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Archive name: thanks13.txt (gay, teen/pre, family, inc)
Authors name: J.O. Dickingson (authorsix@hotmail.com)
Story title : A Brewster Thanksgiving

--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2001.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
--------------------------------------------------------

A Brewster Thanksgiving (gay, teen/pre, family, inc)
By J.O. Dickingson (authorsix@hotmail.com)

***

Caution/Welcome. This is a story involving four brothers, 
two preteens and two thirteen-year-olds, two of their 
long-forgotten kin, and an assortment of their classmates 
putting on a community Thanksgiving pageant.

This story may be posted at free gay adult story sites 
for adult entertainment only. If you're expecting a 
Disney-like family-oriented Thanksgiving story, not only 
are you in the wrong site and know nothing about the 
Brewster brothers, but you're in for one fucking 
surprise.

Permission is not given to copy electronically nor in any 
other form for the purpose of redistribution or posting 
at sites "other than" those described here. This is the 
ninth of the Brewster Boys Series. Comments and horns of 
plenty can be sent to the author, J.O. Dickingson, at 
authorsix@hotmail.com who suggests you give special 
thanks this year for the invention of the condom.


A Brewster Thanksgiving: The Rehearsal
----------------------------------------------------


"Will Bobby Brewster report to Principal Bayer please?"

Bobby's heart sank. Now what? A kid didn't get called 
down to see the principal to be congratulated on getting 
straight A's on the last report card, or to be thanked 
for behaving politely on the playground, not that Bobby 
could ever lay claim to either of those deeds. As the 
carefree ten-year-old headed down the hallway, he thought 
about the morning. There was the usual exchange between 
himself and Mr. Blackburn, the forty-one-year-old beefy 
bus driver who had the misfortune of having the Brewster 
brothers on his route. This time Blackburn had accused 
Bobby of calling him a turkey, and Bobby said he'd only 
commented that he seemed perky.

Then there was ol'Foghorn directing everyone off the bus 
and bellowing for them to stop loitering as usual. Bobby 
had stepped up to the thirty-six-year-old teacher and 
told him Blackburn was perky this morning and thought he 
might want to know and go for a quick ride, giving him a 
leer and an I-know-a-secret look along with the vague 
comment. As Bobby had sauntered to the school doors, a 
huge grin spread from ear to ear, Mister Steve West, 
better known to the students as ol'Foghorn, had studied 
his back and wondered just what the grade five student 
had meant, and what he knew about the incident between 
himself and Blackburn back in February. Both men had 
tried to forget the incident, but it had been so dynamic, 
and each man hated to admit, so satisfying, that was 
difficult to get it out of their minds. Besides, at least 
once a month one of the Brewster boys was sure to make 
some offhand comment that brought the memory back. As 
Steve West turned and looked at the yellow bus parked at 
the curb, he felt an ache between his legs.

Bobby's next stop had been at his locker, where he'd 
offered fat ol' Scott Hurd his lunch before the class 
bully could take it, which of course made Scott 
suspicious. The dope still believed the rumour Bobby and 
his brothers had spread about spitting in the sandwiches 
the big bully had been taking from him. Then at recess he 
and his best buddy Aaron had initiated a game of grab-ass 
tag until Mrs. Ferguson had put a stop to it. The boys 
wondered if she and the vice principal had ever gotten it 
on since the day they'd shot both of them with Cupid's 
arrows and then watched as the two women, both in their 
late forties, had feverishly masturbated each other like 
two hot teenage girls. After recess he and Aaron had 
exchanged answers on the math test, but he was sure his 
grade five teacher, Mrs. Spiers, hadn't noticed. Besides, 
if she had, she'd have mentioned it then and there even 
though he knew that she suspected it was he who had put 
the dead mouse in her desk after the last time she'd 
given him a detention, just for muttering "fuckin pencil" 
when he'd dropped it of all the dumb reasons.

All in all it had been a fairly typical morning for the 
ten-year-old. Pausing at the display case, Bobby checked 
out his appearance. The four-foot-four, sixty-four pound 
grade five boy took out the comb from his back pocket and 
combed his dark brown gelled hair, which he'd been 
wearing in the popular Caesar style cut since September. 
Just because a guy was going to get shit, it didn't mean 
he couldn't at least look cool. Winking at the image in 
the reflective glass, Bobby put on his best "what-me-
worry?" attitude and with a sparkle in his hazel eyes, he 
walked into the office. Whatever he'd done wrong, he 
wasn't alone. There were already a dozen kids waiting for 
the principal.

That noon Bobby couldn't wait to find his brothers, all 
of whom were attending the junior high school next door. 
As he had suspected, they were heading for the dumpster 
at the back of the elementary school to share a smoke. He 
ran to catch up to them.

"You'll never guess what the fuck happened this morning!" 
the four said all at once as Benny took out the cigarette 
he'd stolen from his dad's pack and hidden in his sock.

"I'm in the dumb school play," all four chorused.

"What?" the four responded.

"Hey, we gotta talk one at a time," thirteen-year-old 
Brent managed to get in as Benny lit up. He was a typical 
teen on the verge of turning fourteen, five feet tall, a 
hundred-and-one pounds, and wearing the usual teen 
uniform of baggy cargo pants, an oversize Gap T-shirt, 
and Nike runners.

"Me first. I'm the youngest," stated Bobby as he held out 
his hand for the cigarette next as his twelve-year-old 
brother exhaled. He had the same high cheek bones, dark 
brown hair, and hazel eyes as his younger brother, but 
had chosen to spike his gelled hair instead.

"No way. Should be the oldest."

"That's me," said Brett. "I came out of Mom first."

"Just because I pushed you out," replied his blond-haired 
twin, a wide smile curling his fine lips and his blue 
eyes sparkling.

Brett, having the same shoulder-long hair, tilted his 
head back and exhaled. "Fuck you," he said. "You didn't 
push me out. I couldn't stand your smelly feet."

"Up yours."

"And because you were trying to do that to me too, while 
we were still in Mom even!"

Their two younger brothers laughed. "Sounds like Brent," 
observed Bobby.

"I should go first, I'm the middle child," offered 
twelve-year-old Benny.

"Fuck you," responded his three brothers.

"Rock, scissors paper time," the four chorused.

Brent won. "Well, the three of us got called down to the 
gym," he began to explain to his brother. "You'll ever 
guess who one of the original Pilgrim families was."

"William Brewster and his wife Sarah and two kids," said 
Bobby smugly.

"How the shit you know that?"

"I got called down to the principal's office this 
morning."

"To congratulate you on your most excellent behaviour," 
said Benny with an impish grin.

"Fuck yeah," said Bobby, grinning up at his older 
brother.

"They want you to play one of the boys."

"Right."

"Which one?"

"The youngest. Wrestling. Shit, can you imagine going 
through life called that!"

"Huh, try the oldest boy," snorted Benny. "I got to play 
Love Brewster."

"Love?" snorted Bobby.

"Can you imagine calling your son Love?"

Bobby thought for a moment, and a smile began to cross 
his lips.

"Don't even suggest you'd call your son that," chorused 
his brothers.

"Well, I got it even worse. I got to be your dad, William 
Brewster."

"Who are you?" asked Bobby as he looked up at Brett, and 
then his eyes sparkled as an impish grin curled his lips. 
"You our mom?"

"Smart ass!" responded Brett. "I've been given the role 
of Miles Standish."

"That's not so bad."

"If you wanna be in a dumb play."

"So who's Mom?"

"Judy," said Benny with a smile.

"Yeah? Hey, maybe you'll get to kiss her."


"Or even grab a feel."

"Yeah, right," said Brent sarcastically. "She's got the 
hots for Derek."

"Zit-face computer geek Derek?" asked Benny.

"Yeah. Ever since word got out about him making out with 
Debbie last February rumour is he's one hot fucker."

"Thought maybe Judy would have the hots for Erika," said 
Benny, thinking back to when the twins had initiated a 
hot session between the two girls courtesy of Cupid's 
arrows.

"Who knows, maybe she's bi," observed Bobby.

"She still don't know Brent or me exist," said Brett.

"Hey Wrestling!"

"Oh shit," groaned Bobby as fat Scott Hurd approached.

"What a dumbass name," Scott snorted.

"Oh yeah. You're just jealous there were no Hurds on the 
Mayflower."

"There was," observed Benny.

"There was?" asked his three brothers in surprise.

"Yeah, a herd of pigs."

"Then you did have relatives on the Mayflower after all 
Scott!" Brent said with a grin.

Scott glared, but could do nothing to the thirteen-year-
old. The ten-year-old outweighed him by twenty pounds 
despite their age difference but he knew if he tried 
anything physical the older boy was more agile, and 
stronger. As the bully stormed off in search of someone 
weaker to pick on, angry that his taunting of Bobby had 
failed and resolving he'd get even with Bobby and Brent, 
the four brothers high-fived.

That was the only success for the day, and for that week. 
As word got around, the four brothers had their share of 
teasing, the two youngest about the names, and the twins 
from a group of grade nine jocks who said with their long 
hair and looks one of them should have been the mother. 

Not only did the boys not want to act in some dumb play 
and spend their evening memorizing lines, but they 
definitely did not want to be the Brewster family. The 
Reverend Elder Brewster was not only a puritan, but an 
upstanding church leader besides, and he was raising two 
very proper God-fearing sons. As for Brett, he was not 
the military type, and that he was portraying a character 
who was training an army to fight the Indians didn't 
endear him to the character. Actually, the thirteen-year-
old had a couple secret fantasies about Indian boys, and 
though they involved shooting, they didn't involve 
rifles. So, not exactly overjoyed about going to school 
in the first place, except for recesses, lunch, and 
assemblies, the boys dreaded each day.

Their parents, Barry and Brenda Brewster, on the other 
hand, were particularly delighted that their boys were 
going to be in the community play. Their sons were not 
exactly well known for their school spirit, and more 
often then not they were suspected of being the source of 
the frequent deeds of mischief at the school and about 
the community, though nobody could ever prove anything. 
Almost as exciting as the fact that all four sons had 
been chosen to act in the play was the discovery that 
they had the same name as someone on the Mayflower. The 
play and the first Pilgrims became almost a daily topic 
at the supper table.

"It's a great honour to play the Mayflower Brewsters," 
observed their father for the hundredth time as the boys 
tried for the hundredth time to get out of the 
performance.

"Whoop-do-do," mouthed Benny behind his hand as he 
twirled his finger with the other.

"Yes, many noble and important families are descended 
from the first Pilgrims," agreed Brenda Brewster.

"So what happened to us?" asked Brett, and the boys 
glanced at each other and snickered.

"Now boys, your father has a very important job."

"We know," the boys all responded, thinking back to the 
Labour Day picnic their dad's boss had put on. They might 
have been mischievous, but they respected their dad, and 
were proud of him.

"And don't think I've forgotten that you boys had 
something to do with my promotion."

Although he knew that the boys' fine behaviour at the 
Labour Day picnic had been one of the reasons for his 
promotion, and he had told the boys that, Barry Brewster 
had a suspicion that there was more to it than just that. 
What exactly had happened between them and his boss and 
the chairman of the board he had no idea, but knowing 
what he did about his sons, he knew better than to probe 
too deeply.

"So, maybe you can get us out of the play?"

"Why would you want that?" asked their mom with genuine 
perplexity.

"Awww, mom, who wants to be in a dumb play."

"It's not a dumb play. The Pilgrims and the first 
Thanksgiving are a part of our history, a very noble 
part. It is what America is all about. It is the story of 
a strong religious belief and the trials of our early 
ancestors ."

Placing their hands on their hearts, the boys began to 
hum the national anthem.

"All right, all right. But it is an honour to be asked to 
play one of the first Pilgrim families. And the role of 
Miles Standish. He was a very important and influential 
man."

"So, these Brewsters. You think they might have been one 
of our ancestors, Dad?" asked Brent, knowing it was 
useless to get their parents to change their mind.

"Well, it was a very long time ago. I really don't know. 
It is possible I suppose."

Despite their parents' enthusiasm and the boys' inability 
to change their parents' minds, something that until then 
was unheard of, when the boys saw the costumes they were 
expected to wear they doubled their efforts to get out of 
the play. Added to the continual teasing at school and 
having to spend their free time practising with a bunch 
of teacher's pets, life was becoming unbearable. Through 
it all, there were two just rewards. Seeing the skimpy 
costumes the boys playing the Indians had to wear, the 
Brewster brothers were looking forward to the opportunity 
to cop a few great feels and to have an uninhibited look 
at the bodies of some of the hunkier guys.

The second reward was even better. After weeks of 
teasing, it was announced that the main financial backing 
was from Packwell Poultry Farms, and that as an 
additional part of their contribution, and as an 
advertising gimmick, the children of all employees would 
be expected to help with the play, either as extras or 
ushers or handing out programs, and they would be dressed 
in special turkey costumes provided by the company. The 
reward was that two of the turkeys were two of their 
prime teasers, Scott Hurd in grade five and a new student 
that school year in Benny's class, Solomon Nejrue, a 
black boy from Sudan whom the brothers were anxious to 
see naked but who had rejected every effort of the boys 
to become friends.

"So, what has everyone come up with?" asked Bobby the 
weekend before the big play and the last effort by the 
boys to brainstorm an idea to get them out of the 
pageant.

"Measles," responded Benny. "We get a red pen, we mark 
each other up, and say we are too sick to perform."

"Until Mom or Dad remember we've all had them."

"Or until we wash our faces."

"So we don't wash."

"For a week?"

"Sure."

"Yuck!"

"So instead of measles we can have something else. 
Mumps."

"How you fake mumps?"

"I dunno."

"I heard when men get mumps their balls swell up."

"So, we get the hair dryer, heat up our nuts until 
they're swollen, and call in Mom and show her?"

"Course not," said Benny indignantly. "We'll call in 
Dad."

"Ha, he'd just take one look and say we're chips off the 
old block."

"Yeah, Dad does have big hangers."

"So we're stuck being in the fucking play."

"We could break a leg," suggested Brett. "You know, like 
they say in the movies."

"You'd really break your leg to get out of the play?" 
asked Bobby, truly impressed.

"Of course not. We'd fake it."

"All four of us? Breaking our legs all at the same time?"

"So you got a better idea?"

"No."

"It's bad enough being in the dumb play. The Pilgrims 
could at least have had a better name for the ship. The 
Mayflower for fucksake! That sucks."

"And William and Sarah could have given their sons better 
names."

"Yeah, now that really sucks," agreed Benny and Bobby.

"You ever wonder if they were our ancestors?" asked 
Brett.

"Yeah," admitted his three brothers.

"They got books and books about the Mayflower and the 
descendants of the Pilgrims and stuff. We could try to 
find out."

"There's an easier way."

"How?"

"We can call them up and ask them," suggested Brent.

"Yeah, right. You know the area code for Plymouth in the 
sixteenth century?"

"Seventeenth."

"Whatever."

"Anyway, smart ass. That's not what I mean."

"What do you mean?"

"This," said Brent, getting up and going to his desk. He 
pulled out an old, worn, black book.

"Hey, you still got the warlock's book of magic spells!"

"How come he's never come back for it?"

"I put a spell of memory loss on him before he left."

"Smart."

"Of course," said Brent, although the purpose of the 
spell had been so he'd forget what had happened that 
Halloween night and not come back and seek revenge, not 
so Brent could keep the book. He had noticed the book 
later, after the warlock had left and the boys had set to 
cleaning up the house, an ordeal they were not going to 
forget for a long time. "I'm more than just the best 
looking brother."

"Yeah," chorused his three brothers, glancing at each 
other with a smile. "You're also the one that got the 
smallest dick." They high-fived and Brent stuck out his 
tongue at them, knowing he'd walked right into that one.

"So what did you mean?"

"There must be a spell here on talking to the dead."

"Forget it," said Benny, thinking of their experiences 
with the Boogeyman and at Halloween. "I had enough 
talking with the dead last month to last me the rest of 
my fuckin' life."

"Those were from hell. The Pilgrims had to have gone to 
heaven."

"Yeah."

"So, we gonna try?"

"I dunno about talking to a buncha old ghosts," Bobby 
said, wrinkling up his nose. "I'm with Benny."

"There's gotta be some other way to find out without 
having to do a bunch of reading and junk."

Determined to find the easiest way, the boys began to 
thumb through the spell book despite their reservations 
about talking to the dead.

"Hey, here it is. Talking to persons no longer living."

"Looks complicated."

"Shit, I can't say half those words."

"Me neither."

"Hey, here's how to talk to a person on any particular 
day in their past!" said Brent excitedly.

"What the hell that mean?"

"Well," said the history enthusiast as he glanced through 
the page, "like suppose you wanted to talk to Paul Revere 
on the day of his famous ride. This is the spell you 
would use."

"Cool."

"So, let's try to talk to Love and Wrestling on the day 
of their first Thanksgiving."

"When was that again?"

"Fourteen ninety-two."

"No dummy. That's when Columbus discovered America."

"Oh yeah. It was sixteen ninety-two."

"Naw. It was earlier."

"Sixteen twenty-three."

"Yeah, that sounds right."

"Kay. Here it goes."

The boys held their breath while Brent recited the words.

There was a shimmer in the air, and slowly there appeared 
before the four brothers two boys, at first as 
transparent images, and then slowly taking on colour and 
form. They both had hazel eyes, high cheek bones, and 
long, curly dark brown hair down to their shoulders. They 
evidently spent a lot of time outdoors, both having dark 
tans. The oldest appeared to be about twelve, the 
youngest nine. They were wearing plain blue linen shirts 
covered with patches of assorted colours, high-waisted, 
sleeveless leather jackets, small white linen collars, 
woolen knee breeches, long knit grey stockings and large 
clumsy looking boots.

"What the helle?" commented the older boy, his eyes 
widening in surprise.

"Shit, it really worked!" observed Brent.

"What mannere of place is this?" asked the older boy as 
he looked around, clearly on guard but not overly worried 
considering the circumstances.

"And who be ye foure?" asked the younger boy, also 
showing surprising confidence and even a bit of 
cockiness.

"I'm Brent Brewster," said Brent, taking the lead. "And 
these are my brothers, Brett, Benny, and Bobby."

"Brewster?" asked the older boy, raising his right 
eyebrow. "Aye, ye foure have the Brewster cheeks, and ye 
two the eyes."

"But why do ye weare such strange apparell?" asked the 
youngest.

"Strange? What the fuck you mean strange?" asked Bobby. 
"If anyone is wearing strange clothes, it is you two."

"Us?" asked the youngest. "Ye got shite for brains? Our 
clothing is quite naturall."

"Even if it is clouted."

"Aye."

"And for your information, our doublets are of the newest 
fashione."

"Though I'll never like wearing this fucking falling 
band," said the youngest, removing his stiff white 
collar.

"Aye, I also brother."

"You also speak weird."

"We speak weirde? It is ye who speaks strange."

"Ah, guys, lets not argue," stepped in Brent.

"Oh yeah? Who made ye the kinge?" asked the older of the 
two boys.

"Yeah. Up yer arse," agreed his brother.

"Love, Wrestling, I think I'm gonna like you guys," said 
Bobby with a big grin as he stepped up between them and 
wrapped his arms about their waists.

"How do ye know our names?"

"Sit down. This is going to be a long story."

The four modern day Brewsters soon found that like 
themselves, it took a lot to phase Love and Wrestling. 
They also found that although three hundred and seventy-
eight years had passed since the first Thanksgiving, they 
and their two ancestors had a lot in common.

"So this is nineteen-nintie-nine."

"Yep."

"Ye know ye gotte the first Thanksgiving date wronge. It 
was 1621, not 1623."

"So, we can't have looks and brains too," observed Benny.

"Why not? The Brewsters of 1623 do," observed Love with a 
grin.

"Maybe, but back then you sure had small dicks," retorted 
Bobby with an impish grin and sudden grab.

"Oh yeah?" retorted Wrestling, "well maybe we shoulde see 
who can give who a stiff pricke the fastest."

So saying the nine-year-old boy grabbed Bobby and 
wrestling him to the floor groped his crotch. There was 
an immediate free-for-all, the boys rolling about on the 
floor and laughing and grunting as they grabbed and were 
grabbed, finally ending in six hot, panting boys with 
woodies tenting out their pants.

"So, what was it like back in 1621?" asked Brent as the 
boys sprawled out on the floor.

"Great," said Love.

"The shites," said Wrestling.

The two brothers looked at each other. "Both," they 
replied with smiles.

"Were there many children?" asked Bobby, having the same 
interest in history as his brother Brent.

"Of the ninetie-nine of us who landed at Plimoth, about 
thirtie were children, frome babies just borne on the 
trip across the ocean, to teenagers that were almost 
men."

"So, what sorts of things did you take in school?"

"School?"

"Yeah. You did have school."

"What is that?"

"You know, where you go to learn."

"We learne at home, how to do our adding and numbers, and 
how to write our names, and read the Bible a little."

"Especially us, Dad being the Elder and all."

"Yeah, and two sermons every Sunday," said Wrestling, 
wrinkling up his nose as his brother groaned.

"Yuck."

"By the waye, thanks for summoning us juste now, or 
whatever it is ye call what ye did. We were just about to 
go to church," said Love.

"Hey, that's fuckin' right, brother. We are missing 
church!" said Wrestling with a grin.

"But you had no school?" asked Bobby with an incredulous 
look.

"No."

"Fuck. I think I could love living back then."

"It is funne. Once the worke is done."

"Work? What do you mean work? You're kids."

"Everyone does worke. We get up at sunrise and Father 
reads a passage from the Bible and then we eat our 
porridge and go to worke. The smaller children pull 
weeds, gather nuts and berries, and pick up kindling 
woode. Girls do the spinning, weaving, cooking and 
baking. They pound the corn into meal and make soap and 
candles. We boys fell trees, sawe and split woode to 
build houses, sow and reap the crops, and fishe and 
hunte. Then before supper, at nightfall, the little 
children recite their ABC's and Father asks us questions 
about religion from the catechism."

"Don't you have any fun?"

"For sure! We whittle toys out of woode, and make things 
out of corn husks and pine cones. We play games like tage 
and hide and seeke and roll the hoope."

"Fishing and clamming are goode sport, and evene picking 
nuts and berries in the bush be fun also if the grown-ups 
are not around," said Wrestling with a grin. "And there 
are wrestling matches, and races. And the Indian boys can 
be a lot of fun."

"Oh yeah," said Love with a knowing smile and sparkle in 
his eyes.

"Oh yeah?" asked Brett enthusiastically.

"Sounds like a tough life," observed Benny before Love 
could say more. Brett made a note to ask more about those 
fun things with the Indians later, in private.

"And your dad sounds real strict."

"Oh yes, but he also is not so pure."

"Right."

"How so?"

"Well, he does like his beer. And he wrote religious 
bookes that were forbidden in England, and he is not 
afraid to speak his mind."

"Mom says we got that from him," said Wrestling.

"Besides other things," said Love with a knowing smile 
that got the four modern day Brewsters wondering.

"But enough of this shite about us. What is all this ye 
have here? 
Never have we seen such plentie."

The boys showed them their belongings. Love and Wrestling 
were astonished that the boys had so much, and not only 
that, that many of the things they had were just for fun. 
Other things, like Benny's space models and the boys' 
CD's and the computer and even the electric lamps were 
beyond comprehension.

"Ye have so muche! We live in a smalle cottage made of 
logs with straw mixed with clay to fille the cracks. 
Never have we seen such smooth walls! And there are only 
two rooms that together are not much larger than yer 
bedroom! Mother and Father sleepe in one and we two share 
a narrow bed and sleepe on a mattress filled with strawe 
in the corner of the other, the same room as where we 
cook and eat. There is only one carved chair, and that is 
for Father to site in, and one smalle table and a large 
trunk to hold all our thinges. Our heate comes from a 
woode fire kept in a circle of stones under the chimney, 
not out of a hole in the floore."

"What do you eat?"

"Mostly plaine and simple fare. On Thanksgiving we have a 
wonderful feaste though," said Wrestling with a gleam in 
his eyes.

"Aye. There are longe tables piled with wilde turkey, 
chickens, duck and goose and venison, with clams and fish 
and cornbread, and wild plums and cranberry tarts and 
cranberryapple jam for dessert."

"And beer."

"Oh yes. In England we made beer out of barley, but in 
Plimoth we have learned to make it out of pumpkins and 
parsnips, and walnut tree chips."

"Yuck"

"Oh yes, we do not much like the taste either. We much 
prefer cranberry nog."

"Especially with a bit of rum," said Love with an impish 
grin.

"But once we got Francis Billington drunk on beer."

"Oh yes," giggled Wrestling. "The Billington boys are a 
wilde bunch."

"When we arrived in this new lande, Francis almost blew 
up the ship!"

"Yeah?"

"He shot off a musket in the cabin of the ship, next to 
the open powder.
His Father sure gave him a spanking."

"Spanking? How old was he?"

"Fourteen."

"Shit!"

"He deserved it though. Our boy Richard was by the powder 
kegs and could have been killed."

"Your boy Richard?"

"Our servant boy."

"You have a servant boy?"

"Yes, Richard More. He is the same age as me," said 
Wrestling. "You must have many servants with a home this 
huge."

"Ah, no," Brent said.

"Tell us more about getting Francis drunk," said Benny.

"And about your servant boy," added Bobby.

"And about the fun you had with the Indian boys," 
suggested Brett.

"If ye tell us what sorte of funne you boys have," said 
Love and Wrestling together, and from the look in their 
eyes, the type of fun they wanted to know about was quite 
clear.

So, for the rest of the morning the boys shared tales, 
and after introducing Love and Wrestling to jam and 
peanut butter sandwiches and soda pop, they continued 
well into the afternoon. It became very evident that 
although they had a lot of differences, a lot of things 
were not much different in Plymouth either. The boys had 
their bullies and their means of revenge, their games and 
their tricks on other boys and some of the stiffer, 
humourless adults, and a lot of fun with some of their 
young Indian friends. Although their father was the 
Reverend Elder, Love and Wrestling were just as full of 
mischief as their descendants, and they were just as 
sexually active.

Needless to say, the exchange of tales, especially those 
of the more daring and taboo nature, soon got the boys 
horny. Being three-hundred-and-seventy-six years apart, 
they were also more than just a little curious. Love and 
Wrestling were fascinated by the invention of the zipper, 
and had to open and close the boys' flies a dozen times 
before allowing them to remove their pants. The four 
brothers were glad that each time they decided to open 
their pants they didn't have to unbutton them, though 
from the worn buttonholes, evidently Love and Wrestling 
did that quite often. They were also fascinated by the 
woolen stockings extending all the way to the boys' hips.

Just as fascinating for the six Brewsters were the boys' 
underwear. The two Plymouth brothers were delighted with 
the colours and different styles, from Brent's black, 
cotton knit Calvin Klein boxer briefs to Brett's grey, 
ribbed Marky Mark boxer briefs, and from Bobby's bright 
blue Fruit of the Loom briefs to Benny's white BVD's. The 
four brothers were just as surprised that the underwear 
worn by Love and Wrestling were made of simple white 
linen and resembled outer shorts, except they had no 
flies, and instead of elastic waistbands they had 
drawstrings.

Having made those discoveries, the boys were eager for a 
comparison of a more intimate kind. With more than a 
little excitement, the six boys pushed down their 
underwear. Both Love and Wrestling had hairless pubes, 
and both were circumcised. They said all boys in their 
colony were cut, as the modern day Brewsters described 
the condition, but that their Indian friends were not. 
They were surprised that the twins already had hairs, 
saying that boys did not get hair there so early back in 
the sixteen hundreds, and in fact Francis Billington's 
older brother, John, had not started to get hair until 
after his seventeenth birthday.

Sitting down in a circle, the six boys began to fiddle 
with themselves, each one closely watching the other. 
Despite all their differences, they discovered that 
wanking had not changed one bit over the years. Each boy 
had pretty much the same way for getting himself hard, 
and each had the same feelings as they tugged on 
themselves. The Plymouth kin were also surprised that the 
twins could cum at their age, saying they didn't know 
anyone younger than sixteen who could cum. They watched 
closely as Brett and Brent finally announced they were 
about to shoot. They threw their heads back and groaned 
in ecstasy as they rapidly beat their young, now almost 
five-inch cocks until their hot, teen cum spurted out and 
splattered their bodies. They were soon followed by the 
dry orgasms of the other four boys.

The next day saw a surprising change in the attitude of 
the four brothers. Their teachers and the director of the 
play were caught by surprise, and were very suspicious. 
Not only did the brothers approach their characters with 
a sudden and surprising enthusiasm, but they added 
aspects of their characters that gave them far more depth 
and realism, and they had other suggestions for the play 
that were readily adopted to make it more suited to a 
play for children. One change that they insisted on was 
adding a character, Richard More, a child servant of the 
Brewster's. They also insisted the part be played by 
Chucky, much to their young fan's delight. The boys even 
had some great lines for him.

The rest of the week went by quickly and finally the big 
day arrived, Thursday, November 25, 1999. The employees 
of Packwell Poultry spent the day hovering over hot ovens 
at the community centre while in homes from one end of 
town to the next moms were busying preparing their 
contribution to the potluck feast, dads were putting 
finishing touches on the props for the play, and the kids 
were fervidly practicing their lines.

That evening the children of the Packwell Poultry 
employees got into their costumes before the rest of the 
cast so they could hand out the programs and show people 
to their seats. To show there were no hard feelings, 
Benny and Bobby even helped Scott and Solomon into their 
costumes. Both boys were no fools, and figured they knew 
why the Brewster brothers were being so helpful. The two 
boys had stripped down to their gaunches and they guessed 
that the four bothers were hoping for a chance to cop a 
feel, and steal a look. They were both on guard, and the 
moment the Brewster boys grabbed their underwear and 
attempted to yank them down, they were quick to grab 
their gaunches and pull them back up. The brothers didn't 
have a chance to see anything, and at the most their 
fingertips grazed the two boys' stomachs as they made a 
thwarted attempt to cop a feel.

"Hey, what is that?" asked Solomon as Brett zipped up his 
costume for him since the boy could not do that himself 
with his arms and hands in the wings of the outfit.

"What?"

"You got hair on your hands."

"Oh, well, hmmm, must be from your costume," stuttered 
Brett as he glanced at Brent who was zipping up Scott's 
costume.

"Hey, so do you," observed Scott.

"Then it must be from the costumes," observed Brent as he 
wiped his hands off on his jeans.

"Ha, we know what causes hair between your fingers," said 
Scott with a leer in his eyes and a smug grin.

"Very funny," Brent said with a smile.

As the four brothers began to change into their costumes, 
they glanced back at the two turkeys and exchanged 
knowing grins. They would see who had the last laugh. 
Meanwhile, this was going to be one hell of a great play. 

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This archive does not condone child abuse, we also do
not censor authors. Anyone acting out such scenarios
in "real life" can look forward to many unproductive
years "getting it up the butt" by a fellow convict in
their local penitentiary.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 16