
close your eyes."

   He did, and she kissed him.  She kissed him in a way she seldom kissed,
hard.  They kissed for a while, his eyes still closed, and soon Grandma was
using her tongue in his mouth almost as vigorously as he was using his in
hers.

   Grandpa's eyes still closed, Grandma removed her panties and used her
fingers to rub some petroleum jelly into her nether regions, surprised to
find her vulva in its nest of gray hair was already moistened.  She wiped
her hand thoroughly with a rag, but did not wash it.  She sat facing away
from Zeb, her buttocks resting on his thighs, his nearly erect penis
touching her bottom.  She took his hands in hers, and put them over her
breasts, still covered by her maid's clothes.  They felt firmer through the
fabric.

   Then Grandma said, "Open your eyes, monsieur."

   "Yes, Fifi," said Grandpa.  "They're open wide."

   "I will stay this way, my back to you, so you can, so you can imagine me
looking however you like."

   Grandpa was astonished to see the back of his wife, the maid, with her
right hand in front obviously rubbing herself between her legs!  He had
never seen her do that.  After watching for a while, he couldn't resist,
and reached his strong right hand around and started rubbing her too.  It
took Grandma by shock and she almost told him to stop.  But she did not,
and found she very much liked her husband's hand touching her--dare she say
it?  "I love the way you touch my, my vulva, monsieur."

   "Oh, Es--Fifi," said Grandpa.  "Me too."

   After a few more moments, Grandma was the readiest she had ever felt. 
"Monsieur, I am ready for you to enter me, please, monsieur, please."

   And Grandpa did.  She sat on him, still facing away, using her hand to
guide his erect penis under her buttocks and into her willing vagina.  It
took a moment, for she had never done it this way before.  But he entered
her finally, and she felt him filling her.  She rubbed herself, and
remembered to stimulate the nub, the bump above her vulva.  She moved up
and down.  As aroused as she was, she began to tire.  But Grandpa grabbed
her waist from both sides, and his strong arms lifted her up, then lowered
her down, then lifted her again.

   The moving up and down and the lubrication and the candles and moonlight
and her waist and her bottom and her wet vagina rubbing over his manhood
and Grandpa felt the surge.  He howled his wolf howl as he shot his spunk
more forcefully than he had in a long time, deep into Grandma's vagina. 
For the first time in years, he had been thinking only of his wife.  After
a moment, he said, "that was wonderful." He thought the most wonderful
night of his wedded life since his honeymoon was over, and had now become a
cherished memory.

   From another room, Ben said, "there's the full moon wolf again."

   But in my grandparents' bedroom, Grandma was still moving up and down on
Grandpa's erect member.  "Help me, monsieur," she said.

   "Help you?" said Grandpa, astonished.  "After I'm finished?  Oh my. 
Yes, certainly." He fully cooperated, using his wood-hauling arms to move
her small body up and down.  Then Grandma did something Grandpa had never
heard.  She cried out, "Zeb, I'm having an orgasm, oh Zeb!"

   The family couldn't understand the words, but the sound carried through
the house.

   "I heard something else," said Erin.  "What was that, John Boy?"

   "John Boy's asleep . . .  probably asleep," said John quickly.  He and
my mother were both wiping themselves off with rags after their joining. 
"All of you go back to sleep." But to his wife he said, "Olivia.  That
wasn't just my Pa this time.  Do you think Ma's all right?"

   "She's fine, John Walton, maybe better than she's ever been," said
Olivia.  "Everything is Ok."

   "I hope John Boy's Ok," said my father to himself.

   "Why wouldn't he be?" asked Olivia.

   "Never mind," said my father.  "Let's just go to sleep."

   * * * *

   I had planned to meet Marcia Woolery in the barn at 10 p.m.  I chose the
late hour first because I knew my family would be asleep and wouldn't miss
me, especially as I had my own bedroom, and second because I didn't want
Marcia coming to our barn to the sound of Grandpa's monthly howl and being
frightened away by 'the full moon wolf.'"

   I felt overdressed for the barn, but not for her.  I wore a long sleeve
white button shirt with small dark gray spots under a beige with black
stripes sweater vest.  The top of my shirt was fastened by a dark brown
bowtie with light oval spots.  My slacks were brown, held by a dark belt,
and my shoes and socks were both brown.

   At 20 minutes after, I began to wonder if she was coming at all.  I had
gotten to the barn early, about 8:30, so I could prepare an area for us.  I
had thoroughly cleaned a corner of the barn floor, and covered it with
fresh hay.  I then unfolded and spread out a freshly washed red and green
blanket and repositioned it over the hay five times.  I had a jar of red
glass holding the Baldwin Sister's recipe mixed with lemonade and extra
sugar.  Everyone knew what they called "the recipe" was moonshine--except
for them.  I hoped Marcia would like it as much as I did, and that it would
help relieve some of our nervousness.  Perhaps things would go further than
my getting a peek at what I imagined to be her wondrous body.  I also had
what Grandpa had given me, a sheep skin prophylactic.  I did not plan to go
that far, but he told me to keep it ready just in case.

   The Baldwin Sisters had given me the red jar of lemony brew for
"culmination of services duly rendered." I figured the phrase had come from
their late father the judge, but I wasn't sure exactly what services it
referred to.  But right then I didn't care.

   While I had prepared the barn, Chance, our family's brown cow, had
largely ignored me.  She even slept through Grandpa's wolf howl; I supposed
she had gotten used to it.  She woke up and mooed a bit as if she were
frightened a little later, but I didn't know by what.  But I wasn't
thinking much about our cow.  I was feeling the Walton full-moon stirring
in my blood, and was fighting letting my hand relieve the building
pressure.

   Finally, a little after 10:30, I heard the gentle tapping on the barn
door that meant the girl I had prepared for was there.  I opened the door,
and there was Marcia Woolery.

   She wasn't wearing an evening dress, I guessed because we weren't
meeting at a dance but in the barn.  She had on a short sleeved white and
blue gingham dress that blossomed at her bosom, then was gathered at her
waist, then softly widened from her waist through her hips.  Her shoes were
dark leather.  "I couldn't wear white shoes out here," she said when she
noticed me looking at her feet.  Her soft light brown hair lit by moonlight
was worn in a bun with a white American dogwood flower, the state flower of
Virginia, in the right side of her hair.

   But what I noticed most was her face which looked ready for a dance. 
She wore lipstick, red and wet, and a little rouge on her cheeks.  Her deep
brown eyes were highlighted somehow when they looked up at me, but most of
the time they were looking down.  I closed the barn door behind us.

   "You're beautiful, Marcia Woolery," I said.  I suddenly felt overdressed
in my brown slacks and leather shoes, light long sleeve shirt fastened with
a brown spotted bowtie with a brown sweater vest over it.

   "I almost didn't come, John Boy," Marcia said.

   "Well, I'm glad you did."

   "John Boy," she said, looking at me with doey eye, "are you sure you
love me?"

   "Yes, I am, Marcia Woolery." I said.  "You are my girl, my queen.  Why
can't a girl be queenly, and give the gift of herself?" I said, slightly
misquoting Lawrence.

   "Your queen?  Oh John Boy, you have such a way with words.  I noticed
something too, with words.  Woolery sounds almost like Walton," she said.

   "Yes it does," I agreed.

   We talked and held hands.  I released her and said "Marcia, I have
something special for tonight.  I've saved it for you." Then I brought out
the jar of the recipe mixed with spicy lemonade I had saved for a special
occasion.  "The Baldwin Sisters make a special type of lemonade."

   "I know, it's delicious," she said.  "Or so I've heard.  It's partly the
recipe, right?"

   We shared the spiced lemonade whiskey, both drinking out of the same
jar. We held and caressed each other's clothed bodies while sitting on the
red and green blanket.  We kissed, our lips wet with our own licking, and
our tongues entered and moved wetly inside each other's mouth.

   She suddenly broke from a kiss and said, breathlessly, "I'm ready, John
Boy.  I'm ready to show myself to you.  Are you ready?"

   "I have been for a month," I said.

   She stood and turned with her back to me.  She undid her light brown
hair, and it fell long and flowing over her back.  The white flower was
still in her hair.  She turned and looked at me over her shoulder, still
keeping her back to me.  "Are you ready, John Boy?" she asked.

   I said "yes."

   Somehow, while I watched her back, she did something, I don't know what.
But suddenly her white and blue checkered dress was sliding down and she
was stepping out of it.  I saw her pink back and waist and full rounded
buttocks over two wonderfully shapely legs.  I had thought I'd see the back
of her panties and brassiere, but she was wearing nothing save her white
flower in her hair and her dark shoes on her feet.  As she kicked off her
shoes, I caught a quick glimpse of something dark brown at the top of her
thighs just below her bottom.  "Oh Marcia," I said.  "You're beautiful. 
You are a queen, my queen."

   Then she turned suddenly to face me.  I saw her pale shoulders, and
there were her small but firm and full breasts, with nipples smaller than
in some of the pictures I'd seen, but larger than mine.  Her breasts were
like, yet not like, those of the women I'd seen nude in black and white
photographs.  They hung higher than Clara Bow's, were rounder than Olive
Borden's, and had two points more prominent than Paulette Goddard's.  They
were like two ripe pink tomatoes with small dark nipples where the leaves
and stems would have been.  I looked beneath her breasts at her belly, a
bit rounder than Jean Harlow's with her inward navel in the center, and
below that saw a garden patch of curled hair, darker and fuller than Mary
Ellen's, that grew above her wonderfully shapely legs and naked feet.  She
was naked, completely, save for the white American dogwood flower in her
hair.

   She stepped toward me, breathing as if she had been running.  She
touched me as I stood, and before I knew it her hands and mine has removed
my long sleeved blue dotted white shirt, my suspenders were gone, my shoes
and socks were off, and my brown pants and white briefs were lying on the
hay.

   She kissed me suddenly, and I kissed back.  My member was actually
touching her lower belly, looking for a way in.  Both of our bodies were
shaking.

   She suddenly pulled away.  "Oh John Boy," she said, "I don't know what's
happening to me.  I don't know.  Look at me." I certainly had been looking,
but then I noticed a bit of liquid flowing slowly like molasses down her
legs from her bush.  I thought at first she was peeing, but then I
remembered what I had read when sneaking a peek at a book at the Baldwin
Sisters'.  She was wet with excitement.  "Oh John Boy," she said.  "I'm,
I'm dripping!"

   I was dripping too.  Liquid was seeping from the small opening at the
head of my penis.  "Marcia," I said, maybe we should stop."

   But she ignored my advice.  Both still standing, she pressed her naked
body again to mine.  Our hands were everywhere, exploring each other's
glistening naked bodies, our backs, our chests, our buttocks, our groins.
Soon my mouth was at her left breast, and her soft hand was firmly stroking
me while I was touching her between her legs in the way Grandpa had told me
a man could do.  I knew, and knew that she knew, that we were not going to
stop.

   "John Boy," she panted as she stroked my engorged member while I stroked
her wet bushy flesh between her perspiring and dripping thighs.  "Before we
do . . .  'it,' there's something I . . .  oh, that is nice . . .  I have
to tell you."

   "Ok, Marcia but make it quick.  I don't think I can hold off much
longer." Her hand around my engorged member was heaven.

   "John Boy, I'm not 17."

   " Marcia, right now I don't care how old you are," I said.

   "But I'm older than you.  You should know that.  I'm really 19.  I
started school late, then . . .  oh John Boy . . .  was held back in school
a year as a young girl before . . .  oh, so nice . . .  before we moved
back here."

   "Marcia, I don't care if you're twenty . . .  or twenty seven," I said,
feeling her wetness all over my fingers and even in my hand.  "You're my
queen."

   "And John Boy," she said, stroking my erection, "please, before we,
before we do it, when we do it . . .  "

   "Yes?"

   "I always . . .  imagined my, my husband, when we were alone, together
like this, would call me, would call me by my middle name, my secret name."

   "I didn't know you, you had a middle name," I said, my blood boiling in
my loins.

   "I never use it, I saved it for him, for you.  John Boy, call me, oh
John Boy . . .  "

   "Call you what?" I said.

   "Call me . . .  Lunette."

   * * * *

   "Lunette?" thought my sister Mary Ellen hiding in the barn loft.  Her
right hand was thrust down the side of her blue bib overalls and into the
area below the hair of her private area.  She was fondling her lady lips
with her index finger moving wetly inside.  She was surprised to feel her
own womanly juices dripping down her legs, feeling much wetter than she had
been so far.  Her left hand was fondling her own breasts which were free
from her light long sleeve unbuttoned shirt.

   Mary Ellen spoke very quietly to herself while she watched us, using the
nastiest words she knew.  "Do it, John Boy, put your erect penis inside
Marcia Woolery's vagina, her wet cave of flesh that's made for a man's
penis to enter and explore and thrust and ejaculate inside.  Do I while I
watch."

   * * * *

   I didn't know Mary Ellen's thoughts, or that she was there at all,
watching us from the loft inside the barn Marcia and I were standing in
naked.  But I knew my own thoughts.  "I have to get something, Marcia," I
said.  I pulled away with difficultly, grabbed my discarded pants and
reached into my right front pocket.  I took out the sheep skin prophylactic
in its small package that Grandpa had given me.  I had already used one to
practice, especially the part where I would hold the base of it before I
pulled out so I wouldn't leave it behind and useless.  "This will keep you
from becoming with child," I said.  I opened its package and slid it on.

   At the same time, Marcia had lain on the blanket on her back, her knees
high and bent and spread wide apart.  She was opened and waiting for me to
slide in.  She was wetter than a ripe slit in a squeezed lemon.

   I mounted her, feeling like a wild dog, a wolf.  I missed her opening
the first time and the second, but entered her on the third.  I could not
believe how it felt.  We moved together, our perspiring bodies slapping
against each other.  I was surprised at the sound but found I liked it.  It
sounded obscene like the words of D.  H.  Lawrence.

   "Oh Marcia," I said.

   "Lunette," she reminded.

   "Lunette, I'm inside you, inside your . . .  your vagina.  My penis is
inside your vagina."

   "Oh John Boy," she said, "keep talking like that."

   "We're joining, mating, Marcia, Lunette, we're . . .  we're fucking!"

   "Oh John Boy!"

   "My erect penis is fucking your cunt!" I said.

   "Yes, John Boy, yes, we're . . .  we're fucking!  We're mating!  Oh John
Boy, oh . . .  John Boy!  Fuck me, John Boy, fuck me!" she screamed.

   I had been close, but as soon as I heard her scream, I was screaming
too. "Lunette!" I spurted gobs of semen, filling the prophylactic inside
her.  As I looked down where we connected, I saw that somehow the white
dogwood flower she had worn in her hair had fallen in her lap.

   While we were screaming together, it seemed as if I heard, "John Boy!"
but it wasn't from Marcia.  It sounded like Mary Ellen, but I was sure it
couldn't have been.  Without knowing it, while I was inside my girlfriend
was I actually thinking of my oldest sister?

   * * * *

   Barely awake, when they heard the screams, John and Olivia each smiled
to themselves, but for different reasons.  John thought, "My son has
finally done it," and Olivia thought, "Esther and Zeb have done it again."
Fortunately, the rest of the family was asleep and heard nothing.

   * * * *

   The thrill I had felt telling Grandpa about Marcia Woolery and I joining
for the first time fell like a fragile flower vase to the concrete,
shattering to pieces.  I started shaking in shock Sunday afternoon outside
when Grandpa told me the secret after I had shared with him, what I had
finally done with Marcia.  He did not know Marcia's background until I told
him her middle name.  Then he told me the story of my father and mother's
secret daughter born before they were married, the story of Lunette.  I had
mated my own sister.

   Grandpa and I were sitting on a log in the dip in Walton's Mountain
where we had been before.  I was so confused and astonished I was shaking
out tears.

   "How could you not have told me, Grandpa?" I cried.

   "I didn't know myself, John Boy, that Marcia was Lunette, not until you
told me her middle name.  It is a secret that must remain secret.  You must
not tell anyone, not your parents, and especially not Marcia.  Not, at
least, until your grandmother and I, and your mother and father, are all
gone.  And I'd never tell her."

   "But Grandpa, how can I even live with myself?  After what I did?  I
wish I was dead."

   "John Boy, it's not your fault.  You didn't know . . .  John Boy, I'm
going to tell you something else.  Something that might help you feel like
you're not alone in this."

   "Oh, Grandpa, not another secret."

   "I never planned to tell anyone this, ever.  You have to swear me a
solemn oath never to tell anyone, not as long your parents and grandparents
are alive.  Right now, I am the only person in the world who knows this."

   "Grandpa . . .  "

   "Swear it, John Boy.  I have to tell you this.  You are so despondent,
the truth of your background just might save your life."

   "I swear," I said.

   "I told you I had an affair when your Uncle Ben and your father, my son
John, were quite young.  And that the woman I had the dalliance with was
married and produced a daughter."

   "Yes, Grandpa."

   "But I did not tell you the woman's name."

   "Was it 'Fifi?" I asked.

   "Fifi?  No," said Grandpa.  "Fifi wasn't the French chorus girl I met;
it was the name of her wolf."

   "Oh," I said.  I hadn't yet heard the story of what the wolf had done to
the French woman or the army man Henry, so had no idea how to interpret
that.  Nor, right then, did I care.

   Grandpa continued.  "Forget the girl and her wolf.  John Boy, the last
name of the woman I had the affair with, the one I produced a daughter
with, was Daly."

   "Daly?  You mean she was someone in Grandma's family, my other grandma?"

   "Yes," said Grandpa.

   "Oh, Grandpa, you don't mean, you don't mean you did it with both my
grandmothers?"

   "Yes, John Boy, I did."

   "But that means . . .  Aunt Frances is your daughter?  You're the father
of my mother's sister?"

   "No, John Boy, not your Aunt Frances."

   "But who else could it be?  It couldn't be . . .  no, no, no, I won't
believe it."

   "It's true, John Boy.  My daughter, born out of wedlock, is . . . 
Olivia, your mother.  But don't you ever, ever tell anybody, as long as we
live.  You made a solemn oath."

   "But, but Daddy's your son.  Mama and Daddy are brother and sister?"

   "Half brother and sister," said Grandpa.  "When I had that affair with
your other grandmother, she wasn't your grandmother, of course, just
another woman.  I had no idea that years later my daughter by her would
fall in love with my son by Esther.  That's why your late maternal
grandmother forbid her daughter Olivia marrying my son John, because she
believed they were half brother and sister, which was the truth.

   "But then I told your mama's mother that, when we were together years
before, I had been completely sterile as verified by a doctor.  Olivia
could not be my child, but was the legitimate offspring of her now late
husband, your other grandfather.  It was a lie, of course.  Olivia was
mine.

   "She, like me, you, your father, your brother Jason, your sister
Lunette, and by now probably your sister Mary Ellen, are all Waltons who
feel the stirring of the moon.  Why do you think Marcia--Lunette--opened up
to you so quickly?  It wasn't just the recipe with lemonade.  It was the
full moon.  I would be very careful, John Boy, to not be alone with Mary
Ellen during the night of a full moon.  Your other brothers and sisters
will feel it someday, when they're mature; Erin might be close.  It's in
the Walton blood, and has been since your great-great grandfather first
claimed Walton's Mountain and christened it by being joined with his wife
under the light of a full moon.

   "But oh, I should have told your maternal grandmother that lie long
before, long before your mother gave birth to Lunette.  It's my fault she
had to leave her home for months and hide at the home of her aunt in
Alberene.  May God forgive me that I waited so long to let my son and
daughter, your mother and father, be married.  But I had been very worried
about incest too, until I learned how prominent it was in the Bible.

   "But finally I told the lie, and your late maternal grandmother believed
that her daughter, Olivia, was produced by her husband, your late maternal
grandfather.  Then she let the marriage of your future mother and father,
Olivia Daly and John Walton, happen."

   "But Grandpa!  Why didn't you stop it?  Why didn't you stop me?"

   "I told you, John Boy, I didn't know Marcia was your sister Lunette
until you told me that was her name.  I didn't even know she was adopted,
and she might not know, so I wouldn't tell her that either.

   "But as to your parents, who am I to stop love?  Eve was made of Adam's
flesh, closer than brother and sister, and their offspring had to produce
offspring with either their parents or siblings.  God made it that way. 
And Abraham was blessed by God in his union with his half sister Sarah. 
And Noah and his sons and their wives, they had to have interbred.  God
made it that way too.  So many in the Bible, John Boy, were produced by
incest.  Your mother and father, my daughter and son, produced seven
healthy--eight healthy--children.  Let it go, John Boy, let it go."

   * * * *

   "Eventually I did let it go, and never revealed any of it until after
Grandma and Grandpa, and Mama and Daddy, were long gone.  My mother and
father never learned the true nature of their relationship.

   "Marcia and I never married, of course.  She eventually learned she had
been adopted, but I never told her that she was my sister, a secret only
Grandpa and I knew.  She married and was later killed in a car accident
while much too young, and I dearly miss her.

   "After a while, when I was 17, the Walton household returned to
normalcy, or as normal as it could be considering the family secret."

   --Narrator, John Walton Jr.  in middle age

   * * * *

   On a Saturday night, a little while after 9 p.m., and two weeks after
Grandma first wore her French maid costume for Grandpa, we heard what
sounded like the howling of a wolf.

   "Daddy," shouted Erin from the girls' bedroom.  "Is that the full-moon
wolf?"

   "Erin," said Mary Ellen, "Quiet or you'll wake up Elizabeth."

   "But it's not the full moon," said Erin.

   "It is now," said Daddy, smiling at the thought of what had apparently
just happened in his Ma and Pa's bedroom.  "It is now.  Go back to sleep."


   END