("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `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: ourtown4.txt (Mm/f, rom, ped) Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com) Story title : Our Town - 4 -------------------------------------------------------- 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 Part Four (Mff, rom, ped) by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com) *** The concluding part of a story of coming of age in Small Town America. *** It is truly amazing, in small-town America, as in no other place on earth, how completely wrong you can be so about things you thought you could trust implicitly. Shirley Verne's imbecility turning out to be something entirely different was the most emphatic case in point in my life. And that it was treatable was a surprise to us all. That she turned out to be a really sexually appealing teenager was a bonus as far as I was concerned. But it is, perhaps, the less dramatic, common, everyday kind of surprise that best typifies life in the small town in the United States and makes it one of the most exciting places on earth to be. I know for a fact that I personally would live nowhere else. I had various tastes of city life, and had the pleasure and privilege of living in foreign countries for holidays and business trips, but there is always relief when I get back to small town America. And its regular dosage of surprise. Most folk in our town regarded Jed as a self-centred, devil-may-care tough guy who spared not a dud cent of consideration for anyone but himself. I knew him to be different; I knew how he felt about my kid sister for a start, but I had also seen him in tears about the girl he left behind in Saigon. He remained at his father's bedside in hospital for weeks before the old man finally passed away. Jed was more shattered by the death than anyone in town, including myself, could have predicted. He was torn by remorse and tormented with guilt. Instantly he became a reformed character, for now he had new responsibilities, and with them, a new purpose in life. He took over the running of the pet food plant, and went through the place like the proverbial purgative. Admittedly he had old scores to settle with some of the employees, but there was also a no-nonsense approach to his new venture in life. For the first time in years the business began to show more than just a simple living wage for the owner. In less than a year, he was involved in a multi-million dollar sell-out to an international conglomerate. And I think it was a measure of the man that he insisted on some sort of guaranteed tenure of employment or generous financial recompense for his reconstituted workforce. It was also some recognition of his business acumen that he was given an executive role in the new company and the headquarters were shifted from Chicago to Kansas City and Topeka. His visits to our place, as a result of his new commitments, until the take-over was completed, became less frequent. He still called to take Deri out for weekend drives, meals and theater shows. He bought her new clothes and jewelry. He fully intended to marry her, he insisted, as soon as she was old enough. But I suspected a mutual coolness in their relationship; I think both of them became sensitively conscious of the problems involved in the difference in their ages. It was a mere flea bite when theirs was a sordid little back-garden affair with a sex-crazy ten year old and a loose and uncommitted guy feeling her up. Eleven years, however, can be a lifetime to an eleven year old girl, and an eleven year old girl can be embarrassingly conspicuous in public with a man in his mid-twenties and can raise a few eyebrows. Give Jed his due, however; one of the first things he did with his new found wealth was help pay for Shirley Verne's operation. I think he also felt some shame at having fingered what everyone assumed to be a totally mentally handicapped kid. The incidents at the Verne's garden gate were never mentioned again. I finally managed to get the Vernes to sign a form of consent for the operation. It meant a trip to California and the help of the glamorous corporate lawyer, and a truly embarrassing twelve hours in the company of parents waiting for a jury to return a verdict of guilty for their son. It was understandable, of course, but Shirley slipped completely from their thinking, as did the fact that her operation had to be paid for in cash, with a substantial deposit produced before the actual event. The lawyer waived her fees, but rubbed thighs with me on the plane, and did everything but drag me to bed with her in San Diego. She let up only when she realized just how green I really was. She confessed that it was the first time ever she had been on a business trip with a male and had not been laid! She seemed highly amused when I appeared shocked at her revelation. I had always supposed lawyers to be stiff, unemotional and, above all else, unsexed. In a way, it was Deri who, in her own subtle way, provided me with the biggest surprise. When she moved from elementary school into junior high, in accordance with some new law, she had to undergo a complete physical and psychological check-up. As responsible adult, in loco parentis, I had to sign the consent form, and received, months later, the results. There were more than a dozen sheets of closely typed reports on her state of health from her teeth and hair to the composition of her urine and the frequency of her visits to the toilet to evacuate her bowels. Her plasma group was given a detailed description - almost a page on its own - as was her blood pressure, even the quality of her breathing and, of course, her intelligence quotient. In all the details, however, the thing that leapt from the type on the page was the statement that 'her hymen was found to be intact and that there were no signs of physical or sexual abuse'. And I had been absolutely convinced that she was having it regularly with Jed. What the hell, I wondered, had the pair been up to all this time? The mind boggled at the prospects! Apart from that, however, her grades improved by leaps and bounds to quite incredible levels, until she was seriously classed as 'a gifted child and university material' by her teachers. And I thought, who? My kid sister? This is Deri they are talking about? Deri the dumb-head? Jed once beat up a clown in Mrs. Chessip's diner for referring to my kid sister as a dripping hot vagina surrounded by a mindless body. Back to Shirley Verne. Everyone in town, without exception, regarded her as incurably and irreparably brain damaged. In actual fact she was nothing of the kind; all that was wrong with her was that everything had been trapped inside her head in a kind of one-way log-jam, and for a person with the right knowledge and skill, it was a comparatively simple task, albeit a quite ridiculously expensive one, to correct the defect, to pull out the plug and bring it all out into the open. But she had to struggle, with lots of frustration and tears, to catch up on the lost years of her education. And Deri helped a lot here. There was no way I could have coped without the services of my kid sister. There was no longer any need for me to supervise Shirley's ablutions or visits to the bathroom, but she still insisted that my presence at these activities helped to give her confidence. I shared a shower with her, soaped her body and rinsed her off every morning and bathed her every night. She jacked me off daily and I fingered her to a sort of climax. And she slept in my bed most weekends. Deri had long complicated discussions with her about make-up and hair styles and the monthly cycle from which I was pointedly excluded. Deri also escorted her to and from school where they had set up a special remedial department designed with Shirley Verne in mind. Some kind of researcher had discovered another eight possible cases like Shirley's in Kansas, and something like a hundred throughout the United States and education authorities had been warned that some provision would have to be made for them. As one Republican senator put it: "What happens if every nut in America is found to be educable?" After about a year of normalcy everything in our town settled down to get on with its tepid routine. We ate once or twice a week at old Mrs. Chessip's diner, and Jed started joining us again and sleeping with Deri from Friday night until Monday morning when he was off on business again to Topeka where he had an office. On weekdays, when Jed was pointedly absent, Deri brought friends home, some times to sleep over, mostly girls, but occasionally some eligible boys. And she had taken to sitting with them on the swinging garden lounger. A couple of times I interrupted when I spotted a male hand creeping inside her shirt or up her skirt, and once, when there were two boys staying overnight, I conveniently had to use the bathroom when I heard them making their way towards Deri's bedroom. Ever since Deri was a baby in a cot in my bedroom, when mom and dad were having it away in theirs, I have felt personally responsible for her. Deri took it in good part and tended to laugh it off, but I really believe that she came to rely on me at that stage in her life. I once overheard her telling a much older boy from the final grade in senior high that he could lay her 'but only on her home ground and only if he managed to get past her big brother!" I was pretty sure that she had lost her virginity, and not necessarily to Jed, by her second year in junior high. And then the wheel of events got itself stuck in a rut again. And our rural idyll was shattered. It seemed to be made worse by being so unexpected. Nor was it any kind of joke. I had never met Jake Verne, I had never seen a photograph of him; news of his arrest and trial had not been given space on network television and only in California did it appear in the newspapers. Our corner of Kansas seems to be immune from the outside world. Consequently, when this guy in a dark grey, misfitting business suit burst into out sitting room and pointed a revolver at my face, the last thing I had in mind was Shirley Verne's brother. The two girls were sitting at a table sharing school secrets and pretending to do some home assignments. This ugly, unshaven intruder, stared at them. He ordered each in turn to stand beside me while he groped their tits and under their skirts and suggested that either or both would be sharing a bed with him that night. The gun wavered in front of my face. "Which one is Shirley?" The question was growled in my direction. He seem surprised when she identified herself. However, he indicated our vast studio couch and snarled, "Sit there!" He pointed at Deri. "You! Make me something to eat!" He prodded the gun into my cheek. "And any funny business and I blow his fucking head off!" We had a program on state television at the time called 'Kansas Worst Cooks'. I used to joke that the contestants on the show had nothing on Deri. Toast made by Deri still comes out like floppy fried pancakes, and her poached eggs could be used as golf balls or flying saucers in a home movie. She once made a tapioca pudding that blocked our drains and her porridge has to eaten with a fork. The nobler instincts inside me were prodding me towards a belief that I would not wish her cooking on my worst enemy, but impulses tend to become confused with a gun in your face. I said, "I write the daily agony column for Interpress!" when I meant to say, "I wouldn't eat anything Deri prepared unless I had a death wish!" The gun-slinger was confused. He watched Deri disappear in the direction of our kitchen. He pointed an accusing finger at Shirley. "I thought you were the one who was wrong in the head." I was given a look of stupefying contempt. "Not him!" He frowned, and pointed again. "You are my kid sister!" He wriggled a finger in her direction. "Pull back your skirt and spread your legs!" Shirley gawked disbelief. The nickel dropped into the slot and the little wheels turned: this was Jake Verne. The gun sticking into my head suggested that the jury had found him guilty of murder in the first and that somehow he had escaped death row and was not in any way pleased about the direction his life had taken in the past year or two. "You were a retard when I left home." He stated the fact bluntly. His eyes drifted up and down Shirley's shapeliness and settled on her exposed crotch. "You were five when I last saw you. The doctors said you were an incurable idiot! What happened?" "They were wrong," replied Shirley simply. "You must be Jake! I remember you! You turned away from me when mom asked you to give me a kiss." She twisted her face to one side. "I hated you for that. It was from that moment I knew I was a freak." Tears ran down her face. I had seen a situation in a television film like the predicament we were in. There was nothing exciting or dramatic about it in real life. Suddenly, I felt that I needed the bathroom urgently, but Jake Verne was having none of it. "Crap in your pants!" He seemed totally incapable of making any normal utterance without some accompanying animal noises. There was every indication that he was away beyond the tiredness stage of irresponsibility; the man was obviously exhausted on the point of entire physical and mental collapse. He also, understandably if he were on the run, seemed extremely nervous. This is not good for the person he happens to be pointing a gun at, and I was acutely aware of the danger. He flourished his free hand again in Shirley's direction and grumbled, "See what she's up to in there! And remember: any funny business and I blow his brains out!" Shirley did not move. "You can fuck off!" It was the first time I had heard anything from her that was not sugar and spice, playful, pleading or childishly tearful. The effect was devastating. Jake pointed the weapon and fired. The bullet blew a ripping, blustering hole in the couch. The bang was horrendous. Shirley screamed and crumpled into a tight ball with her face in her trembling hands. The scream was echoed from the kitchen. The man crossed the room and kicked his sister in the shins. "Now get the fuck in there and see what she is doing. I want food tonight!" He spat simulated venom as she sped away. The worry I had was that Shirley Verne would experience some sort of regression into abnormality. I had stopped worrying about the potentially poisonous effects of Deri's cooking. She appeared, however, a few minutes later with a steaming tureen of soup on a tray beside four bowls. "I opened a family size Baxter's scotch soup," she said without enthusiasm as she laid the tray on a table and began to pour straight from the tureen into the bowls. Jake Verne glared. "What the fuck do you think you are doing?" He voiced my thoughts. "I though we may as well all eat," she said innocently. Jake poured the broth from the plates back into the tureen, tested it for heat, then laid his revolver on the table lifted the vessel to his mouth. I have never known hunger, real hunger of the kind this escaped con must have felt. Nor could I have imagined any kind of food vanish as rapidly. Especially food prepared by my kid sister. I glanced at her. There was an odd smirk of satisfaction on her face. I merely assumed that it was because, for once in her life, she had prepared some food that was actually edible. "You ate that far too quickly," declared Deri with feeling. The smile still flickered on her lips. "You'll get stomach cramps" The man stared at her as if she had accused him of raping a minor, of which I readily believed he was capable and fully intended to do. A look of disbelief and horror then swept across his face. His mouth twitched for some seconds before twisting into a grotesque scowl. He clutched his midriff. "You fucking little sow!" He made a lunge for his gun. "You fuck." Deri was there before him. She swiped the weapon away from the table. But it was needless. Jake Verne was on his knees, his arms folded across his abdomen. He whimpered. He keeled over taking the table, tureen and bowls with him. I gawked in terror at the colorless face. I really thought he was dead. I really believed that my kid sister had poisoned him. "It's just Paradone," she insisted when she saw how I was affected. "We'll call the police and an ambulance." She glanced at the body. "He'll be all right if they wash out his stomach in the next couple of hours." She went to the telephone and dialled. Paradone was one of those imported disinfectants that had been thrust on unsuspecting American households as a result of some trade agreement in the seventies or eighties. It was quite effective in clearing blocked drains. It had also been the cause of a number of deaths when little children had consumed the attractively orange-colored liquid. "They lectured us on how Paradone worked in the science class," Deri explained when she had finished her telephoning. "A dozen drops will knock a horse cold in ten minutes." I continued to stare at Jake. "How much did you give him?" I asked. Deri smirked. "A teaspoonful!" The thought struck me: we could all have been killed if Verne had insisted that we taste the broth before he ate it. I voiced my thoughts. "That's why I brought the extra plates!" She beamed her brilliance. "He thought we were all going to have some." She giggled. "Elementary psychology, my dear big brother! The fact that I was dishing it out was enough for him." She glanced again at the prone body. "Greedy bastard! Deserves all he got!" An ambulance and a couple of police cars arrived at the house half an hour later. The paramedics revived Jake; he was sick on our living room carpet, but everyone considered that a mere detail. The policemen congratulated Deri on the subtlety of her thought and her incisive action and flirted with both girls. One of them actually asked Shirley for a date. She told him that she was as good as engaged to be married, and he suggested that it would be like a last fling and her fianc‚ need not know. She laughed. "Oh, he'd know all right!" She pointed to me. "He's standing right there!" I breathed a sigh of relief. Shirley had not suffered a relapse; if anything the incident had sharpened her awareness. She watched passively as her brother was taken away in handcuffs. She told Deri to make her excuses at school on the following day. "Tell them I'm suffering from shock after what has happened." They exchanged wicked glances. "I will be sleeping with Greg tonight," she said. "Only, for once in his life, he won't be sleeping at all! I need something a bit more substantial than a companion." Deri lifted the telephone receiver to call Jed. "I know exactly how you feel. We'll give them one last chance. If they don't come up trumps." "Precisely!" Shirley completed the sentence for her. "We'll look elsewhere." She took my hand. "I need an early night! And I desperately need to be laid!" END ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 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