Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 SEVEN SEAS FOR FOUR

   by Holly Rennick

   AUTHOR'S NOTES

   For you nice readers requesting a sequel to FISHING FOR THE POCKET TROUT
(/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Fishing_for_the_Pocket_Tr
out.txt, originally titled SEVEN SEAS in reference to the theme park
setting), here you are.  I could have been unduly obtuse and called this
one CCCCCCC44.  A further sequel in the works?  No, but we'll see.
This story was written five decades after the American publication of
"Lolita," voted by the Board of the Modern Library as the fourth greatest
English-language novel of the 20th Century, behind "The Great Gatsby,"

"Ulysses" and "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man."

   SEVEN SEAS FOR FOUR

   Your brain's sharpest when you wake up, Sara's observation about her
own, at least.  Less clutter.  A night's processing on whatever's been
mulling around.  And anyway, there's not much else to do till the others
wake up.

   Having to share the hotel bed with her brother (the cover-hogger, but at
least the bed's big enough) was why her mind's been mulling.  He'd been
faking sleep when she and Dad got back last night from the light show -- a
sister knows that sort of thing -- but once she was sure his sleep was
real, she'd felt him through his pajamas.  She'd planned to ever since Dad
announced that the two would have to share a bed.

   Her brother's boner surprised her.  He must have been dreaming big time.
And it wasn't as if she didn't have some idea of what he'd been dreaming
about.  Maybe not in detailed form -- though she herself indeed had some
first-hand experience -- but at least the subject.

   Get it?  She laughed at her own joke.  First-hand experience!  Lots of
13-year-olds hadn't a clue.  She could have done it last night after the
rest were asleep, except she'd drifted off, too.  She could give it a go
now, except somebody might wake up.

   So let's replay yesterday a bit more, she decided.  So interesting!

   Interesting that Rob also had a boner at the Pirate Trove Cafe.  Easy as
pie to tell when he stood up.  Order a Tropical Twist at the restaurant
today, she reminded herself, as it's neat how they swirl the foam.

   Mom seemed to have been footsieing him just before that.  If we miss
each other at Flagship Light Spectacular, she'd instructed in her
listen-to-Mother voice, just meet back at the hotel.  A girl can tell when
a parent has another agenda and sure enough, Mom and Rob were no-shows.

   And then the oddities when they at last got back to the room.

   Mom attributing how long it took her to open the door to dozing off
while watching TV.  But a show about the North Pole?  An Oprah special
might make sense, but not polar bears.

   And then Mom moving the suitcase from her bed to the floor before Dad
noticed.  Where'd she been dozing?

   Talcum powder on Rob's bedspread.  Her brother wouldn't use it, that's
for sure.

   Mom's panties on the floor, and more than that even, beside the wrong
bed.

   It's one thing to wonder about your brother.  It's another to wonder
about your mom.  And it's entirely something else to wonder about the two
of them.

   And why would she wonder things?  as if she didn't already know. 
Because Seven Seas is totally about that particular subject.  Probably the
same for all theme parks, she supposed, but she'd only been to this one.

   Which relates, Sara allowed, to the light show.  She'd felt the lump
when she'd sat on Dad's lap.  Even your own dad has a you-know-what.  He'd
have had one nine months before your birthday, for example.  When the
fireworks began, she'd snuggled lower, wrapped his arms around her and held
them against her chest.

   On the hotel shuttle, Sara wasn't sure if the driver's calling her
'Skipper' was good or bad.  What the driver didn't notice, she hoped, what
that she was maybe a bit old to ride in her father's lap.  Sort of
drowsing, you might say.  She'd wanted to check and sure enough, what
happened at the light show happened again.

   It's one thing to know that your brother gets boners.  It's another
thing to feel your father's twice in one evening.

   And now there was the day ahead.

   Adventures in Seven Seas Adventureland!  For sure she'd find more rides
she could do in Dad's lap.  Plus she'd get him to buy her one of those
little sea horses in case she had to do a science fair experiment.

   As the rest of the family still wasn't stirring, Sara rose, turned on
the TV and let the weatherman wake them up with temperatures.  77 downtown.
74 at the airport.  Presumably 70-something at Seven Seas.

   "Last day," Sara announced, though of course they already knew it, as
she chose her clothes and headed for the bathroom.  Better remember her sun
visor, if the weatherman was right.  Her Italian visor, at least in brand,
not something with a smiling octopus.

   Breakfast.  Shuttle.  Seven Seas!

   "See you birds later," Rob bid her and Dad adieu as soon as they cleared
the main gate, a.k.a.  Seven Seas Passports.  "Me and Mom want to explore
the Sand Castle.  Right, Mom?"

   "Top of my list," Mom's sudden interest in nautical fortification
striking Sara as one more oddity.

   Unsurprised at Mom's and Rob's departure, Sara adjusted her bra straps
to show better.

   "Looks like we're on our own again, Daddy-O."

   Submarine Escape was exciting, Dad behind her at the porthole.  She
knew, of course, that they'd evade the squid.  A hunch of her shoulders was
all it took to pooch her collar and when the glass reflected Dad eying down
her straps, she inhaled to look a size larger.

   "Buccaneers dead ahead, mates!  Prepare to dive!" ordered the
loudspeaker.

   Spytower Tree Fort was a cinch, though Dad was slow on the walkway. 
When they went up the hollow trunk, that's when she bumped herself against
Dad's arm.  Not too much, of course, but enough to bump.  When they had to
crawl through the knothole, she sent Dad ahead so he'd see both cups when
she emerged.  She'd not chosen a crew-neck for no reason.

   Maritime Missile was more of a Rob-type thing -- lots of facts about
space travel.  A real rocket wouldn't have an emergency exit, however.  It
was in the Sea and Sky Crew Cabin, "Step to the bow, cadets," where Dad
brushed her twice the same way -- elbow against the side of her chest, up
and over, and then back.  Some thirteen-year-olds have more, she'd admit,
but others have less.

   During the meteor shower she moved to his other arm and let the skyscape
sway them.  As it was hardly an inch either way, nobody would notice the
pattern of her to his left, him to her right and then her to his right, him
to her left.

   Bumps and brushes weren't anything she'd not had pulled on her at
school, especially in the stairwell.  She'd set cute guys up to pull it on
her a few times, even.  Just carry your books beside your hip, is all.  But
with your dad, it's more accidental, and even if it's not, it's because
you're having fun.

   Noah's Flood was a series of improbable aquariums.  Sea bass
circumnavigating the Pyramids.  Sea stars on the Great Wall of China. 
Jellyfish above the Empire State Building, which Sara knew to have been
built post-Noah.

   Port Starboard was better.  Everything was backwards, starting with the
entrance labeled TIXE.

   Real palms lined the Lilly Pad canal, the ride where Dad touched her
knee.

   Sailors Hornpipe should have had an apostrophe somewhere in its name,
Sara bet, as they'd covered apostrophes in English.  When Dad again put his
hand on her leg, she laughed at the dancing whalers and turned a tad in his
direction.

   Rob and Mom had done the Twister yesterday, but they'd not volunteered
much information.  Dad's arms pinned Sara against his grasp on the pole. 
Most every guy seemed to be doing the same.  'Ahoy, I'm Todd' -- the
attendant, sort of a cute guy -- has to watch a million girls getting felt
up, she bet.  Probably drives him batty.

   Dad wasn't doing that, of course, but it didn't mean that he and she
weren't holding on in the same way everybody else was.  She hoped he
noticed how her bra pushed her together.

   You can't be positively certain, but when you twist your butt, you
pretty much realize what part of him you're touching.

   Interesting, thought Sara.  Apparently interesting to about half the
girls on the ride, based on how they twisted their butts.

   The line for the Tunnel of Mystery would have taken too long, but Sara
knew why the older kids thought it worth the wait.  It's where you go to
make out.  From yesterday's reports, Rob and Mom went more than once, the
more-than-once only slipping out because they gave different times.  Not to
fool around, maybe, but then again, it might have been for more than just
getting scared.

   Sara pictured Mom slipping Rob a little kiss, him pretending to not like
it, then kissing her back.  If the line hadn't been so long, Sara would
have let Dad captain their way into the mysterious darkness.

   She clutched her father's elbow to steer him to Speedboat Speedway.  As
the passed the snow-cone kiosk -- sort of an igloo -- she didn't ask for
one, but tugged his arm again across her front.

   ****

   I'd not expected Maritime Missile to be so packed, Phil judged, but we
probably weren't in violation of whatever law applies to overcrowding in
public rockets.  Counsel for Seven Seas probably wrote the law, anyway.

   In any case, that's where I brushed Sara's breast, the first time, that
is.  It wasn't my fault, how the show made us sway as we circumnavigated
Jupiter.  So firm and so conic.

   A guy's arms around a girl seemed de rigueur on the Twister, but that's
because the ride was for high school truants.  Hold the post and let her
press against your hands.  Confusing about who's doing what, some of these
rides.

   I watched a boy feel up a woman old enough to be his teacher, her
nipples more-or-less "Push to Start." I'd once read an English teacher's
story that ends in her bedroom; the kid hardly knew what was coming, but
did great.  As the two I was watching seemed to share facial features,
perhaps she was his aunt, not his teacher.  There's another story about a
boy whose aunt's a librarian, but they do it by a lake, not in the library,
as you might expect.  In any case, this aunt, or whoever she was, didn't
catch me watching.

   A ride like the Twister is for pretending you don't know exactly what
the ride's about.  About half of Seven Seas seemed to be fun things for
little kids and the other half, another kind of fun for older kids.  Two
target merchandising groups, I suppose: one sporting junior pirate hats;
the other, sporting tank tops.

   In any case, Sara's shirt was indeed what got rubbed when the Twister
twisted her one way and me the other.  I'd have been surer about her
nipples if she'd just been in one of those tank tops, but I was pretty sure
anyway.

   I hoped my erection wasn't obvious.  Given our velocity, nobody could
have seen, but there were also her bounces into my front side.  No hope of
twisting away, however.

   "That one looks super fun," Sara next decided, a cone nudging me toward
Speedboat Speedway.

   A theme park can try to make a silk purse from a sow's ear, but this one
still looked like bumper cars.  Tugboats on wheels, maybe.  Vespa tires for
bumpers, as the point's to ram your way.

   "Sure, hon," rediscovering her nipple.

   At least this was a ride of the younger-child variety.  If bumper cars
are what Sara wants to do, fine, as I could use a few minutes to clear my
mind.

   "You help me drive, okay?"

   "You're not that little," though I didn't say why.

   Sara flashed her smile, the one that's hard to overrule.  "I'm just
thirteen," surprising, as she usually claims to be old enough for anything.

   And that's how I ended up in the driver's seat, daughter on my lap.

   "Keep her in the speedway, Dad" advised 'Ahoy, I'm Zoe,' the
college-type attendant who seemed well-accustomed to all possibilities of
driver/passenger duos.  Catching me eying her chest, she flicked her tongue
and grinned.  As the 'Ahoy, I'm Zoes' of the world can get you in trouble,
however, it's better to pursue your adventures through adult literature.

   Sara missed few opportunities to vehicular whack those foolish enough to
cross our bow, but at a couple of miles per hour, collisions weren't like
the rides that damage your internal organs.

   Sara had the wheel to hold and I, her.  At first I held her sides, but
as the seat wasn't that deep, I'd a better perch around her waist.  As
Speedboat Speedway wasn't teen-oriented, any higher might have violated the
rules, but 'Ahoy, I'm Zoe,' probably wouldn't have cared.

   "That's better," Sara agreed.

   Perched over Sara's shoulder -- same as on the submarine -- I couldn't
help but now and then glancing downward.  More often than on the submarine,
actually, as whenever a collision slammed her backward, the top of her bra
gapped in peek-a-boo manner.

   There's no way you can't look.

   Strawberries perched on shallow slopes.  I say this not because I dwelt
on the view, not because the lift of my arm prolonged the moment of
observation, but only as a metaphor.  In most stories, girls even younger
than Sara have large breasts, but other than height, Sara hadn't had the
rest of her growth spurt.

   And how can you not notice pubescence?  The linear hips.  The elevation
of the breasts.  When collars blossom open, the little white cups.  Or to
be particular, when the little white cups blossom open, the ripening fruit.
There are thousands of stories about Lolitas, but except for the original,
they're mostly about professionally-endowed young ladies.

   What I didn't intend was to park my other hand on her stomach.  When I
realized where I was -- out of sight beneath the dashboard, but even still!
-- I of course retreated, but that's when we sideswiped a grade-schooler
under parental tutelage and my hand returned beneath the dash.

   I again would have moved away, but that's when we careened off the next
competitor.

   "Got 'em!" laughed Sara, ignoring my perch now on the waist of her
shorts -- the ones she wore for soccer -- as she spun the wheel for drama.

   How can I help it if a finger or two drifted onto the fabric?

   Nylon slides so smoothly over cotton.  I say "cotton," but maybe her
panties were also of something synthetic.  Whatever they were made of, the
contours within started not that far below the hem.

   Don't, I warned myself, but not until I'd made the journey.

   She doesn't feel me, not at all, I told myself, beginning to search. 
I'm just a backseat driver, except one in the same seat.  A backseat driver
taking a secret drive.

   Sara laughed at a near miss as we ricocheted off the guardrail, splaying
her knees for stability.

   In many stories, this is exactly how things start, inadvertent contact
through clothing.  I wouldn't think that Sara would know about these
stories, however, as they inevitably lead to sex.

   She steered with utmost concentration.

   Thank God that driving keeps her mind occupied!  It wasn't as if I were
doing anything, but I'd not have wanted her to wonder what I was doing.

   My hand cuddling her shorts reduced my defenses against her butt
cuddling my trousers, but as she didn't recognize where I was, she'd also
miss its effect.  It was like touching mounds on the Twister, except this
time I was lower and she was slower.

   It's one thing for a dad to discover how much his daughter's grown; it's
another for a daughter to discover how much her dad can grow.

   So oh God!  when I realized how exactly the rock of her backside matched
the rhythm of my finger and how fully the roll of her rear massaged the jut
of my lap.

   Is she feeling what I'm doing?  What it's doing to me?  Maybe I could
blame my hand on the crashes, but that reason wouldn't fly for my other
part.

   Oh God!  as her thighs trapped my hand and she shifted higher onto my
trousers.

   Who will she tell?  Park security?  Her mother?  My fate will be
identical.  Today wasn't supposed to be like this!

   No, Sara, I wanted to plead.  It's not what you think.  I'm...  I'm
just...

   I'd want to stop immediately, but it's easier said than done when your
hand can't get away and her butt's beginning to call the shots.  You can
only hope that if you climax, your boxers will soak it up.

   "This is so fun!" Sara laughed, waving at the parents who let their kids
drive alone.

   And then I saw that she was referring to the driving.  It's so much fun
driving!  So focused on steering, she's missing the rest!  Moving her butt
is just from the ride!  She doesn't know a thing!

   Thank God!

   Slow down, I'd liked to have told her, finding the crease within the
softness.

   "Move over, buster," she yelled at a precocious ten-year-old who blocked
our path.

   My fingertip nestled the head of the divide as we hit the straight-away.

   'Ahoy, I'm Zoe' flashed us a thumbs-up as we sped by.

   As Sara aimed our vehicle -- aiming, more than steering, being her style
when the traffic thickened -- I hoped my demeanor appeared causal to the
watching parents.

   Was I doing something I shouldn't?  Not that much, just letting our
tosses and turns decide how much to furrow.  When her legs open, then trap
and then again open, however, it's difficult not to seize each opportunity.

   You can't feel every little thing through nylon and whatever, but you
know when you've found the clitoris.  Not by its form, of course -- it's
way too tiny -- but by the reaction.

   It wasn't that I'd planned to.  It wasn't that I'd even chosen to.  It
was her driving that made me.

   "Here we go!" announced my daughter, bouncing as we sped on until
finally she thrust backwards, maybe three times, even, slumped her
shoulders and decelerated.

   My God!  as her wiggles subsided.

   Was that what I thought it was?  It seemed totally impossible, but at
the same time, how maybe a girl her age might climax.  No theatrics.  No
admission.  Just unabashed spirit.

   It seemed impossible that it was I who made her, but maybe I'm just
reticent because she's my daughter.

   But oh God!  If that's what it was, how could I have let myself?  I was
just playing around, not trying to make her do anything.

   What's she going to say?

   The consequences, I wouldn't even want to imagine.  Kathy might
understand about my erection, but no excuse was going to fly regarding a
masturbation.  They'd probably call it child abuse, something like that. 
They'll call me a molester, put me in jail.

   But -- hope against hope -- she could have twitched for any sort of
reason, something related to driving, perhaps.  Is she even old enough? 
Would she even have recognized what it was?

   The possibility of her not comprehending was my life preserver.  Maybe
nothing will happen.  Not with park security.  Not with my wife.  Home
free!

   Or maybe, even, what happened wasn't quite as criminal as I'd feared. 
Helping your daughter orgasm -- if that's what it was -- maybe her first
one, even, well, what can you say?

   "Driving's rad," Sara's summary as we extracted ourselves from the
vehicle, her hand on my thigh to steady herself.  Maybe not only on my
thigh, but she was so quick I wasn't sure.  You're so sensitive at times
like this that even your fly can goose you.

   'Ahoy, I'm Zoe' bid us adieu with an appraisal of my front pocket,
tongue flick and grin.  I could only hope that the wrinkles masked the
persistence of my state.  There's a whole genre of stories about erections
in public places.  Some are first-person, even, but they still may be
fiction.

   Somebody could probably write a story about what Zoe sees on a daily
basis.

   "Thanks for the ride," grinned the driver, her eyes momentarily
following Zoe's.

   ***

   When the four met for Buccaneer Burgers and to coordinate evening plans,
Sara bet they'd remain as already paired.

   As yesterday, Mom seemed to sit a bit too close to Rob.  Sara couldn't
actually tell, but it sure looked as if they were again touching toes.  Mom
talked too loud and Rob stared too long at distant objects.  You guys can't
fool me, she'd liked to have told them.

   "Going to catch the light show?" Mom suggested, same as yesterday with
her such-a-fun-idea voice.

   "Maybe," Sara allowed.  "How 'bout you?"

   "We'll head back.  Long day, you know, but you and Dad will really like
it!"

   Illogical.  The show's so great and posters say is different each
evening, but no, they'll skip it.  Not that Mom's super logical, but "long
day," baloney!  It's some sort of plan.

   I'll play, too, Sara decided.  "You're right about a long day.  We'll
head back, too.  Okay, Dad?"

   Dad looked disappointed, but this game wasn't about him.

   Mom took the bait.  "If you're getting tired, yeah, you'd better head
back," pausing a moment.  "You still want to see the light show, Rob?  I'm
up to it."

   "Sure," agreed Rob with sudden interest.

   "Okay," Mom settled it, then turned to Dad, "See you two back at the
place, darling.  We'll maybe be a little late."

   "There's lasers," Sara assured, pleased with the outcome.

   Pleased and a little wiser.  Dad and I decide to go back, she noted, and
then those two decide to stay.  There's a reason.

   "We'll probably find a National Geographic show," Sara added, not
because she cared about lions and iguanas, but to check reactions.  And
sure enough, Mom gave Rob a smile.

   At least the shuttle bus driver didn't call her 'Skipper' again, as she
was too old for that sort of thing.  She led Dad to the rear seat, at first
planning to plop onto his lap, but after further consideration, wormed her
way beside him as if to sleep

   Once the bus left the curb -- "All aboard for Seven Seas Inn and
Conference Center" -- it took little time for Dad's arm to find what she
knew it was looking for.  As on the rocket ride, the sway of the vehicle
rocked him back and forth across her, but there it was his elbow and here
it was the inside of his forearm.  On the rocket ride, she'd tried to seem
bigger, but now she needn't bother.

   Okay, Daddy-O, Sara ruled.  Big games begin as little ones.  We'll call
this one, "Pirate!"

   Anchors Away!

   Merchantman on the horizon!  announced Pirate Lookout Sara in the crow's
nest to Pirate Captain Sara at the wheel.

   All hands on deck -- though she'd only be using her left one -- and full
speed ahead!  she now commanded, or whatever you say when you wear an
eyepatch, faking a swash-buckling yawn as she slid her hand onto the
merchantman's thigh.  As close as she'd had to snuggle for Dad's arm to
find her, it wasn't as if she had to reach particularly far.  The corduroy
felt fuzzy.

   Dad didn't seem to notice, but maybe that was because he was secretly
touching her breast.  Old pirate trick -- let the merchantman think he's
the pirate for a while.

   In range, maybe how they say it, Sara guessed.  Raise the Jolly Roger
and fire at will!

   Dad for sure noticed now and blocked her up-thigh advance with a quick
placement of his hand which Sara pretended to be lace cuffed.

   Probably thinks that her hand's inadvertent, she figured.  Fine by her,
him thinking that.  By the time he realizes it's for real, he'll be too far
gone to stop it.

   Shiver me timbers and fire again, she commanded herself, counting to ten
for suspense.  She wasn't exactly sure what "shiver me timbers" meant, but
it sounded fierce.

   Again he intervened, but this time only to deflect her onto his pocket.
Through the corduroy she could feel the room key.  No need to wait for
that, though.

   Bring her alongside, Matey, she commanded herself, docking against his
fly and counting to five.  "Along side.  A long side." She'd want to
remember that one.

   Not to her surprise, his defense had crumbled to little more than
feathering above her knuckles.

   Prepare to board!  this time not bothering to count to anything.

   He'd by now shut his eyes.

   Surrender, kind sir, or we'll send you to Davy Jones' Locker!  Don't
worry, she'd liked to have added.  Nobody will ever know about our pirate
game, how bravely you defended your honor.  You've just met your sea-going
match, is all.

   Up we go, the prize now hers for the taking.  Only after she'd
ascertained its magnitude did she began to rub.

   Dad's covering hand would shield her piracy from prying eyes, though she
doubted the other passengers would turn around.  And even if they did, they
couldn't see below the seatback.  They probably call it a bulkhead on a
boat bus, though.  "Privateering in private," another one to remember.

   She of course knew he'd be the way he was, but was none-the-less
impressed with its firmness.  Pleased with its rigidity, of course, but
equally pleased with her seagirlship.

   When you rob a bank, it occurred to her, you need to skedaddle.  When
you capture a treasure ship on the high seas, on the other hand, you can
hang around a while.  You can count the jewels.

   Corduroy's fun, she decided, running up and down the parallel ribs.  As
Dad was angled a little bit toward his near pocket, however, she had to
decide between many little ridges or one big one.  As the latter had so
much more to offer, it won.

   Probably lots of treasure's been captured on the shuttle bus to the
hotel, she supposed.  A day at Seven Seas would do that.  Probably most
often, though, the pirate's not the lassie.

   ***

   Am I supposed to act like this is accidental, Phil wondered?  That I
don't notice?  That it doesn't make me react?  It's sort of possible, I
guess, if she'll let me pretend.

   But oh, God, Sara!  What you're doing is hardly pretending!

   The turnaround was disquieting, but what could I do?  She'd not be doing
what she's doing if I hadn't done it to her.  She'd not be reminding me.

   There's the role that goes with being a father and there's your
masculine response.  The boundary's not at all clear-cut.  One part of you
says no and another part of you says something else.  The part saying
something else, of course, was the part she was touching.

   It would be one thing if it were accidental.  Daughter bumps father,
discovers something surprising and that's that.  It's another when it's
deliberate.  Daughter bumps father and shows him what she can do.

   The only thing to do is try to forget the stories about guys coming in
their pants, often when they're standing before a large audience. 
Unfortunately, I've read scores.  Then there are the ones about guys
prevented from coming who end up as slaves.

   Oh God, Sara!  At least pay attention that nobody sees.

   ***

   As Dad hovered close when they entered the hotel, Sara knew their
secrecy was secure.  She could have made him come -- everybody said it was
easy -- but she didn't think it a good idea on the shuttle.  He might have
done something embarrassing.  She could have finished him off on the
elevator, but they might have stopped for more passengers.  After he knows
you can make him, you can probably do it about anywhere.

   She herself could have climaxed perfectly on the bus ride -- same as at
Speedboat Speedway -- but that wasn't the plan.

   As soon as the two entered their room, Sara switched on the TV.

   Some hotels get adult channels, but apparently not this one.  Too family
friendly, maybe.  Such a shame, as she'd have left it there and watched Dad
pretend to read the Visitor's Guide.  That would be rad, watching him
pretending to study the parking lot map while the actress made ooh and ahh
sounds.

   There were millions of movie channels, but nothing worth watching.  Once
when their folks were out, she and Rob saw an un-cut "Leaving Las Vegas"
with the woman-on-top scene, but they never talked about it.  That would be
rad, too, asking Dad what if actors were acting.

   Not even ballet on the Arts Channel or swimming on a sports one, two
places for uncensored sexual shapes.  "Hey, Dad," she imagined saying. 
"That girl on the left, the one with the buttons inside her swimsuit."

   A travelogue about animals of Argentina was good enough, however.  Her
friend Laura was on a family vacation and could hear their neighbors
humping through the motel wall.  They probably don't have polar bears in
Argentina, but she saw a parallel to last evening.  Background broadcast.

   Sara hooked the door chain in case Mom and Rob made an early return. 
Fat chance, though, given the supper-time footsie.  The light show would
have lots of places to do whatever.  Mom on Rob's lap seemed ludicrous, but
who knows?

   "Wanna' do it together?" in what she hoped sounded a casual tone.

   "Huh?"

   "You know what," as she pulled up her shirt.  Dad had seen her bra lots
of times, not just today, but now she'd let him look without pretending
otherwise.

   Dad looked alarmed as she reached to undo the hooks.  "Sara, maybe you'd
better..."

   Usually she just spun the thing around, but figured that wouldn't look
very grownup.

   "We got time," as she revealed herself.

   "Listen, you can't..."

   Keep up the momentum, she told herself.  "You had a boner on the
Twister."

   "What?"

   "Plus when you made me come."

   "When I what?"

   Too rattled to deny the boner, she noted.  Excellent.

   "You know, masturbated me while I was driving," diving to the point. 
She couldn't believe she'd said the word, but once out, she liked how it
sounded.  Using the proper word gives you authority, something she learned
in English.

   "Wait a minute!"

   "Naughty Daddy-O," she reflected with mock sternness, shaking her finger
for effect, then letting it wilt and after staring at it dramatically,
watching it reassume its angle.  Her stagemanship made her giggle.  Maybe
"stagegirlship," she decided.

   Dad's protest, "It wasn't what you think," was less than convincing.

   "Wasn't what?" touching the extended finger with another.  "Me coming or
you making me do it?"

   "You can't..."

   She liked how quickly things were moving and dropped the
finger-pointing. "The girl who works there watched."

   "Watched what?"

   "Me come."

   Dad seemed dazed.

   "It was like, total!" she added before cranking up her offense.  "You
wanted me to do it back, right?  The pirate game."

   "The pirate what?"

   "On the bus," as she didn't want to explain the sea stuff.

   "I was sleeping."

   Okay, Sara decided, pleased with his fall-back to ignorance.  We'll say
you were sleeping when the pirates attacked.

   "I was just checking," she fibbed.  Denying Dad's orgasm took lots of
work on her part.  It had been sort of fun, though, walking him to the end
of the plank so many times.

   "I'm your father, for Christ's sake."

   "You really need to, right?  Now, I mean.  Wanna' get on the bed?"

   "Are you kidding?"

   "We can talk and stuff."

   "I can't just..."

   "Maybe both of us, then."

   "Both of us what?"

   "Masturbate," the word now on the table.  "It'll be rad, doing it
together!"

   "What if...?"

   Perfecto!  at having so smoothly transformed him to co-conspirator.

   "They're at the light show," she assured, though what exactly Rob and
Mom were doing at the light she could only speculate.

   "You sure?"

   They'll be late, she could have told him, but only said, "You can't put
it in me, though."

   "Huh?"

   "Just on my outside," in case he'd not understood.  Dads can be so
dense.

   ***

   Is this for real?  Phil wondered.  Maybe a little something happened on
a ride or two, but it wasn't like I'd planned it.  Sure, I'd had a hard-on,
but how was I supposed to know that she even knew what one is?

   It's one thing, of course, to have masturbated your daughter on
Speedboat Speedway.  It puts a different light on it, though, when she
tells you she liked it and 'Ahoy, I'm Zoe' with the peek-a-boo nipples
watched.

   Sure, she'd played with me when we were riding the bus, but just through
my corduroys.  It wasn't like the story about the guy who got manhandled by
a whole volleyball team.  The setter got to be the finisher.  The rest were
taller and prevented his escape.

   Oh, my aching balls!

   "Listen..." I paused, swallowed, then tried again.  "What happened, you
know, wasn't, you know..."

   "Wasn't what?" as if she didn't understand perfectly.

   "You know, maybe something sort of..."

   But again she cut me off.  "You don't have to take off your pants or
anything."

   "We can't just..."

   "This one's yours," showing me which pillow.

   We lay side-by-side, my shoulder, her pillow, my arm around her enough
to cup one breast as she palmed the other.  Sure, maybe I'd felt through
her shirt a bunch today, but I never thought I'd touch skin.

   Her nipples were maroon M&Ms.  The regular ones, not the peanut variety.

   My other hand, at her insistence, was inside my own trousers.  I know it
sounds impossible, your daughter making you, but I'd no choice.  I of
course wasn't about to masturbate, but it was good to straighten the thing
out.

   "Show me how," she demanded.

   Pulling up and down felt pretty nice.  I wasn't exposing myself, as she
couldn't see anything but the motion.

   Sara gave a grin, slipped off her shorts and shoved her hand into her
panties.  For some reason, at the speedway I'd thought of them as white,
but in fact they were pink, pink with little white polka dots.

   From my vantage point I could see the wisps beneath her palm. 
Brunettish-blonde or blondish-brunette, depending on the light.  I'd
assumed she'd have hair, but didn't really know how much.  I guess she must
have been lifting her wrist to let me find out.  Like with her panties, the
color surprised me; I'd have thought it would be black like Kathy's.

   "We should come at the same time," she suggested, repositioning her hips
for improved access.  Coming at the same time struck me as good, though I
wasn't sure I could last that long.

   Masturbating along side my daughter!  Her knuckles rippling under the
polka dots.  Before today, the thought would have been inconceivable. 
Before today.

   After we'd established our respective techniques, however, she announced
-- ordered, maybe -- "How 'bout each other?" guiding me to her waistband. I
could have declined, but at some point you start to go along.  I'd not have
reached inside, except for the fact that that's where she'd been.

   "Like at the speedway," she instructed.

   Oh God!  How could a girl her age be so primed?

   Every girl has a clitoris, of course, but how many even understand what
it's for?  Ones like Sara who know about masturbation, I suppose.  Plus
lesbians, but I don't often read that line of stories.  In any case, Sara's
was easy to fondle.

   I wondered about her hymen -- maybe more of a concern in a bygone era, I
suppose -- but as I'd promised not to go inside, I couldn't really check.

   Masturbating my daughter!  I tried to tread lightly, or perhaps better
said, tried to comply with her wishes.

   I was apprehensive as she worked on my belt.  When she reached into my
boxers and took hold, however, it seemed I passed the test.

   "Wow, Dad!  You really need to."

   Please, Sara!  Don't make me do anything I'll regret.

   Ultimately, though, it wasn't as if I'd much say.

   The longer she could prolong it, instinct must have told her, the more
I'd need it.  I once read a story about a speeder who got handcuffed by a
motorcycle policewoman.  He didn't get a ticket, which was only fair, since
she wasn't really a policewoman.

   She turned her gaze to better observe -- she had enough of me exposed
for a head-on view, I guess you could say -- but what could I do?

   "How'm I doing?" as she teased out my own wetness.

   When I finally came -- all the way onto her breasts, actually -- she
climaxed against my finger.  At Speedboat Speedway, she'd just lurched. 
Here she bounced almost off the mattress.

   As my daughter foretold, I admit with admiration, the two of us finished
in tandem.

   We both needed a minute to settle down.

   "You okay, hon?"

   "Jesus Christ, Dad!  That was totally great!"

   Normally I'd have said something about that sort of language -- I'm not
sure I'd ever even heard her talk that way, actually -- but in this case,
well, how to put it?  When you've just made your girl come like a banshee,
you can't follow it with a Sunday School lesson.

   Me!  I'd made her orgasm like that!  Her dad!  Who would even believe
it?

   So let's face it.  We're supposed to think that it's all about
intercourse, but maybe that's not so with a thirteen-year-old.  When she's
your daughter, at least.

   I apologized for the mess as she swiped a streak of semen off her
abdomen, but it was okay by her, she pointed out, as it biodegrades.  I
guess they think more about such things these days.

   It didn't occur to me until later that putting it where I think she put
it wasn't very smart, but maybe it was already biodegraded.

   She'd have made me come again but for the fact I needed a little break.
Kathy's more realistic, at least, one thing you can say for a grown woman.
In unrealistic stories, the guy has no limit.  Take, for example, the one
about a high school newspaper reporter who keeps statistics for the
football team and ends up riding the rally squad bus.  A touchdown every
time!

   "Better wash up," Sara declared as she exited my side.

   "Go ahead."

   "You can wash my back.  We'll wear underpants."

   I hadn't realized that she'd meant together.  While the underpants idea
seemed silly, given what we'd already done inside each other's, there was
still something to be said for modesty.  But oh, God!  Hadn't we done too
much already?

   She left the bathroom door ajar and revved up the water.  "You want
lavender?"

   "What?" as the shower made it sound like, "You want lavender?"

   "The kind of soap.  Hurry up."

   Through the shower door I could see that she was shampooing.  On
Speedboat Speedway, I'd glimpsed her breasts, and in the bedroom, of course
seen them totally.  But through the glass they looked rounder.  Maybe it
was because they were sudsy, though I wasn't sure what difference that
would make.

   "Forget the underpants," from the steam.

   "You're in yours," as I could see that much through the glass.  They'd
been part of the deal.

   "Yours won't dry out."

   I guess she had a point, as Kathy would wonder about wet ones.  I
dropped my shorts and stepped in.

   "Wild rose," she identified the shampoo, acting as if she'd seen me
naked a million times before.

   What could I say as she wild-rosed beneath the pink panties with white
dots?  When she opened the elastic to rinse, the exposed curls seemed
darker than brunettish-blonde or blondish-brunette or whatever.  Maybe
because of being wet, I wondered.

   She interrupted my gaze.  "My back, remember?"

   What could I say as she worked her spine against me while I lathered her
shoulders and then stood on tiptoe to entrap me between her cheeks?

   My penis hit her mid-stomach when she turned to face me, maybe even
higher, given its inclination.  She pretended not to notice, then grinned
at her effect.  With Kathy I'd never have gotten hard again so quickly, but
Sara seemed to have a way.

   I wished I'd thought to turn off the lights.

   "Needs more soap," as she wild-rosed my balls, wagging me across her
forearm in the process.  I'd the distinct impression that she was using her
arm as a ruler and would later use her school ruler to get it in inches.

   "Don't you think...?" I managed as she reached underneath to soap my
butt.

   "Lots to wash," mater-of-factly as she returned to my front and took
hold in much the manner she'd done on the bed.

   My way or the highway, I could hear her saying as she circumnavigated my
authority with the soft side of the soap bar.

   "Nice and slippery," as if I needed to be told.

   Was she just seeing how much I could take?

   It's not that I minded her appreciation of what I had to offer.  It was
more her forwardness.  Who did she think was in charge of things?

   "The shower's a good place," she advised, again rising to her tiptoes,
but this time also pushing me downward.

   A good place?  A good place to wash?  Of course, but you wouldn't bother
to say that.  If you're nice and slippery, a good place to...?  my thoughts
increasingly swayed by her proximity.

   Oh, to pin that slithery little body to the wall and find out about her
hymen!

   Times like this are when guys do all sorts of things.  New things. 
There are fewer stories set in showers than in bathtubs, but actually we
were in both.  I tried not to think about the tale involving a niece at her
uncle's snowed-in cabin.  The tub was claw-footed, not relevant to what
happened in it, but the type of detail one remembers.

   "Sara," I attempted.  "I don't think..."

   "Yeah, they're coming back pretty soon, but how 'bout for my birthday?"

   "Your birthday?"

   "When you put it in me."

   "What?"

   "You know, like..." squeezing to demonstrate.  "Except with not my
hand," in case I missed the point.

   Oh God!  She wants to have sex!

   "But maybe just part way," she added as an afterthought.

   She wants to have sex, but just part way?  Hey, wait a minute!  I do to
all the work and have to stop "just part way?" Who does this kid think she
is, telling me how far?  What this bossy little teenager needs is...

   Sara interrupted the re-establishment of male privilege with, "I'm the
monkey and you're the tree."

   When she hooked around my shoulders to shinny up my chest, I, once more
as second in command, had no choice but to steady her.

   Oh God!  as she climbed to where my penis nuzzled a polka dot.  Through
the cotton she felt wide enough and I was hard enough.  Lowering her just
an inch wouldn't really...

   "Not till my birthday, remember?" she giggled, pulling just out of
reach.

   And that's when the hallway door started banging.

   And that's where I'd draw the line, anyway.  You don't do it with your
daughter, not all the way, I mean, not even though she's made you nice and
slippery.

   Why not?  Well, it's against the law, for one thing, though maybe not if
it's just a plan.  Our church doesn't allow it, but I read about one where
the preacher impregnated his daughters because as God's apostle, it kept
them virgin.  The cops got him for welfare fraud, less subjective than
theology.  Such stories are in the regular newspaper and the guy usually
has a beard.

   Then there are the practicalities.  I still wasn't sure about the hymen
thing, but I'd read stories about young girls -- younger than Sara, some of
them.  Basically, just get them relaxed and enter slowly.

   Although it didn't matter one iota to me, not one bit, I'd never
actually popped a cherry.  Could have, of course, except for the fact that
Kathy rode horses as a youngster.  Lots of girls, as she explained, get
theirs broken that way.  Of course I'd not think of Sara in terms of
popping anything; it would just be taking care of what horse riding might
have done.

   I'd have to wear a rubber, the kind with lubrication.  Maybe, though, it
would be better for a popping to feel exactly what I was up against. 
Having nothing between us would be more personal, as well.  Maybe what to
do would be to have one handy, but to make the decision based on how things
were going.

   A major challenge, of course, would be keeping this from her mom. 
Kathy's pretty conventional.  We'd need to change the sheets, but maybe
Sara could do that, as she knows more about the washing machine.

   Not that we'd have sex, but it's good practice to make a check-list. 
I'd want to get some of that gel they talk about.  I didn't know if girls
Sara's age can have multiple orgasms, but I'd bet so for Sara.  We'd want
at least an hour.

   Later in bed, that's when I realized why Kathy, too, had been tardy in
opening the door.  Last night was a no-brainer, actually.  She'd caught Rob
jerking off, told him not to worry, it's natural, yada-yada, and ended up
being nature's helper.  I've read stories about mothers finding out, but
didn't think in real life they'd actually cooperate.

   The thought of Kathy masturbating Rob was disconcerting -- it should be,
damn it -- but having successfully masturbated Sara twice myself, I knew
how things can get going.

   I tried not to picture Kathy doing Rob, but the exercise was
counterproductive.  How long did she spy a while before announcing herself?
Did she let him touch her?  She probably did him again today in the Tunnel
of Mystery, them along with all those teenagers.  She must be as horny as
hell.

   The more I pictured the two -- Rob feeling her up as he shot onto her
sleeve -- the more I had to show Kathy the real deal -- a big O from
someone who can deliver.  Someone with years of experience.  Someone who's
read lots.

   Not to my surprise, Kathy was ready the moment I touched her thigh. 
Wow, Phil!  I could feel her saying.  Show me what that great big honkin'
rod of steel can do!  Now!

   Sure, babe, I imagined myself answering back.  Do I ever have something
for you!

   Given the kids, I tried to stay noiseless, but she grabbed my shoulders,
slammed me against her and fucked me as if we'd the whole hotel to
ourselves.  Shoot!  I'd have thought she'd have wanted me to decide a few
things, but it's hard to know in advance.

   I hoped the kids were asleep.  If not, they'd be masturbating.  Never
read a story about that one, though.

   ***

   Rob had done super last night, Kathy judged, once she'd quit faking and
taken control.  Actually, Rob hadn't had to do much, as the day's rides had
her pretty primed.  Put it in and stay there, his main job.  Her orgasm
started as he'd worked down her panties and was still clicking after he'd
proven his virility.

   A breakout day, yesterday, that's for sure!

   She'd told Ron as soon as they were alone in the Sand Castle that last
night was "pretty special," but he'd just grinned.  Talking about it would
come later.

   She'd hoped for a quickie in today's Tunnel of Mystery ride.  'Ahoy, I'm
Cristal' had greeted Rob as "Admiral" and her as "First Mate," but maybe
that's what she says to most moms.  As there'd been children in the boat
ahead and in the boat behind, however, she'd limited Rob to out-of-view
foreplay, nothing more.  Probably she'd never have sex in a boat, unless
like yesterday, the fore and aft riders were likewise occupied.

   When they'd met the other two for dinner, they'd footsied, but only when
Phil was refilling his soda.

   It almost happened at the light show, but then a family of about eight
sat behind them.  Life's full of almosts, but you shouldn't dwell on them.
Probably Mormons, she figured, and the older girls were actually junior
wives.

   The problem on the shuttle bus was the gay couple behind them.  Two guys
would have their own ways, she supposed, but wasn't sure they wouldn't also
watch.  Nothing against gays, of course, just their watching.

   And with Phil and Sara already back in the room, they'd lost that venue.

   It's a bummer to be denied a follow-up.  You want to address a few
things.  The timing, for example.

   But who's complaining?  Not that many girls get to have a virgin.  Rob
was her first, and considering her situation in life, probably her only. 
She wasn't going to do a Mrs.  Robinson on one of his classmates, something
stupid like that.  Good movie, but boys talk.  An older Dustin Hoffman,
even if it worked out, wouldn't be a virgin.

   And anyway, there'll now be all sorts of opportunities with Rob.  When
was Phil's next trip?

   That's what was in her mind when Phil at last unlatched the door.  Wet
hair, misbuttoned shirt, demeanor off-stride with a flustered, "Oh, hi. 
Didn't hear you, I guess.  You know, in the shower."

   Kathy glanced at the bathroom door, the shower yet going.  Her
daughter's clothing was on the bed, its cover a snapshot of a stormy lake.
Phil and Sara had been there; this Kathy knew.  Not in it, as things were
still tucked, but on it.  The wet spot in the center told the rest of the
story.

   Well holy moly!

   "I mean not in the shower, but before," Phil flailed.

   Phil, you're one lousy liar, she wanted to say, but maybe it's better to
let you think you're fooling me.

   Emerging from the bathroom, a towel-wrapped Sara waived a Hi, grabbed
her PJs, darted back behind the door and re-emerged with a bright, "There's
still lemon soap, Mom."

   Kathy was impressed by her daughter's nonchalance, but the Wow!  in her
eyes was a give-away.

   This kid's no longer the little girl she used to be, at least in her own
opinion.  Here we go!

   But with drab old Phil?  In a hotel, like it was some sort of affair?  A
girl's first time should be with her boyfriend, probably after school
before his parents get home, though of course she'd prefer prom night.

   But it's not like most fathers couldn't be swayed, even ones as
unimaginative as Phil.  Sara had her reason for showing her bra straps this
morning.  The thin little things!  She'd have watched what other kids were
doing on some of the rides.  What happened on the bed was probably more her
doing than his.

   Probably they did it while the fireworks were exploding.  Probably
everybody in the hotel was doing it.

   What happened wasn't okay, though.  Absolutely not!  Period!

   But face it, she'd laid Rob last night, sort of similar.  Her orgasm was
as good as one from her husband and Rob's now got one less thing to worry
about.  Things like this happen when you just kick back.

   Actually, she had to admit, her orgasm had been better than one from
Phil.  More serendipitous.  More adventurous, as after all, it's Seven Seas
Adventureland.  She hoped Phil's sex with Sara wasn't as great, though. 
Special, sure, it being in a hotel and everything, but Sara wouldn't have
done much back.

   At least she'd worked yesterday so Rob thought it was his doing.  Unless
maybe, well, who knows?  On the boat ride, did showing her nipples make him
notice or did his noticing make them poke out?  Difficult to assign
responsibility when sex is involved.

   But even still, darn it, there's no way the other two should have just
gone and done it!  A girl needs advice, as birth control is confusing when
you're starting out.  Just don't let on that you know whose sperm you're
talking about.  You of course don't tell your husband that you know what's
in the works, but you tell him how amazing he is when you're on top.

   Kathy couldn't be certain about Sara's "starting out," of course, but
moms have a way of knowing.  If Sara hadn't been exactly a virgin, she
hoped Phil hadn't caught it.  Thinking that Sara was would help his self
esteem.

   Who would have thought that she and Phil would take their kids to bed
just one day apart?  It's not as if you're not still a parent, but you
can't always be just one thing.  A crazy place, a theme park -- riding
rides and having sex.

   How Rob kept her aroused most of yesterday, how he'd sneaked open her
nightgown and tried to screw her secretly, how Sara seemed so pleased with
her own accomplishment -- so many thoughts played upon Kathy's own
stirrings.

   Darn those Mormons deciding to sit behind her and Rob!  She should have
screwed him then and there and shown them that it's not just an temple
ritual, or whatever.  Darn those brats on in the Tunnel of Mystery!  Seven
Seas needs an 'Ahoy, I'm Whoever' to enforce age limits.  It would be like
the movies, though -- "unless accompanied by parent."

   Ohmygod, did she need it!  Women need it most of all!  Something to
bring things back to when you were younger, something your husband can crow
about next morning.  Right now, Phil, not tomorrow!

   Sara and Rob in the room complicated things, of course, but they were
asleep.

   Well, what if they're not?  Parents have sex; what's new about that?  If
your kids are old enough to do it themselves, they obviously know their
folks do it, too.

   "Long day," she announced to no one in particular as she flipped the
radio -- one of those hotel-room models with oversized numbers -- to an
easy listening station.

   "Something to wind us down," cranking up the volume of a John Denver hit
for which she knew all the lyrics.  Too bad he died.

   "Lights out, all."

   When Phil touched her thigh, she knew she'd get her way.  Making him
forget they were sharing the room took little more than coaxing him her
direction.  They'd make love all night, kids or no kids.  If you can't cut
lose at Seven Seas, you might as well stay home.

   ***

   Sara understood Mom's intent with the radio volume, though not the
choice of Elton John.  Noise provides cover.  But Mom wouldn't let her bed
squeak louder than the music unless she thought everybody else was into it,
too.  Mom had seen the messed-up bed and Dad looked guilty.  Viola!

   It's not right, though, getting zero credit from Mom for keeping Dad
from doing the real thing.  Not that getting masturbated wasn't pretty fun,
but holding it at that sure took work.

   She pondered the unfairness of it all.

   Well shoot!  If your mother thinks that you're an adult -- that you've
already had sex, to be specific -- why not go ahead and be one?  It's not
like you're not totally ready.

   Which of course begged the question about her brother.  Mom's doing it
in front of them both makes it seem that she's not doubtful about him,
either.

   Sara held back until her folks seemed past the point of no return.  Sex
does that, she observed, gets you where you can't turn back.  Everybody's
got that point.  At Speedboat Speedway, Dad got her there even through her
shorts.  The girl running the ride gave her a thumbs-up for being able to
continue driving.

   Sara wasn't sure about that point for a guy, though.  She'd gotten Dad
close on the shuttle, but not let him finish.  On the bed, though, there
was no turning him back.  Getting him almost there in the shower was pretty
fun, especially telling him, "just part way."

   If the others hadn't shown up right then, well maybe she'd have passed
her own point and anything else wouldn't have been her fault.  She should
have taken off her panties, just in case.

   Listening to her folks made her wonder if her mother's point was perhaps
perpetual.  How else could she keep going and going?

   ***

   Rob was awakened by a poke to his ribs.  Rudely awakened, as a matter of
fact.  He'd been dreaming, something about being in front of the school
assembly and Mom being the principal, except that she was an Eskimo and
he'd lost his pants but she was the only one who knew that and they were in
a secret castle and...

   But he was enough awake to feel Sara's knee against his hard-on.  Oh
shit!

   "They're doing it!" she whispered.

   "What?" more concerned with her knee than who else was doing what.

   "The deed, dummy."

   "What?" trying to ignore the press of her leg.

   "Shush!" Between James Taylor, the hum of air conditioning and the
squeaks of the folks' mattress, however, there wasn't much reason to
whisper.

   Once Rob listened, he knew exactly.  Holy crap!  Dad's fucking Mom! 
Here in the room!

   "Right?" Sara pursued.

   But wait a minute.  He'd screwed Mom last night, gave her a super fuck.
She'd said so, more or less.  Sure, he'd a few things to work on, but it
wasn't as if he'd really needed her help.  He'd have screwed her a bunch
more today, but she kept making excuses.  So how come now she's letting
Dad?

   The wiggle of Sara's knee broke his train of thought.  "Pretty long,
right?"

   "What?"

   A giggle.  "How long they're going, bozo."

   His sister had him and Rob knew it.  If he'd have been quicker, he could
have perhaps escaped, but maybe he'd first let her knee him a little more.
You ought to be nice to your sister.

   "That's how she wants it," he pointed out in what he hoped was the voice
of experience.

   Listening to Dad fuck Mom and letting Sara feel his hard-on made sense
to do at the same time.

   ***

   Sara met no objection when she sprung her brother out of his PJ bottoms.
No objection in a real sense, that it.  He'd whispered, "Don't," but she
knew he meant the opposite.

   Past the point of no return for him, too, the certainty enhancing her
own anticipation.  It's neat to have your brother in the palm of your hand,
so to speak.  You've still got your other hand for yourself.

   "You did it with Mom?" she pursued, stroking in the same way that made
Dad go along.  Uncertain of how far the "it" might have progressed,
vagueness was safer.  Masturbation, like her and Dad?  Given that Mom
didn't now seem to care that they were in the same room, at least that far.

   Rob's "Maybe" still didn't say what it was.

   "She wanted you to, right?" playing to ego.

   "Yeah."

   "Shush or they'll hear.  When?" giving him enough of a pull to demand an
answer.

   "Careful!  Before you got back."

   "Which bed?" holding her push an extra second.

   "This one."

   "You made her come?"

   "Sure."

   By now she'd little need to shove her fist, as he was doing the work.

   "Liar!" pretending to let go.

   "Honest!  Fucked the shit out of her."

   Bingo!  Exactly what all the clues proved, in retrospect anyway.  All
the way!  She squeezed with more respect.

   Light around the drapes illuminated Dad above Mom, their bedspread
enough askew to reveal her flattened chest.  Sara couldn't see below,
though.  The two had paused to talk, but Sara couldn't catch the words. 
Something about Rob and her, she bet.  As Mom was smiling, whatever they
were discussing seemed not to be a problem.

   After another moment -- did Mom look her way, Sara wondered?  -- Mom's
neck arched backward, Dad's hips thrust forward and she watched his butt
bounce before Mom pulled the cover up.

   Pretty good, judged Sara.  Doing it, stopping to chit-chat and then
picking up where your left things.

   But baloney about Rob's claim of who'd done the deed last night.  Mom
would have laid Rob, not him laying her, so to speak.  But even still!

   At least Rob wasn't still a virgin.  That would be a bummer, having a
brother who couldn't score.  She still was, of course, but only because
she'd told Dad he had to wait.  Technically a virgin, but at least one
who'd felt a boner through her panties.  Dad's birthday present would be so
awesome, that plus some decent clothes.  Or better, Dad plus a gift
certificate.

   Half the soccer team said they'd gone all the way, but they were
exaggerating except for Katelyn who'd probably done it a million times. 
Sara would be the second, as her birthday wasn't that far off.  But if she
waited that long, maybe Jessica would beat her and then she'd be third. 
The real bummer with Dad, though, would be that you couldn't tell your
team. Everybody would say it was weird.

   Rob probably wouldn't deliver the same personal payoff, but that's not
necessarily the most important thing.  For your first time, you want
someone a little older, of course, but not really, really old.  A brother
would deserve some sort of sibling preference.  Mom would want it to be a
nice guy and Rob's sort of that.  Plus you can tell your team -- give them
enough hints to guess, anyway -- since they think he's cool.  Some brothers
aren't.

   Plus your rooms being both upstairs would make it as easy as pie.  For
sure, though, she'd not wear anything polka dotted.  Older girls wear tiny
little things.

   "Like it?" she asked as she pushed and pulled, knowing the answer, but
needing him to admit it.  Your dad knows when you've got him, but you need
to make your brother say it in words.

   "It's okay."

   You love it, she could have corrected him, but saw no benefit in a
longer answer.

   Sara knew she should have planned things a bit more in advance -- maybe
done today's rides with Rob instead of Dad -- but criminy!  Some things you
just need to go ahead with.  "Ahead," catching another inadvertent
witticism as she played with her brother's.

   But if she'd done the rides with Rob, he probably wouldn't have done
that much.  Dad wouldn't be screwing Mom right now, so it worked for the
best.  Things usually do if you maintain an open attitude.

   "Me, too," Sara ruled, sitting to pull off her pajama top.  Sitting up
of course blew their cover, but the folks were in no position to interfere,
and even if they tried, hardly had a case.

   "You what?"

   He's not a virgin, she realized, but he's still pretty new at this. 
Like maybe he thought this was about using her hand?

   "Like with Mom," slipping back under the covers to remove her bottoms.
It's one thing to show your brother your boobs; it's another to let him see
the rest.  Dads can see more because they're easier to regulate.

   "You mean...?" Rob apparently not quite believing.

   "You're really big," reclaiming possession.  She thought so, anyway,
though it wasn't quite what Dad had to offer, but Rob didn't have to know
about that.

   "You sure?" in what she took as reference to having sex, not her
compliment.

   "I'm good at coming," the total truth.

   Other than being smoother, Rob's boner wasn't that that much different
than Dad's.  Maybe not quite the same, of course, but Dad's might have been
a bit too much for starting out.  Probably Rob wouldn't shoot as much,
another positive, as the extra's wasted.

   He'd pulled up the blanket, but it didn't stop her from re-exposing her
top, same as Mom.  Sara of course knew where to put her knees -- it's
totally obvious -- and he got where she assumed he'd get.  She'd teach him
about her details later.  Not teach -- he wouldn't like that -- but rather,
make him discover.

   "Ready?" he asked.

   Don't be a dummy, she thought, but answered with a kiss.  No sense in
saying, "just part way," because he'd forget, and anyway, why miss out on
half of it?

   All she needed to do was to clutch his back and rock her hips.  Maybe
because it was Rob, though, she pitched in to help him out.  She stretched
where she wasn't quite his size, winced when it hurt and stoked the nape of
his neck to show she didn't mind.

   "Are we having fun yet?" she asked herself, but knew the answer was
already turning to yes.

   She knew he'd pound until he shot his load -- thanks to Dad, she now
knew something about loads-- so was surprised when he paused on a push.

   "We don't have to keep going," his cock still impressively rigid, but
his voice softer.  "I don't want to make you do anything you don't want."

   Wow!  Sara realized.  He said that?

   "You're really good," she assured.  It doesn't take much to tell your
brother he's appreciated and get him back on target.  You lock his lips to
end the discussion.

   Sara wondered if maybe the two of them shouldn't be so obvious.  But
then again, why not?

   She knew that Mom was watching.  Multitasking, so to speak.  Mothers
find out sooner or later and probably tomorrow she'd get the spiel about
staying safe.  If not, she'd get sex ed in ninth grade, but everybody
already knows that stuff.

   Fathers don't usually find out as quickly, of course, but most fathers
aren't in the same room.  But as Dad was finally getting what he needed,
she figured he'd understand.  Maybe she'd get a little brother or sister
out of this, even.  She'd babysit for free some times, as she'd kind of
made it happen.

   She bet, however, that Dad would beat Mom home by an hour on her
birthday.  They'd use her bed because it's quicker to remake.

   Or, even better, she'd get Mom on the way home from work to pick up Rob
from football and take him to Pizza Hut.  That way, she and Dad could also
finish "I'm the monkey and you're the tree."

   Then for Rob's birthday, Dad could take her to Pizza Hut while Birthday
Boy gets Mom's present.  Totally fair, other than he hardly ever makes his
bed to start with.

   Thanks to Rob's enthusiastic contribution, Sara finished nicely.  Not as
gigantic as from Dad's finger, but so what?  She and her brother had a big
bed and all night long.

   And speaking of all night long and big beds, she noted, the folks were
still cruising in theirs!

   On the radio, Karen Carpenter sings "Close to You."

   Two hotel-quality mattresses sometimes swishing, sometimes squeaking,
sometimes thumping, sometimes recuperating.  Sometimes in concert and
sometimes one taking ques from the other.  Duets sometimes flying like
dolphins and sometimes floating like jellyfish.  Familiarities and
discoveries.  Opinions, suggestions, giggles.  Oohs and ahhs.

   The radio goes off because it has some sort of a timer, but nobody
cares.

   A family of four at Seven Seas.

   THE END

   Holly on the Web

   Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My
problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As
literary errors (or just lame word usages) are made known, I'll repair that
which is salvageable on /~Holly_Rennick.  If you take
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   You can contact me via the site's message form.
   Holly