Message-ID: <2338eli$9707281257@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/2338.txt>
From: JohnnyD@cryogen.com (Johnny D.)
Subject: Daughters (mast voy unfinished really-stupid-title)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <19970727.132607.54@cryogen.com>


This is the first chapter of an unfinished story; I got really
inspired by some Spanish film about a year ago, and started writing
this, but now I've just dried up.  I thought I might as well post what
I'd written as not.

I wish to issue the disclaimer that the portayal of a Roman Catholic
Boy's School in this story is in no way based on anything in real
life.  I know absolutely nothing about such institutions, and thus the
portrayal in this story is doubtless stereotypical or incorrect or
just downright wrong.  Sorry.  It was just a good premise for the
story.


Daughters =========

by Johnny D.


Extract from the diary of Tom Woodson, dated 19th July

"You must go on your school's camping week this summer." said my
parents.  "You have never gone and this will be your last chance.  You
are seventeen, Tom; it's time you spent some time away from home."

Well, cheers Mom, cheers Dad.  I'd got a job lined up for this summer,
and now that's gone.  And a month in the rainy British countryside is
just the way I want to spend my last summer holiday.  Not.


The sign said "Saint Peter's Roman Catholic School For Boys: No Women
or Dogs, please" and rainwater ran off it.  Beyond, through the
torrents of water, an imaginary observer might just have been able to
make out twenty drooping tents scattered about a rainsoaked field.

In one of the tents, a boy was building a model airplane.  It was his
hobby, you see; in his spare time young Kelvin Smollit glued, painted
and created model flying machines.  This was his sixty-ninth, and he
was almost finished.

His tent-mate wasn't so enthralled.  "Kelv," said Tom, "Isn't there
something more fun we can do?"

"What more fun could you have?" said Kelvin.

Tom was struggling to answer when Father Robert poked his head round
the tent- flap.  "And how are you boys getting on?" he said, his
gentle Irish accent lilting the words.

"I'm bored, Father." said Tom.  "Can't we have some fun?"

Father Robert shook his head disapprovingly.  "You boys are
surrounding by God's works, His green grass, His buzzing insects, all
being tended by His loving showers.  There is no more fun a good
Christian boy could want."


Extract from the diary of Tom Woodson, dated 23rd July

Well, I'd have loved to tell him what I thought, dear Diary, but I'm
not that stupid.  Might next year, though.


Fortunately, no rainstorm lasts forever.  Come next morning the fields
were muddy and wet, but the sky was dry, and Father Robert led the
boys on a nature ramble, pointing out interesting plants and trees.
The ramble led the boys many miles from the campsite.  When lunchtime
approached, it transpired that they had gone too far, and could not
return to the campsite in time.  Therefore, reluctantly, Father Robert
had to take the boys to an idyllic country cafe, the kind of place
that has remained unchanged for fifty years, complete with an ample
woman behind the counter and ample supplies of pies and pasties.

And thus the boys sat at tables and munched at their pies.  There were
so many boys, in fact, that only one table remained free; this last
bastion of empty chairs held out until an old man walked in.

And the man was old.  His face was lined, his walk stuttered, he leant
on a stick.  In this slow, methodical way he made for that one free
table and, reaching it, lowered himself ponderously into a chair.

Father Robert leant over one of the tables.  "I recognise that man.
He is Henry Klepper, the famous author, who wrote 'The Cancer of
Sin'."  Blank looks.  "You remember, boys, you read it in March."  Ah,
yes.  Suddenly every boy remembered it.  "I believe he lives
hereabout."

Through the door then walked four women.  They were all vaguely
similar yet very different; their ages ranged from about fifteen to
over thirty.  Oh yes, and they were very attractive.

"And they," said the ample woman, placing a glass of lemonade before
each boy.  "They are his four granddaughters : Lucy, Charlotte,
Jennifer and Sarah.  He had to bring them all up when his children
died in a car crash.  The effort has nearly killed him."

Father Robert nodded, noted a fair number of the boys staring at the
women, and clipped them round the ears.  Hard.


Extract from the diary of Tom Woodson, dated 24th July

And, dear Diary, I have never seen girls like those.  They were so
beautiful.  I know it is a sin, but I found myself wanting to see
those girls again, to talk with them, maybe to... and, if you are
reading this Father Roberts, I have prayed to God to take these
feelings away, but they just won't go.


Tom paused in his writing, licking pencil as he sought to translate
into words the feelings that sparkled in his mind.  He just didn't
possess the vocabulary.

After pondering on this quandry for a while, he became aware of an
increasingly insistant pressure on his bladder.  It was becoming too
much for him to ignore.  He paused, weighing up the options.  If
Father Roberts caught him out of his sleeping bag after dark he would
be punished.  And yet... Eventually, after much deliberation, he eased
out of his sleeping bag, peering through the tent flap.  The full moon
cast a bright silver light over the campsite; it seemed all clear.

He tensed then sprang, dashing across the campsite half bent over,
making for the edge of a wood.  He ran through it, his bare feet
jumping over branches and skipping through undergrowth.  Eventually,
when he judged that he was out of earshot of the camp, he found a
likely tree and relieved himself.

When the sound of his urine hitting the trunk had subsided, he became
aware of another sound.  An irregular splashing.  A shriek of
high-pitched laughter reached his ears.  Intrigued, he carefully made
his way through the trees towards the source of the sound.

Suddenly he found himself on a river bank.  Ah yes, Father Roberts had
pointed the river out on the ramble.  But in the silver light of the
moon, the river took on new qualities, at once mysterious and sacred.

And there was a woman swimming in it.

Tom quickly hid in the bushes.  The woman was swimming gently and
unconcernedly, making very little noise as her arms broke the silvery
water.  The sight, as you would have known had you been there, was
transfixing in the way that only few sights truly are.

Tom shrank back into the bushes as the woman swam over to the bank and
pulled herself out of the water.  He gulped when she saw that she was
naked.  Her wet skin had taken on some of the colour of the moonlight,
her body was lithe and snakelike, her breasts pleasent globes atop it.
Tom felt his cock growing as he watched her; almost unconciously his
hand reached down and began to stroke... One distant part of him
recognised that it was a sin, but the more dominant part couldn't
really care less.  The cock within his hand was reaching proportions
which he would never have believed; over five inches long and very
thick.

Tom kept up that slow, steady masturbation as he watched the woman
drying her body, systematically rubbing herself with a large towel,
paying especial attention to her groin.  The woman picked up a
nightdress from the bank and pulled it over her head, then walked -

straight for where Tom was hiding!

He froze and tried to shrink even farther into the bushes.  The woman
was coming towards him, she was going to catch him, she was going
to... she walked straight past him and off into the wood.

Tom remained there, slowing his breathing.  Strangely, he felt
disappointed that the woman hadn't caught him.  What would she have
done if she had?  He knew what he'd have wanted her to do... Tom
closed his eyes and imagined that the woman had given herself to him.
In his mind's eye he was sucking at her breast while she moaned and
tossed about, he was mounting her, he was entering her...

His hand movements restarted, but faster.  The woman was begging him
to FUCK her.  Such a little word - should he beg forgiveness for
swearing?  No.  Faster.  She wanted him to FUCK her.  Faster.  He was
FUCKING her.  Faster.  Faster.  He was going to....

And for the first time in his life Tom Woodson ejaculated, his sperm
splattering onto the bushes, his seed shooting into the green foliage.

After recovering, he redressed and returned to his tent.  He had
something more to write in his diary.


Extract from the diary of Charlotte Horlock, dated 24th July

I felt strange at my swim last night.  I felt the usual feelings of
freedom, of being at one with nature, of not being Charlie Horlock any
more but myself, an amazing feeling of SENSUALITY, etc. (see previous
entries), but I also felt something strange.  Almost as if someone
was...

watching me?


Extract from the diary of Tom Woodson, dated 24th July

And now I can't even close my eyes without seeing her, and when I see
her my dick gets big and I want to rub it.  More than that, I want her
to rub it.  More than that,  I want to put it in her... in her.  I
prayed again, telling God that I didn't want to think perverted
thoughts like this, but I couldn't help it.  I'm not evil, God, you
must believe that.


Next day Father Roberts took the boys on another ramble.  Over field
and hill they walked (this time with packed lunches), the priest in
front and the boys in single file behind.  At one point they passed
through the grounds of a large house which Father Roberts said was the
residence of Henry Klepper.  It was a big, old house with a massive
garden.  Tom stood looking at it for so long that the other boys had
disappeared from view before he even noticed that they had moved.

Thinking "Oh no!  Father Roberts will KILL me!", Tom started to run.

And ran straight into a girl.

She was a young girl, a couple of years younger than Tom was himself.
She had a lovely trusting face, big eyes, masses of dark hair.  There
was something about her that made Tom think of the woman from last
night... He bent over to help her up off the floor and managed to hide
his developing erection.

"Well, that's nice isn't it!  I'm just walking through my Grandad's
garden and some yob tries to run me down!"  said the girl, though a
big smile covered her face.

God, doesn't she have lovely eyes, thought Tom, then mentally
chastised himself for blaspheming.  "Err, sorry, I was in a hurry." he
said aloud.

The girl laughed; a lovely, flighty sound that reminded Tom of the
dawn chorus.  "Well, obviously, otherwise you wouldn't be running."
she said.  "Hello, anyway.  My name's Sarah; Sarah Horlock."

Tom shook her hand.  "Errrrmmm, nice to meat-errr, meet you."

There was a pause while Tom stared into her eyes.  Sarah giggled and
said "Well, do you have a name?"

"Me?  Oh, yes, it's, erm... Tom Woodson."

"Nice to meet you, too, Tom Woodson."  She clasped his hand; Tom's
dick was starting to wake up in a major way.  "Why don't you come over
here and meet my sisters."

Tom felt light-headed as Sarah led him round the side of the house to
a garden table, at which sat two other girls.  They were similar to
Sarah and also to each other, yet all three were also very different.
Sarah sat down and introduced him as "Tom, who tried to flatten me."

"Hello Tom, I'm Jennifer." said the woman on the right.  She seemed to
be in her early twenties, with the hair that was almost as long as
Sarah's but blonde instead of brown.  Her face shared the pleasant
shape of her sister's though her eyes were not quite as big and
rounded.

"And I'm Lucy.  Aren't you going to sit down?" said the other.  Lucy
Horlock was about ten years older than Jennifer, but was very
attractive, with an honest face and dark brown hair cut short.  Tom
wasn't sure which one to stare at now, so he sat down.

"So, Tom, what are you doing here?" asked Jennifer, leaning forwards.

"I'm, err, with my school camp." answered Tom, aware of how infantile
it sounded.

"Oh, yes, those boys we saw in the cafe.  I remember now; I thought
your face looked familiar." said Lucy.

"You look too old to be at a school camp." said Jennifer.

"I'm seventeen; I'd never been to one before so I thought I'd try it
just once before I leave." said Tom nervously.

Jennifer and Lucy nodded with identical expressions of polite interest
on their faces.  Sarah chose this moment to say something.  "It's
lunch time, Tom, and you must be hungry.  We're just about to eat; why
don't you come and have some lunch?"

Why not, indeed.  Well, he should really try to catch up with Father
Roberts and the rest of the boys, but... well, they could be anywhere
by now.  Father Roberts would be angry at him for going truant - wait
a mo, he was seventeen for God's sake! (sorry, God.  Didn't mean to
blaspheme again - it just slipped out)

And thus after a brief internal struggle, Tom allowed Sarah to lead
him into the house.


Lunch turned out to be a selection of jam and cheese sandwiches that
Lucy created in no time.  Sitting at a solid wooden table in the
kitchen, Tom and the three sisters all tucked in, talking while they
ate.  Tom told the sisters about the miseries and injustices of a
Roman Catholic boy's school and camp, whilst the girls told him how
lucky they were, how lovely the countryside was, and how they were
preparing for their sister Charlotte's wedding in a few week's time.
From the conversation, Tom gathered that their grandfather had gone to
London for a while to try to sell some new book of his.

Tom was munching at a particularly tasty sandwich when another woman
walked into the kitchen.  She looked very like Jennifer, except that
her hair was brown and tied back in a pony tail.  "Hey, Charlotte."
called Sarah.  "Come and meet our new friend Tom."

"Hi." said Charlotte with no interest, grabbed a sandwich and exited.

Lucy slapped Tom on the back as he choked on his mouthful of bread -
he had recognised Charlotte immediately.

She was the woman from the river...




-- 
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
\ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/>    .../assm/faq.html> /