("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: ourtown3.txt (Mm/f, rom, ped) Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com) Story title : Our Town - 3 -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. 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. -------------------------------------------------------- Our Town - 3 (Mm/f, rom, ped) by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com) *** Small-town America is the perfect place to make your first million dollars. Look at the track record: the gold strikes in California, the first whore houses in Virginia, the first American automobiles, the Wright brothers, the first commercial radio stations, all our great authors, poets and artists, computers, the internet and designer drugs. Even Hollywood started in small town America. It could be said that a fortune is made in the small town and lost in the city! I made my first million when I was still seventeen. It snuck up on me and I truly felt that I had done little to deserve it. However, it insisted, and I was stuck with it! To be perfectly honest, it started as a joke. I composed a spoof agony aunt column complete with cartoon characters for the junior high school paper. It was an instant success and was carried over into the senior high. The only trouble was that some kids took it seriously and started to submit problems for real, some of which were dream material for blackmailers, and it was something more than mother- or sister-love/hate relationships. It was at that point realization dawned: there was more to life than life in the small town. The town weekly newspaper copied the column and paid the school! I huffed and refused to do any more. The school offered to pay me for the work and I got a percentage of what they received from the town weekly. And that is how it all started. The column had been running for about a year when the state daily newspaper offered me $100 per week for exclusive rights to the material. Being a highly principled kind of animal, I thought, "Fuck the school and the town weekly!" And took the money! As a sort of act of penance I did a series of illustrated articles interspersed with a strip cartoon for the school on "The Almost Factual History of the United States as it ought to have been..." which proved an instant success. Then the roulette wheel spun again into the same old routine: first the town weekly, then the state daily, then a national newspaper bought the series. And I was earning nearly $1000 a week by my seventeenth birthday. Think about it: seventeen, and earning nearly fifty grand after the tax vultures grabbed their share! Actually, I was as frightened as I was enamoured by this situation. The fourteenth of August. I'll always remember that date. My parents had initiated divorce proceedings and had gone their separate ways; dad was living in his office in Ulysses, presumably with the teen-age secretary he was knocking up, and mom had moved in with Dr. Winsonleigh in Richfield. As the story unfolded and recriminations were made, it was seen that the one was as bad as the other; they had been apart for more than six months when mom discovered she was severely pregnant. "Fuck her!" exclaimed my kid sister when she heard the news. "Her boss already has," I replied. The Vernes had got bogged down in California where the trial of their son on a murder one rap was still going on; they phoned once a week to ask how their imbecile daughter was getting on, but what had been intended as a 'few days stay-over for Shirley' had expanded to nearly a year. Back to the fourteenth of August. Jed and Deri, as usual, were giving each other serious tongue on the swinging garden lounger. My kid sister, although she had nothing more on her mind than how to get Jed to lay her, had slightly more on her chest for him to fondle. I had dressed Shirley Verne in the two-piece bikini we bought from a mail order catalog and she looked good enough to eat, and I intended to do precisely that at the first opportunity. We were playing some simple tickling game on a beach towel on the lawn. Several times my hand had found its way under her bikini top - her breasts seemed to have doubled in size in the past year - and between her legs. Deri was obviously in one of her sexy highs and Jed had risen to the occasion and the outcome was patently obvious - Jed would be staying the night! Again! Shirley's bathing suit was wet in all the right places, and, caution to the four winds, I was reasonably confident of scoring a direct hit for the first time. I was working out how I could get her into my bed without it being too obvious to the other two. When into this scenario walked Destiny. No, I really mean it; that was his name: Horatio Huron Destiny! It was late afternoon. He appeared, as if from the scented air, in the garden. He asked for me by name, then looked apologetic at having interrupted some pretty heavy petting. Jed, for once in his life, appeared shame-faced, and Deri giggled. Shirley grinned foolishly and drooled. I stood. "Who wants to know?" He introduced himself; he even offered a business card which described him, in gold-lettered cursive script, as a representative of an international publishing syndicate. His eyes flitted; it was obvious that he was attempting to take in the entire situation - possibly to his own advantage. The merest ghost of a smile flitted across his lips as he appraised the pair on the swinging lounger. His gaze lingered longer on Shirley, and there was puzzlement, as well as lust, in his eyes. He explained his mission: to get me to sign an exclusive contract for the agony column and the history spoof; interest had already been shown in the material, he said, in Australia, Europe and in South- east Asia. "Christ Greg!" yelled Jed. "You're fucking famous man!" He nudged my kid sister and they both laughed uproariously, thinking they were sharing in a great joke again at my expense. The fact that the state newspaper already had the exclusive rights to the agony column did not interest him in the least; it was a mere flea bite on the black belly of a back-alley cat. The immediate outcome was an advance payment of $100,000 for a weekly cartoon strip of the history and an illustrated agony column. That silenced the laughter from the pair on the garden lounger. Deri repeated the sum on money in an awed voice. Her arms fell away from her boyfriend, who exclaimed, "Jesus Christ Greg, you're rich, man!" They gaped open-mouthed at Destiny as he wrote out a check right there and then in the middle of our garden on the fourteenth of August. Deri was staring at me with a look on her face I had never seen before. It seemed almost an eternity before she shifted her gaze to the man Destiny had brought to our back garden. I could read her like a book: she was as intrigued by the apparent ease with which this man dispensed large sums of money as she was with the capacity of Jed to give her sexual satisfaction at the drop of a hat. I could see the rapacious little wheels turning inside her head. I came to the conclusion that dad, with his little popsicle of a secretary, and mom, knocking it up with Dr. Winsonleigh, were not the only capricious members of our family! Jed, as things turned out, did not stay the night after all. We were preparing to go for a celebratory eat-out - Destiny's treat - when Fate stuck in his ugly nose. Cruz, the foreman at the animal feed plant owned by Jed's dad, appeared on the doorstep. Cruz was a half-cast Mexican Indian, who still had difficulty expressing himself in English, even after having been in Kansas for the better part of thirty years. Everyone in town knew him simply as Cruz, but no-one knew for certain whether that was a first or last name or whether he had any other. He drank beer at old Mrs. Chessip's diner. Other than that, he kept himself very much to himself. As he himself declared: "Any bad trouble in town, they look at Cruz. Little farm girl get laid, they blame Cruz. Anything stolen, they came first to Cruz." It was true, of course, for when Judy Isherwood was found murdered, everyone in town turned their thinking toward the Mexican half-cast, but he was already in the slammer and had been for over two weeks on suspicion of armed robbery in a neighboring small town. So, now he stood on the doorstep and beat his chest. "It your padre," he shouted excitedly at Jed. "He drop down. Bad heart. They take him in ambulance to hospital." It was as if there was a power of evil at work, as well as good fortune. Jed did not exactly fly to his father's bedside, but he eventually left, and although he doesn't exactly drop out of the story at this point, that was the last we saw of him for some time. My dad was a committee member at the Country Club. This entitled the entire family (and their invited friends) to use the facilities there, and one of the better facilities, albeit hellishly expensive, is their restaurant. I dressed Shirley respectably and insisted on the same from Deri, and we set out in Destiny's sleek European automobile. Deri took the passenger seat beside the driver, I sat with Shirley in the rear. In the restaurant, Deri played shameless flirt and footsie with the man. They danced together, and sat closer than good taste required as they watched the cabaret. I drove home with Shirley, encased in a safety harness in front and Deri and her new boyfriend, now pleasantly and amusingly drunk, in the back seats. He murmured sweet nonsense in a stage whisper and used his hands expressively. I smiled at the thought of how Jed would react if he knew what was going on; I was sure Deri would not confess, and as sure as hell I was not going to say anything - after all, this character in the back seat was about to make me a millionaire! We reached home safely in spite of my driving. We got Destiny, now all but unconscious, laid to rest in dad's old bed. Deri insisted on sleeping with me, because, she said, she was afraid of the man waking in the night and coming in search of sex with her. And Shirley as usual slept alone, and wet the bed! Horatio Huron Destiny (he insisted after the dinner at the Country Club that we call him Hu) called again a few days later. There was a corporate lawyer with him - a sex chicken who was almost certainly the model for subsequent glamorous female lawyers in television dramas. Unlike her counterpart on television, this chic was cold and aloof to the point of rudeness, and treated Destiny as if he had left something on the sidewalk in the manner of a stray dog. It was like a marble statue of Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address as she explained in intricate detail, the terms and conditions of the contract, which was for the natural life of the author/artist, who was me. She recommended that I don't sign the contract, and return the advance payment immediately if there were any doubts in my mind about supplying a double assignment, that was, a strip cartoon history and an illustrated spoof agony column, every week for the next ten years or so. There was no humour in her eyes when she insisted that I could do no other work unless it was first vetted by the syndicate and they had first option to purchase; I could not even do work for any church, school or charity without their permission. As if I would! The outcome was that I signed the contract and became an instant millionaire. And that concluded the business. Until Shirley came into the picture. The lady lawyer had caught sight of her in the garden when she first arrived. It was a brief view, for we went indoors to talk money, but it was odd how her eyes lingered on the imbecile. Shirley was swinging on our garden gate when we were making polite departure noises. The woman stared at Shirley again for almost a minute before getting into her flaming red sporting Ferrari. She did not drive off. Instead, she thrust her long silk-clad legs back out from the driving seat and stood looking at the girl before demanding of me, "Tell me about her!" We returned to the house, that is, the woman and I returned to the house. Destiny was summarily dismissed. "If she is an imbecile," she declared after I had explained why Shirley was in the house in the first place, "I'm pregnant, and I have been using contraceptives since I started college." She seemed far more interested in Shirley than she had been in my contract. She was looking from our living room window where she could get a good view of the girl. Suddenly, she swung round and threw the question accusingly at me. "Are you fucking her?" It was a sucker punch, and several seconds were to elapse before I could reply. "No!" I spluttered. "Hell, no!" I knew I was pink-faced. "Of course not!" It was obvious she retained doubts. "I have a kid sister who was like that." She returned to the window and pointed. "We all thought she was mentally defective and treated her as a retard until she was ten or eleven years old." She crossed the room and sat on our massive studio couch and displayed her long legs to advantage, so that I could scarcely take my eyes from them. She encouraged me. She drew her skirt another inch or so along her thigh and widened the gap between her knees. "My parents were seriously discussing institutionalizing her." She stopped talking; she stared at the ceiling instead for a long time, until I really believed the conversation had ended. The silence was prolonged to the point of embarrassment. Then she stared at me aggressively; she must have been imagining herself conducting a cross- examination in a court of law, for she repeated the question with greater emphasis, "Are you perfectly sure you are not fucking her?" Again I denied the allegation, but I felt like a criminal in the witness box. I was worried lest she change the question to, "Have you ever thought about fucking her?" "My boyfriend at the time was a neuro-surgeon who specialized in that sort of thing. As soon as he saw her, he maintained that we had been wrong all the time. My kid sister was not an imbecile. She had a kind of autism that could be corrected by quite simple brain surgery." She fell silent again. She crossed her legs and I had an instant erection. She stared at the ceiling again before shifting her eyes to my crotch. She remained silent, until I felt that I had to take the initiative. "A kind of autism?" I asked from pure embarrassment. "What's that?" "It's too complicated," she snapped. "In brief, if I'm correct, and I'd stake my professional judgement on it, then that girl swinging on your garden gate is a replica of my kid sister. She is almost certainly not an imbecile. Her mind is not a blank. It's more like a computer bank." I had heard of computers, of course, but had no idea how Shirley was to be compared with one. My ignorance showed. "Things are going into her head and being stored there," the woman explained. "Like a data bank, just lying there dormant until it is tapped. It is not that she can't take things in; it is simply that she can't let things out!" "You're saying she can be cured?" "Exactly!" The woman uncrossed her long legs, smoothed down her skirt and stood up. "But if and when she is," she said, "you and everyone associated with her had better stand back. Because it will all come out, all the dirty laundry, all the abuse.." Her voice trailed to silence. "My father was fucking my kid sister," she continued quietly. "He thought no-one would ever find out. But my kid sister remembered!" She afforded me another sidelong glance. "All hell was let loose and my father went to jail for eight years, and got what he deserved - up the butt every night from a two hundred pound black cellmate." For the next six weeks I was particularly nice to Shirley and fed her with the very best from the larder and with data that would have made an egocentric megalomaniac blush with shame. It was not all self-interest. There were a few molecules of real pity for the kid and genuine remorse for the way Jed and I had treated her. Nor could I forget her image when Jed jacked me off. "Do what you have to," said her mother. The woman sounded harassed. It was understandable. The jury were out deciding whether her son was to live or die. But this was major brain surgery for her only (as far as anyone knew) daughter we were discussing. "It will cost between fifteen and twenty thousand dollars." There was a long silence on the telephone. I felt as sorry for the woman as any seventeen year old boy can. But for some inexplicable reason I felt responsible for Shirley. I surprised myself by stating, "I can raise half of the money!" True to her word, the sexy lawyer and her ex-boyfriend neuro-surgeon were back in town within the week. He agreed with the woman's judgement, and agreed to treat Shirley. It would mean hospitalization for the girl for nearly a month. But parental consent was absolutely vital, and Shirley was rapidly approaching the critical time in her life after which there would be no guarantee of success from the operation. There was a muffled sob from the telephone. A distant and tiny voice said, "I'll have to get back to you on this one, Greg." She repeated, "You do what you have to!" There was muffled sobbing and she hung up. The subsequent experience made me revise my value of American small-town life. The community chest for Theodore Webb's funeral was a one-of, not-to-be-repeated phenomenon. I made the approach, in the first place, to Albert Carson who owned the filling station. He harrumphed several times, and cleared his throat as often and coughed a lot; he refused to look me in the eye when he finally answered. "I don't know, Greg. Really, I don't know!" he exclaimed at least half a dozen times. "I mean, that son of theirs! He's on trial for murder one! He could buy and sell me a hundred times. Why should I help pay for his sister?" Word seemed to have spread instantly around town and the neighboring farms, for folks were otherwise occupied, away for the day, not available or simply not interested. The net result of my appeal was plain zilch. One person I approached demanded, "How much are you contributing to it?" The reply, "Five thousand dollars!" took him off- balance for a few seconds before he growled, "Then you are a soft cream jerk!" which was tantamount in Western Kansas to saying that I was in a worse condition than Shirley. At the conclusion of my collecting campaign I had the grand total of thirty five dollars, fifteen of which had been contributed by old Mrs. Chessip, and five from the Webbs. The rest of the town had come up with fifteen dollars. When I got home I held Shirley Verne in my arms and cried with sheer frustration. And shockingly realised that I was in love with the poor stupid bitch. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author does not condone the described behavior in real life in anyway shape or form. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 19