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Message-ID: <31581asstr$995782205@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Bill Morgan" <morg1058@chartervt.net>
Subject: {ASSM} NEW from Morgan: Jean and Jim 1 of 9; M/F Rom
Date: Sun, 22 Jul 2001 02:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


The following is a work of fiction regarding sexual
relationships.  If you feel that it is illegal, immoral, or
otherwise improper for you to read this, then DON'T READ IT.

The Callaways:

Jean & Jim

Copyright 2001 By Morgan.  All Rights Reserved

Part 1 of 9

Preface & Acknowledgments

This book is the third in a series but it's the first one to be
completed.  With the exception of Jim Dawson, all of the major
characters will have appeared in either or both of the two
preceding works.  It is being posted at the insistence of two of
my fans, Heiner and Jeff, both of whom have read it.

Unlike my prior books (available at my website:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Morgan), this one is not divided
into chapters.  Rather it's divided by triple asterisks, but it's
an ongoing chronicle.  The divisions are in the interest of ease
of posting and have nothing to do with the story's structure.

Finally, I would most particularly thank Adrienne for her
invaluable assistance in critiquing this work.  (Another reason
it's being posted now is that if I didn't, her comments would
exceed the length of the book itself.)  All I can say about
Adrienne is that she has a background in intelligence and used it
to good -- if for me, painful -- effect throughout.  I mean... is
it really fair?  I mean just because a woman's body can't work
that way is no reason to change is it?  (Don't you just hate it
when the woman is _always_ right?  She is and I do.)

Any errors remaining -- and I'm certain there are more than a few
-- are strictly my own responsibility.

If you enjoy the story -- or if you don't -- please let me hear
from you at <morg105829@aol.com>

* * *

Hi, folks!  I'm Jim Dawson, and this is my story.  Or partially
mine, anyway.

It all began over a year ago.  At the time, the easiest
description of me -- and the most accurate, my lover insists --
is that I was a world-class nerd.  Now why a nerd?  Well, for
openers, I was a Sigma Xi math major from Yale with a Ph.D. in
computer science from MIT.  Oh, yeah... and I was 31 years old
and still a virgin.

I think that last statement requires a little explanation.  It
all goes back to high school, I suppose.  You see, although I'm
now six feet four, when I graduated from high school I was only
five feet two!  In fact, I guess I really didn't stop growing
until I was almost 24 and in graduate school.  At any rate, in
high school I was a pip-squeak; the girls in my class almost
without exception looked down on me both figuratively and
literally.  Suffice it to say not only did I not date, I hadn't
even had my first date by the time I graduated from high school
and that includes graduation itself.

In college I did find my way out to the Yale Bowl from time to
time, but that was about it.  When the game was over, while
virtually everyone else was going to a party, I returned to the
library, the lab, or some such.  And so it went, right through
graduate school.  Although to be honest, I did actually have a
date or two.  There could have been as many as four.

However, I did accomplish one thing: I developed the ability --
and the reputation -- to be able to get a computer to do
virtually anything.  Moreover, if I do say so myself, my programs
are things of beauty.  In the trade they are termed elegant. 
What does that mean exactly?  It means that it gets the job done
with the fewest possible lines of code in the most
straightforward manner.  The result is that it never crashes
itself let alone takes down its host computer.  At any rate,
after receiving my Ph.D., I was asked to join the faculty at MIT,
which I immediately did.  This lasted for a couple of years at
which time from out of the blue I received an offer to join a
truly remarkable company, Callaway Industries of Northbrook,
Illinois, as senior vice president and Chief InformationOfficer.

My first assignment was to put together an MIS unit; there was
virtually nothing there at the time.  At that point, I guess, my
reputation in the business really helped.  In fact, I was
astonished at the numbers and caliber of people who wanted to
join me.  Frankly, I'll match my team against any similar group
in the world, and I don't care where you might want to look. 
They're good!

About the time I had most of my team on board and we had shaken
down with the usual MIS work, the company hired Doug Mitchell as
senior vice president   logistics.  Doug is a truly great guy! 
He is West Point -- number three in his class -- with an MBA from
Harvard.  He had been hired by Callaway after having organized
and run major logistics operations for the Armed Forces,
including Desert Storm.

When I met him I knew I had met a kindred spirit.  He knew
exactly what he wanted and it was my job and the job of my people
to see that he got it and that it worked right.  The company's
prosperity -- and the value of a great deal of phantom stock I
owned -- rode on the results.

That phantom stock is worth some discussion.  I'm sure you've all
heard about the dot-com billionaires: the ones who went from
nothing to billions and back to nothing, all in less than a year?
 Callaway works differently.  First of all, Jack and Kate
Callaway essentially own the company outright.  Their share
interest is 90 percent.  But knowing the incentive value of
stock, they grant phantom shares.  First of all, they're free;
they don't cost me a dime.  And, except for not having a vote,
it's as if I own that number of shares.  If a dividend is paid, I
receive it.  But more to the point, the value of my shares
exactly tracks the value of Callaway shares listed on NASDAQ.  So
if I had 10,000 phantom shares and the stock price rose from 10
to 20, I had made $100,000.  And, by the way, I have a great many
more than 10,000 shares.  One might say I have a nice juicy
multiple of that number.

While we're on the subject of money, I guess I'm loaded.  Aside
from my phantom shares -- and that's a mountain of net worth to
put aside -- there's my salary and bonuses.  One day for the hell
of it I did a calculation.  It worked out that I could cover my
expenses if I earned a bit better than the minimum wage.  At the
time I had a rather tacky apartment with a single bedroom in a
not-so-hot town close to the office.  All I needed was a computer
and the company even paid for that.  I could say that my money
just piled up in the bank, and that's exactly what did happen for
a while.

Then somehow Kate Callaway heard about it.  It seems that she has
some friends in New York.  Before marrying Jack she was Kate
Cornwall, possibly the top investigative reporter in TV
journalism with a whole bunch of Emmies to support that claim.  
In fact, just a couple of years ago she won another for the
two-hour local news special she did on Caitie Corcoran.  Caitie's
husband, Bill, is one of the people who rescued the company right
after Jack's first wife died of cancer.

Anyway, a couple of Kate's friends might be the finest money
managers alive.  For some time two of them -- Bill Corcoran and
Ali Clifford -- split her money and had a running competition to
see who could make more.  (Kate claims this makes her feel like
the wishbone being pulled apart.)  Anyway, they've been running
my money in the same way for some time now, too.  All I know is
at year-end I get statements for tax purposes showing short-term
gains, long-term gains, and so forth.  The way it's been going,
all I have are short-term losses that reduce my taxable earned
income and unrealized long-term gains that are still riding. 
Every once in a while there will be a realized long-term capital
gain, and it's usually large.  And I mean big!  Anyway, I guess
that means I'm wealthy, too.

But back to Doug and logistics.  I have to say I really drove my
people and drove them hard.  Because I had no social life, the
company was my life in the same way the university had been
before.  To get the job done we worked nights and weekends,
essentially nonstop.  But, damn it, we got the job done and done
right.  Once it was installed, it ran along linking us to our
suppliers on one side and customers on the other while managing
our production processes and scheduling in between.  And it
really worked.  At that point we decided to see if we could sell
the system to others but that wasn't really a part of my job. 
That was sales.

It was while our new system was shaking down and my people and I
were largely occupied with watching the wheels turn that I got a
call to see Jack Callaway.  He made it very clear that my next
assignment was to get myself into shape physically.  Now in spite
of what you might have heard, I could, too, raise my hands over
my head three times in a row without gasping for breath.  Of
course, when I first went to the company gym to work out on the
exercise equipment installed there, I remember starting off with
no weights at all, just the resistance of the units themselves. 
However, before too long I got up to what seemed like decent
weight levels.  And because of the way the place was set up --
there were UV lights all over so one could actually tan indoors
as a byproduct of exercising -- I had even lost the bluish tinge
that people claimed I had developed that came from spending my
life staring at a CRT.

I was actually thinking about getting a new wardrobe -- none of
my old clothes fit.  Not that it made any difference.  When I say
old clothes, I mean _old clothes.  All I really had were a few
pairs of jeans and some shirts.  There actually was a jacket,
slacks and a tie hanging in my closet that I can distinctly
remember wearing at Yale and MIT on the handful of occasions when
a tie was called for.  Although, come to think of it, the jacket
dated from my days at Yale when I was still growing.  It's fair
to say that it was a little short.  In fact, very short.  The
sleeves sort of ended somewhere between my elbows and wrists and
of course I couldn't button it, but who cared?  At that point I
got another call to see Jack Callaway.

What can I tell you about Jack?  He's six-feet four, with blue
eyes, sandy hair, a constant deep tan and a smile.  He is the
happiest, most contented guy I've ever met.  When I went to his
office that day, I got my first clue regarding the latter
situation.  Sitting there in the office was the most beautiful
woman I had ever seen.  She looked to be about nineteen, with
short hair worn in an urchin cut and with the most vivid blue
eyes I've ever seen.  Her hair color was something else.  I guess
it must have started as brown, but because of the sun, I suppose,
it had virtually every color from brown to platinum blonde in it
in the most incredible natural streaking I've ever seen. 
Moreover, she was constantly looking at Jack and he at her.  It
was incredible!  I knew they had been married for years but they
still acted like newlyweds.

Jack began by introducing me to his wife, Kate, who greeted me
with a charm and warmth that almost knocked me off my feet.  If
Kate had asked me for anything, my answer would have been yes. 
For that matter, that's still the case.  I utterly adore that
woman.  Incidentally, although you've already heard a great deal
about her, for some reason we had never previously met face to
face, although we had talked on the phone quite a number of
times.  Anyway, what followed was truly stunning.

Jack started off by saying that it was his wife's meeting, not
his.  It was only then that I realized Jack was president and
chief executive officer.  He was not chairman of the board; Kate
was.  And this meeting was at the chairman's insistence.

"Did you ever see _Mr. Roberts_?" she began.

It was both a play and a film; among other things, the movie
introduced Jack Lemmon.  I don't remember how I responded but it
really didn't matter.

Kate continued, "Jack Lemmon played the role of Ensign Pulver
whose primary duty aboard his small supply ship was as Laundry &
Morale Officer.  Well, since Jack and the rest of the staff --
most particularly including you -- seem to do a decent job with
business trivia -- like making money -- there's not a lot for me
to do, so I'm the company's laundry and morale officer.

"The laundry is no problem; we use a commercial outfit for that,
so it leaves morale.  And, James Russell Dawson, in some units --
yours, for instance -- _it sucks!"_

That statement really took me aback.  First of all, not only is
Kate incredibly beautiful, she almost defines the term, lady. 
She really does.  So her rather harsh language really shook me
up.

"I thought about it," Kate continued, "and came to the conclusion
that the problem is you spend too much time here at the office. 
Moreover, because you do, your people do too.  Now why is that, I
wondered?  That answer proved to be pretty simple, too.  Not only
are you not married, you never even date."

Now she smiled at me with the warmest, friendliest smile I've
ever seen.  Her voice lowered as she continued, "You don't
intentionally ride roughshod over your people and their private
lives, Jim.  It never occurs to you that there are such things. 
You have no life outside the company, _but they do._

"So what can we do to change things?  The obvious answer?  Start
you dating, and maybe -- just maybe -- get you married.  With the
right woman at home, you'll be so preoccupied with getting home
and getting into her panties you'll be throwing your people out
of the office."

Turning to Jack she asked, "Darling, when was the last time you
came home and didn't fuck me at least once before dinner?"

Jack just grinned, rose from his chair, went to Kate and lifted
her up in the air.  At that point she crossed her eyes and stuck
her tongue out of the corner of her mouth while Jack returned to
his seat carrying her in his arms.  When he sat down again, Kate
was sitting across his lap.  He tipped her head and their lips
merged in a kiss.  And while they were kissing, Jack's hand was
moving up under the full skirt she was wearing.  They didn't make
the least effort to hide what they were doing, and Jack has a
large hand.  When it reached her crotch, his eyes widened.

"No, darling, no bikini," she said.  Then with the most impish
grin I've ever seen she added, "You can feel how wet I am
already.  When we finish with Jim, you're going to fuck me right
here on your desk.  I've never been fucked on a CEO's desk
before, so you're going to have to do it today."

Then turning back to me she said, "Jim, I guess you can see that
both my better half and I are somewhat... distracted... right
now.  Let me just say that when we finish up here, we're off on
our honeymoon.  We never had one when we were first married."

Then with a winsome sigh she continued, "We're going out to a
deserted island in the Hawaiian chain.  We'll be there for three
or four months with just a couple of knives, some fish hooks and
that's about it.  No clothing of any kind.  I guess we'll be
pretty tanned when you see us again."

At that point she indicated a manila envelope and said, "The
stuff in there is for you to use.  Leave all your credit cards
here.  There are new ones for you in the envelope.  This whole
thing is a company charge."

Then pointing to the door she said, "There's a lovely girl, Jean
Peters, waiting for you in your office.  We hired her to help you
get over your... inexperience. _Now goodbye!"_

Without another look she got off Jack's lap, sat on the desk
facing him, pulled up her skirt exposing a gorgeous pair of legs
spread wide and said to Jack, "Well?"

I beat a hasty retreat.  As I wandered in a daze back toward my
office on the opposite side of the building I reflected on what I
had just seen.  Clearly, Jack and Kate were going to make love
right there, right then, whether I left the room or not. 
Feelings at this level just did not compute in my experience. 
Glancing into the envelope I found all the usual plastic
replacing my own along with a note saying that if I showed my
face at the office before Kate and Jack returned I would be shot
on sight!

Still bemused, I opened the door of my own office and was struck
dumb.  Again.  There, sitting on my sofa was a beautiful woman. 
The remarkable thing was that she was sitting exactly in the
center of a piece that could easily seat four.  Her hands were
folded in her lap as she sat there looking straight ahead... at
nothing.

I guess our maintenance people really do a great job.  Both the
hinges and the lock were well-oiled so the door made no sound
when I came in.  She must have caught my movement in the corner
of her eye, though, because in an instant she was on her feet
coming toward me with her hand outstretched.

"Hi!" she said.  "I'm Jean Peters, your sex therapist."

I took her hand and was surprised at the firmness of her grip. 
Only then did I look up and see how truly beautiful she was. 
Jean has golden-blonde hair that is longer than shoulder length.
Her eyes are a brilliant blue and she was deeply tanned.  She was
dressed in white; I guess it's what women call a suit.  It had a
double-breasted jacket and a straight skirt.  I'm not sure, and
Jean has never told me, but I suspect my jaw must have been
hanging open.  Never in my life had I been so close to such
beauty!  Furthermore, she's quite tall: five feet nine and a bit;
wearing two-inch heels as she was that day, her eyes were nearly
on a level with mine.

"Why don't you sit down," she said softly.  "Then I can tell you
what Mrs. Callaway has planned.  At that point I'm almost certain
you're going to tell me to crawl back under the rock I came out
from."

As she returned to her seat on the sofa, I took a seat in a side
chair that flanked the coffee table in front of it.  "If you do
that one more time," I remarked, "you won't be alive to do
anything."

"Do what?"

_"Ever_ refer to Kate Callaway as Mrs. Callaway!  She'll have
your head."

Jean thought for a moment and then nodded.  "I think you're
probably right.  But what the hell...  Aren't we supposed to live
dangerously?"

Changing the subject she continued, "You probably wonder what my
job is.  I know I would if I were you."  Then she sat up ramrod
straight and said, "For most of the last ten years I've been a
prostitute.  Now I'm a sex therapist.  The difference?  I used to
charge by the trick; now I charge by the hour... but in your
case, it's by the week.  Mr. Dawson..."

"The name is James, or better yet, Jim," I interrupted.  "And may
I call you Jean?  After all, if we're supposed to have sex..." 
(A prostitute?  Good grief!  How did this ever happen to a guy
like me?  But I decided to try to be as cool as I could be.)

That comment evoked an adorable impish grin exactly like Kate's
as she pretended to think about it.  Finally she said, "Well...
since you're going to be fucking my ass off -- or trying to,
anyway -- I don't think that would be lowering the bars too
much."  With another grin she nodded her head firmly and added,
"You may call me Jean."

At that point she proceeded to tell me about herself and her
assignment.  She claimed to have become a prostitute before she
was sixteen -- she was then 26.

"I've done everything imaginable at one time or another.  Jim, I
understand you've never had sex with a woman.  Is that correct?"

Sadly I nodded my head.

"Well," she continued, "I've been fucked more times than I could
possibly count.  In fact I can't even count the number of times
I've been taken all three ways at once.  I guess the worst of all
was when I took on about ten guys at once.  Three at a time
fucked my cunt, my asshole and my mouth while I jerked off two
others.  This continued until they all had turns and then I had
to become a contortionist to try to lick up all of their cum
coating my body."  She shook her head and with a look of utter
disgust directed at herself concluded, "It was a very good
payday, though."

My cock was already bulging my pants, but Jean ignored it if she
was even aware of it.  I never did find out which it was.  "Why
are you telling me this?" I asked.

"So you'll be aware of the filth that will be sharing your bed,"
she replied. 

She looked at me carefully, expecting some sign of revulsion, I
guess.  She didn't get it and looked puzzled.  For my part, I was
happy I hadn't reacted; I guess I enjoyed creating some
uncertainty in her mind.

With a tiny shrug of her shoulders, Jean continued, "The purposes
of this exercise are several:

"First, you have had no sexual experience at all."  Looking at me
sharply she asked, "Have you ever even kissed a girl?"

I shook my head.

"Okay," she continued, "that makes it easy.  We start at square
one and move on from there.

"But back to the purposes: Second, I'm supposed to give you the
experience you need --  as well as some confidence -- so you can
bed almost any girl who takes your fancy.

"Third, I'm supposed to teach you some social graces..."  At that
she laughed bitterly and continued, "Isn't that rich?  Social
graces?  Me?  But that's the job.  What do you think?"

"Where does all of this happen?" I asked.

"At my apartment.  It's at Kate's place," Jean replied.  "Doesn't
the fact that you'll be sleeping with a whore bother you at all,
Jim?"  I guess her curiosity finally got the better of her; she
felt compelled to ask.

"Sharing a bed with one of the most beautiful women in the world
is pretty exciting," I replied as I tried to conceal my erection
as much as possible.

At that point she looked at me strangely, then rose to her feet.
After moving around the far end of the coffee table, she stood in
the center of the office and just looked at me for a moment. 
Without another word, she unbuttoned her jacket -- there were
only two buttons -- and dropped it on the floor.  Jean was bare
from the waist up.  But before I could even react, she had
unzipped her skirt and let it drop to the floor, too.  Finally,
with a fluid movement she slid her bikini to the floor and then
stood up straight with her shoulders back.

Her beauty was overwhelming.  I had heard that Playboy playmates
had to have their photos airbrushed, but Jean would need no
touching up whatsoever.  Her tan covered every inch of her body;
there were no strap marks anywhere.  Her breasts were high and
full -- I later learned they were a B+ cup if she ever wore a bra
-- with lovely little up-thrusting pink nipples.  Her belly was
flat and her legs were utterly magnificent.  As I looked at her,
she just stood there motionless.  Then I became aware of wetness
in her eyes; she was about to cry.

Jumping to my feet, it took only a couple of steps to reach her
and gather her in my arms.  When we were together I became aware
of an utterly marvelous scent that I later learned was her
natural body fragrance enhanced with musk oil.  As I held her in
my arms, her face came up so she could look into my eyes.  When
it did, I tipped it, tipped my head and melted my lips to hers.

It was utterly unreal.  In the first place, I'm used to towering
over women.  With Jean in heels, her cheek was against mine, I
had my arms around an utterly magnificent female body that seemed
to fit perfectly against my own.  And then there was the kiss.  I
tentatively moved my lips on hers when I felt a probing.  Opening
my mouth a bit, I felt her tongue probing deep into my mouth. 
When it touched my own, I almost passed out!

I'm sure you've read all sorts of stories featuring electric
kisses.  Believe me, folks, the kiss Jean and I shared could have
powered Chicagoland for at least a week, and that was in the
middle of the summer heat wave we were in the midst of at the
time, too.  And then there were the bells!  It was utterly
marvelous.

My God! I thought.  Is this what kissing a woman is all about? 
I've been missing _this_ all my life?

Jean had her arms around my neck and I could feel that I was
supporting a good deal of her weight.  When we eased apart -- to
breathe, if nothing else -- I asked her about it.

"Your kiss turned my knees to water," she whispered.  "I'm not
sure I can even stand up by myself."  Then she looked into my
eyes.  When she did, I could see that the incipient tears were
gone, replaced by something else.  It was a look I had never seen
before.  Then she added, "Could I have another?  Please?"

As our lips merged again, I realized I was holding a naked woman!
 But that thought was drowned out by the power of the kiss we
shared.  For lack of any better idea, I began to lightly run my
fingers over her bare back.  The feeling was like handling warm
satin.  When my hand went lower, I could feel the swell of her
bun and yanked my hand away.

"Don't stop!" Jean whispered, pulling away just far enough to
speak.  "Squeeze it!  I'm really not at all breakable."  Again
she melted her lips against mine as I squeezed her lovely
asscheek.

Just then a youthful voice behind me said, "Darn!  I missed the
whole thing!"

"And what are you doing here, young lady?" Jean asked after
easing out of my embrace.  "And haven't you ever heard of
knocking on doors before entering?"

"Why should I?" the girl replied airily.  "We own the joint."

I turned to see an utterly beautiful young girl.  (I later
learned she was only eight years old.)  She was a bit over four
feet tall (I think), with the same golden blonde hair and
brilliant blue eyes that Jean had.

At that point I realized that Jean not only wasn't self-conscious
about being naked in the presence of this girl, she seemed to be
unaware of the fact.

The girl moved past Jean and came to me with her hand
outstretched.  "How do you do, Mr. Dawson.  I'm Susan Callaway."
Then with her eyes wide she asked, "May I call you Uncle Jim?  It
would be so neat if I could."

Before I could say a word, Jean exploded. _"Uncle Jim?_  Good
grief, girl, where did that come from?  You're just meeting him
for the first time, for heaven's sake."

"But since I'm going to be sharing the bed with you guys, it
would be a little odd for me to call my bed-mate, 'Mr. Dawson',
wouldn't it?  Particularly when we're all going to be naked."

Glancing at her, I saw that Jean had an eyebrow raised as she
said, "And where, young lady, did that 'sharing' come from?  You
have an utterly magnificent suite of rooms all to yourself.  I
repeat: Where did this 'sharing' come from?"

"It's my post-traumatic stress syndrome, Aunt Jean.  You know all
about that..."

"Your _what?"_ Jean exclaimed.

"My post-traumatic stress syndrome," the girl repeated
nonchalantly.  "You know: That's why I can't sleep alone."

"Little girl, there are other people for you to sleep with," Jean
responded.  "Like two sisters, for instance..."

As if she was speaking to a two-year-old, Susan said, "You two
are the only ones left.  Steph is joined with Mike Mitchell; they
might as well be Siamese twins.  Sandy is sleeping with Sam, so
you get me."

"And this marvelous syndrome you discovered...?"

"I didn't; Sandy did.  She beat me to it."  Then with the cutest
grin I've ever seen she added, "You know, it's really wild to see
some of the things those idiot psychiatrists define as mental
illnesses.  Personally, I think they're the ones who are nuts." 
She giggled and continued, "But to your question, a person
suffering from the syndrome needs constant companionship,
particularly at night.  He or she shouldn't sleep alone, so...

"Besides," she continued, changing the subject, "I can work on
Uncle Jim's cock after he's fucked you a couple of times.  I'm
really good at getting a guy hard again."

Then to me she said, "Has Aunt Jean finished telling you what a
horrible person she is yet?"

I was so stunned by the question, I think the only thing that
happened was that my eyes flared.

My reaction was answer enough for her.  "Look into her eyes
deeply and tell me what you see," she ordered.

I turned back toward Jean and took her in my arms.  But this
time, instead of kissing her, I looked deeply into her eyes.  All
I saw was purity and love.  It was truly incredible.  I said as
much to Susan.

"Has she gotten around to telling you how dumb she is yet?" the
girl asked, ignoring my reply to her earlier question.

"No," I responded with a quizzical sound in my voice.

"Great!  Well, I guess I headed that off, anyway," the girl
retorted.  "Uncle Jim, if an IQ was converted to a temperature,
Aunt Jean's could boil water!  She's utterly brilliant."

"I am like hell!" Jean exclaimed.  "I'm barely literate."

"Oh?" Susan responded with an eyebrow raised.  (She looked cute
as hell!)  "Dear aunt, obtaining a college degree -- summa cum
laude, no less -- in just a few months from a standing start _is
not_ a mark of marginal literacy."

"It's just a glorified community college, for God's sake!" Jean
retorted.  "Degrees from there don't even count!"

"Uncle Jim, do you consider the University of Illinois at Chicago
to be a community college?"

"UIC?  Of course not.  It has a truly outstanding computer
science program, among other things..."

"And her degree -- with a triple major -- covers computer
science, English and history," the girl interjected.

"And if during that time Aunt Jean ever slept, no one knew of it.
 I guess she's like me and my sisters, but a bit different.  We
desperately wanted to obtain an education; Aunt Jean, on the
other hand, was turned off by school.  I guess she was bored to
tears...  And with her intelligence it's easy to see why.  But
now with her... assignment... I guess she's changed."

With the loveliest smile, she added, "She majored in computer
science because that's your field.  She wanted to be certain she
would know what you're talking about."

Then with another lovely grin she added, "The English and history
are because you're such a nerd, there had to be someone around
who could read, as well as knowing there was a world prior to the
invention of the computer.  She can even tell you what most of
the big words mean, too."

"Okay, Imp," Jean said resignedly.  In just a moment she slipped
on her bikini, her skirt and was buttoning her top.

"Your hair..." Susan said.

"Oh, yeah..."  And with that, Jean gave her head a hard shake. 
In an instant her hair was again perfectly in place.

As we headed toward the door, Susan remarked, "That's another
reason women hate her.  Not only is she drop-dead gorgeous, but
she restores her hair with a shake of her head."  Then with
another lovely grin she added, "Personally, I think it's neat!"

We went down to the garage and I opened the passenger-side door
for Jean.  I saw her eyes widen in pleasure and surprise when I
did.  From Susan I received the loveliest smile and a very polite
thank-you.

The car was a BMW M-5.  Why I needed a vehicle capable of speeds
above 150 mph just to drive to work is another question.  It just
again supports the statement that men never outgrow their need
for toys; the toys just get more expensive.  Jean told me that
the car's signaling system had been coded to open both the gate
and garage doors.  What gate and which doors she didn't bother to
tell me.

As I started out of the garage Susan said, "This seat is lovely,
Uncle Jim, but couldn't I ride home on Aunt Jean's lap?  I would
love to have her hold me."

"Just fasten your seat belt and stay where you're nice and safe,"
Jean responded.  A moment later she exclaimed, "And don't you
_dare_ stick your tongue out at me, young lady!"

A glance at the mirror showed that, indeed, Susan had stuck out
her tongue.  But glancing to the side I saw that Jean had her
harness on and was looking straight ahead.  I was puzzled.  While
I was pondering the question, Susan very peacefully fell asleep
in the back seat, while Jean provided directions to the Callaway
home.

"How did you know Susan stuck out her tongue?" I finally asked. 
"You couldn't have seen her."

"Because it's what I would have done when I was her age," Jean
replied, "so I knew that's what she was doing."

"You really love her, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Jean replied with no further elaboration.

I guess the radio controls had been properly set because when we
came up to a massive gate Jean touched a button over the mirror
and the gate's two halves swung smoothly inward.  At the same
time, spike-tipped steel plates in front of the car dropped flat
while another set behind the car rose into position.  Operating
the way they did, only a single vehicle could pass through the
gates at one time.  Interesting, I thought.

Jean directed me to the garage door and I drove down the ramp to
find a garage large enough for perhaps 20 cars; there were five
parked there when we arrived.

With a quick grin Jean declared that the car would be quite safe.
 Given the security I had already seen -- the gates and the
10-foot fence around the property -- I was confident that she was
correct.

She led the way to a stairway and up to the home's entrance hall.
 There she called out, "Anybody home?"  Hearing a response she
led the way into the living room.

"My, my!" she said with a smile.  "How remarkable!  Everybody's
here, and they're all dressed."  Turning to me she said, "Jim,
this may be the only time you'll ever see these young people in
one place, let alone dressed.  For some reason they seem to be
more comfortable bare which is the way you'll usually be seeing
them."

She proceeded to make introductions, beginning with Samantha
Callaway.  I looked at the girl, 17 at the time, and couldn't
control a whistle.  Sam is an exquisitely beautiful blonde, tall
-- five feet nine -- with a perfect figure.  Her hair is blonde
worn very short like her mother's and she has remarkably
brilliant blue eyes.

Then Jean moved to a couple sitting on the sofa.  The girl had
auburn hair, bright emerald-green eyes and a remarkable figure
for a girl so young.  Well, I guess her hair sort of started out
auburn.  The fact is that she wears it in a pixie cut, and
obviously spends a lot of time in the sun.  The result was that
her hair had natural color streaks covering all the hues from
auburn to red to strawberry blonde.  She, too, was close to five
feet nine.

"These are the Siamese twins, Stephanie Callaway and Mike
Mitchell.  Steph spends her time trying to fix Mike up with other
girls who she feels would be better for him.  For his part, he
seems to like what he's got.  And as you may have gathered,
they've slept together every night for eons, either here or at
the Mitchell's.

"Can you imagine?" Jean continued, "Coming home from a date to
sleep with another girl?  That's what Mike's been doing for
months."

"Sooner or later Steph will give it up," Mike said.  "She's
utterly perfect!"

_"Perfect?"_ the girl retorted.  "I'm a slut!  Just look."

With that she rose from the sofa where she had been sitting
beside Mike, stripped off the dress she was wearing and dropped
her bikini.  Then she turned sideways and I saw branded deep into
her ass cheek the word SLUT.  "It's on both cheeks," she said
with tears in her eyes, "and it's permanent."

Mike stood up beside her, then casually picked her up in his arms
and sat down again with the now-naked girl sitting across his
lap.  "Steph is utterly perfect," the young man repeated.  "She
didn't tell you that she was partially blinded...  That she had
an infernal spiked device implanted in her pussy to prevent
fucking.  She didn't show you the scars on her crotch from myriad
whip cuts..."

"But I might not be able to ever have kids," the girl interrupted
softly while snuggling close to him.

"Then God didn't mean for us ever to have any," the boy replied.
"Big fucking deal!  Darling, I want as many children as you can
have.  If that number is zero, then that's the way it will be." 
With that he tipped her head and kissed her passionately.

Mike Mitchell was sixteen at the time and Stephanie was fifteen.
Nonetheless, the kiss they exchanged was lovely.  I found that I
could hear bells and almost see the electricity between them. 
This caused me to start thinking about the kisses I had shared
with Jean.  My initial thought had been that it must be the way a
man and woman kiss, but as I thought about it, that didn't make a
lot of sense.

"This is Sandra Callaway," Jean said, introducing me to a
golden-haired blonde with blue eyes that were duplicates of
Susan's and Jean's own.  She was thirteen, and was developing
into the same beauty as her older sister, Stephanie.

"I'm the real slut in the family," the girl said.  She had risen
from her chair but had her hands behind her back.

"Sandy!" Jean chided.  "Is that any way to greet a guest?"

"I'm sure Mr. Dawson doesn't want to shake the hand of a whore,"
the girl said.  "I just didn't want to embarrass him.  Just
look!"  With that she stripped off her dress and bikini and stood
before me as naked as her sister.  Turning, she indicted the word
SLUT branded deep into her flank.  Spinning, she showed me its
mate on the other side.  "It was done to Steph," the girl said. 
"I did it to myself to tell the world the sort of person I am--"

"You did it to try to save my virginity!" Susan interrupted with
a scream.  "Sandy learned that they were going to auction me
off... and I was only seven at the time.  She branded herself and
sacrificed her virginity to save mine.  She was just twelve, but
she felt she could take a man better than I could."

I was utterly stunned.  Then Susan dropped her panties and took
off her dress, too.  There on her right flank was again the word
SLUT branded deep.  "I did this to myself, too, to try to help
Sandy.  She was bleeding so terribly!"

"But how...?" I stammered.

"It was easy, really," the little girl replied.  "It was the same
way Sandy did it.  A red-hot branding iron was secured in a vise
and I just held my ass against it while I slowly counted to five.
 I tried so hard not to scream while I slowly counted out loud."
Susan's eyebrows beetled and she added, "It was sort of funny, I
guess.  It smelled like steak cooking on the grill."

It was all I could do to keep from vomiting at the idea.

"But... But...  Who did this?"

"That's a very interesting question," Stephanie, the oldest,
replied.  "I could give you the usual bullshit we give to people,
but the fact is, other than that they were a man and a woman, we
have no idea."  She paused for a moment and then continued.  She
spoke slowly and painfully.  "There are four of us, two with
auburn hair and two blondes.  The family resemblance among us is
much too strong to be an accident.  Moreover, there are... other
things... that seem to set us apart."

"Like the ability that's shared by all four of the girls to
memorize almost anything while hearing it for the first time,"
Jean interjected.  "Believe it or not, the oldest, Sheila, was
blinded by these people.  Nevertheless, in spite of being able to
see only light and dark and large shapes, she attended school and
did very well.  How?  She literally memorized everything her
teachers said after hearing it only once.  All four of these
girls -- Sheila is married to James Callaway now, by the way --
are adopted.  Samantha and James are Jack's children by his first
wife who died of cancer.

"If you're wondering how Sheila was blinded, her retinas were
detached due to severe blows to the head.  Stephanie here was
only blinded in one eye."

"But the branding...?"

"The three of us were together," Stephanie explained.  "I guess
we appeared from somewhere just after Sheila was saved by the
Callaways.  To get even, the first thing they did was to brand me
on both cheeks and later require Sandy to brand herself.  As you
just heard, Susie branded herself to try to save Sandy from even
greater tortures.  They were sick!"

"What happened to them?" I asked, not at all sure I wanted to
hear the answer.

"They were both shot and killed by the arresting officers while
resisting arrest," Jean responded.  "It's a real shame, too. 
First of all, because they're both dead,  we'll never know how or
from where the girls appeared.  Second, I understand that prison
is a remarkably unforgiving place for child molesters, and those
two just about take the all-time prize for molestation.

"Can you imagine a twelve-year-old girl begging to be raped to
try to save her little sister?  That's what Sandy did.  But
before losing her virginity, Susan had to whip Sandy's cunt with
25 strokes, each of which had to draw blood."  At that point Jean
started to cry but managed to add, "Can you imagine girls as good
as these having to associate with a piece of filth like me?"

"Jean Peters, knock off that shit this instant!" Samantha ordered
in a commanding voice.  "There's one thing I learned a long time
ago: My mother has infallible judgment with respect to people,
particularly judging the good and the bad.  She ranks you at
least as highly as she ranks any of the other girls, and you know
how much she loves and respects them."

At that point Jean looked pointedly at her watch.  Glancing at
mine, I noticed it was after five o'clock.  When Sam realized the
time, she blushed and excused herself.  Stephanie jumped to her
feet and followed Samantha out of the room.

What's going on? I wondered.

A few minutes later, Sam reappeared with a tray of drinks.  She
served martinis on the rocks to Jean and me and Cokes to the
other young people.  Steph followed her with a tray of the most
beautiful and unusual-appearing hors d'oeuvres I had ever seen.

What followed was a truly fascinating hour as we got acquainted.
During the conversation, I realized something about myself.  I
guess I am reasonably intelligent, and this causes problems for
me.  What often happens is -- to the great discomfiture of the
people I'm with -- I'll be talking about A which reminds me of B.
 Then mentally I'll make a connection from B to Q and from Q to Y
and start talking about Y.  Few people can make the connection
between A -- the topic of conversation -- and Y.  And I certainly
can't blame them.

But that wasn't at all what happened that afternoon, particularly
with Jean.  It seemed that to her, Y was just A-1 -- the two
related perfectly to her it seemed.  I had never had such an
experience in my life.

The truly remarkable thing about that hour was that I had no
sensation of being with kids.  But it was strange.  Susan, for
example, was utterly adorable, yet she could -- and did -- follow
the ins and outs of the conversation with ease while
participating with the others.

After an hour had passed -- so quickly it seemed like only a
couple of minutes -- Jean rose, extended her hands to me and
said, "It's time to go to work.  Let's go, Jim."

I got to my feet and followed her out of the living room into a
hallway that was all glass on the north side.  Here, one had a
panoramic view of the estate and the extensive woods beyond a
natural meadow.  One could imagine deer emerging from the fringes
of the woods to feed.  Jean opened a door off the hall and then
stepped aside for me to enter.  I was utterly stunned.  It was a
sitting room, not nearly as large as the living room we had come
from, but more than large enough.  The most impressive element
was the comfort that had been designed in.  Although there were
no windows -- I soon found out why -- there was a very strange
but pleasant odor of clean.

When I mentioned this to Jean, she grinned and told me that the
climate control system -- "air conditioning" just doesn't do it
for this place -- was an utter marvel.  It seems that it was
modeled on the systems used in our nuclear submarines; the air
was changed fifteen times an hour -- even more often if there was
a party with large numbers of people -- and run through charcoal
filters to eliminate odors and a system that destroyed any and
all germs.

Almost absent-mindedly, I reached out to touch a leather-covered
sofa.  I was surprised: unlike the  leathers ordinarily used to
upholster furniture, this was a very soft glove leather.  As I
would discover, it feels marvelous on one's bare skin.  Moreover,
Jean informed me, it had been treated to shed stains and
particularly bodily fluids.

Besides the sofa, there were a couple of comfortable arm chairs
along with some side chairs, all covered with the same type of
leather, and at one end of the room were two computers set up
back to back.  At a glance they appeared to be the latest and
greatest and so they proved to be.  Off the sitting room was a
small but fully-equipped kitchen.

The door facing the door in from the hallway led to the bedroom
and bath.  The bed was king-sized (naturally) and the bathroom
was large enough to hold a dance.  In addition to twin
lavatories, it had a huge shower and a sunken bathtub which more
accurately should be called a baby swimming pool.

"It's really neat!" Jean enthused.  "Among other things, it has
its own filtering system and heater.  You can just soak for hours
and the temperature of the water is unchanged.  If you want it,
it also has a full array of whirlpool-bath capabilities.

"Anyway," she said as she concluded her conducted tour, "this is
home.  Is it okay?"

Oh, yeah.  I forgot.  I mentioned that there were no windows in
the sitting room.  The reason was that the outer walls of both
the bedroom and bath were glass.  Both rooms had sliding doors 
opening on a patio and beyond I could see what proved to be a
full-bore Olympic swimming pool, 50 meters in length by a full
eight lanes wide.

"This concludes the tour," she said with a shy smile, leading the
way back to the sitting room.

Jean sat on the sofa and motioned for me to sit beside her.  Oh,
I guess I should have mentioned that my attire that day was
standard for me on a hot day in June: a pair of well-worn Levi's
and a golf shirt.  I guess I felt just a bit strange sitting
beside a woman as beautifully dressed as she was.

But I sat down anyway, and undoubtedly looked bewildered.  I
really should have looked that way, because it was certainly the
way I felt.  When I sat beside her, she moved close beside me,
took my face in her hands, tilted it and melted her lips to mine.
 I guess I was a bit better prepared for her kiss this time.

Although our first kisses had been surprises to me, they had been
filled with an unbelievable level of passion.  At first, this
kiss was very different.  Although I could still hear the bells
and feel the electricity flowing between us, this time her kiss
was one of incredible tenderness.  Where before she had raped my
mouth with her tongue, this time I could feel it probing gently
in my mouth searching for my own.

When our two tongues met, they began a dance... and I guess it
was a dance of love, although I certainly didn't know it at the
time.  Meanwhile I could feel the fingers of her right hand
moving ever so gently over my face and neck.  It was as if she
was studying my features using Braille.  Then Jean sinuously
moved her body against mine.  Not willing to let that feeling
stop, I put my arms around her and pulled her body close to mine.
(Rereading this sentence now causes me to howl with laughter.  I
knew absolutely nothing at the time!)  But it seemed to be the
correct thing to do.

Finally we eased apart and I looked into her lovely eyes.  They
were almost glazed in their appearance, but then as I could see
her looking beyond me, her brows shot up and she appeared
startled.  "And what, may I ask, are you doing here?" she asked.

Turning enough to see, I saw Susan Callaway sitting on one of the
side chairs watching us intently.  Moreover, the young girl was
now stark naked and appeared to be utterly unconcerned about it.

"Well," the girl responded, "one of the idiot educationists would
call this a meaningful learning experience."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Jean asked archly.

"Someday I'll be old enough to have a date and undoubtedly it
will be with some jerk who has no idea how a girl is put
together, let alone how her clothing works..."  She paused,
cocked her head and wondered out loud, "Now why do you suppose
there are no classes in things like that?  The schools are big on
school-to-work these days.  How about school-to-sex?

"Anyway," she continued, "since you're going to coach Uncle Jim,
I thought I might learn something too."

Although I had been focusing on Susan, when the girl mentioned
the way a woman's clothing worked, I heard Jean mutter,"Damn..."

Turning to Jean I asked, "Damn what?"

"I forgot something," she replied sheepishly.  "I was going to
buy a few bras, but I forgot."

"What for?" I asked, puzzled as usual.  "You don't wear a bra, do
you?"

Raising an eyebrow she asked, "When was the last time you took a
bra off a girl?"

"The next time will be the first time," I replied, chagrined, "as
I'm sure you already knew."

My response evoked a warm smile from Jean and a lovely musical
giggle from Susan, still sitting bare-assed naked on the chair.

"Oh, well, I guess we'll have to do that some other time," Jean
said.  Then with another warm smile she continued, "Undressing a
woman is pretty simple, and really quite easy for you.  You're
right-handed, aren't you, Jim?"

Again I looked puzzled.  (Those first few days I guess the
expression on my face tended to alternate between embarrassment
and puzzlement, but mostly some combination of the two.)  
"What's being right-handed have to do with undressing a woman?" I
asked.

With a cute little grin she replied, "It's an old tradition. 
Women had maids helping them dress a great deal more often than
men had valets.  Since it's easier for a right-handed person to
put a button in a buttonhole with the right hand, women's wear
still buttons right over left, while men's clothing is left over
right."  Then she added, "You would think that after all these
years of a lady's maid being a concept as dead as the dodo, the
manufacturers would have made a change.  But they haven't."  She
just shook her head in feigned sadness.

"See?" piped Susan.  "I told you this would be a meaningful
learning experience, and I've learned something new already."

That little girl was so damned cute!  She had the same
golden-blonde hair that Jean has along with matching blue eyes
and the same all-over golden tan.  There she sat upright gently
playing the fingers of her right hand over her left nipple.

"Nothing!" she remarked with disgust.  "At least Sandy's nipples
are becoming sensitive.  When I do it, it just sort of tickles. 
Darn!"

"Don't rush it, Susie," Jean commented.

I was impressed by the fact that Jean didn't belittle the girl. 
Rather she spoke to her as... _a loving mother!_   I was
astounded.  Oh, well... at least that was a new sensation.

"Are you just going to sit there?" Jean asked with a warm smile
that took the sting from her words, "or are you going to do
something?  Like opening my top, for example..."

I can take a hint as well as the next guy.  I reached over and
undid the two large buttons holding her top (jacket?) together
and then spread them wide.  She wasn't wearing a bra, of course,
and the effect was like white stage curtains framing the most
lovely pair of breasts I've ever seen.  And like the rest of her
they were deeply tanned.  Her up-thrusting pink nipples were the
only spot of color; even her very small areolae appeared tanned.

Taking the jacket lapels from me, she spread them open wide and
asked, "Do you like what you see, Jim?  They're small, I know,
but..."

_"Small?"_ Susie exclaimed.  "They are like heck!  They're
perfectly sized, and your nipples are gorgeous."  Then addressing
me she said, "But what do you think, Uncle Jim?"

"I think your breasts are gorgeous," I responded.

"Breasts?" Jean said with a wry grin.  "Get real!  Why don't you
call them mammary glands, for heaven's sake?  Now what do you
want to call them?  Tits?  Boobs?  Jugs?  Hooters?  What?"  Then
with an adorably shy grin she added, "It's your call."

I didn't know how to respond, but I guess I managed to stammer,
"I... I... I sort of like tits, if it's okay with you?"

"Okay," she responded matter-of-factly, "I've got a pair of
tits."  Again she softened it by adding, "I would go with your
decision, regardless, Jim, but I sort of like 'tits' too. 
'Boobs' remind me of a booby: a dunce.  The others always sound a
little coarse.  Besides, my tits aren't nearly big enough to be
in the 'boobs' class."  With a lovely winning grin she concluded,
"I guess I've always felt that boobs begin at about a double-D
cup.  I'm just sort of a generous B.

"Which brings up another thing.  I know they're not big enough
for you, and I'm working on it, but how big would you like my
tits to be?  You're going to be living with them for several
months, so..."

"Ha!" came a response from Susan still sitting unmoving in the
same chair.  "Would you kindly knock off that stuff, Aunt Jean? 
I would give my right arm to have tits as lovely as yours."

"Yours will be much nicer," Jean replied.  "Just look at your
sister, Sheila.  And Steph.  Steph hasn't fully developed but
it's apparent she'll be just like Sheila: simply perfect."

"If you, Mom, Sheila and Sam were to stand behind a barrier with
only your tits showing, no one could tell one from the other..."
But then Susan stopped abruptly and changed tack.  "No!  That's
not right.  There would be two identical sets: yours and Mom's,
and Sheila's and Sam's.  The difference is that yours and Mom's
are fully developed.  Sam and Sheila are still filling out.  But
you're all simply gorgeous.  Now will you kindly knock off the
garbage?"

Then with the most winsome grin I've ever seen she added, "I hope
you've noticed how careful I'm being with my language.  I didn't
even say 'knock off the shit' which is what I was really
thinking."

At that comment, Jean rose from the sofa and knelt down beside
Susan's chair.  She enfolded the little girl in her arms and then
just melted her lips to hers.  In an instant the girl came to
life and wrapped her small arms around Jean's neck and just
hugged.  From telltale movement I could see in Jean's cheeks, it
seemed that she was using her tongue to explore the girl's mouth,
searching for her tongue.

When the two tongues met and began their dance, Susan's body
shuddered in ecstasy.  While all this was going on, Jean was
caressing the girl's body in the lightest, most delicate way
possible.  It was apparent that the little girl was responding to
the caresses as well.

Finally the two separated.  Susie was breathing heavily but
managed to gasp, "I adore you, Aunt Jean!"

"And I love you very much, too, darling Susan."

With her jacket hanging open, Jean returned to sit beside me. 
Then she turned to me, waiting.

Very diffidently, I reached out and touched her right breast. 
"That's it, Jim," she murmured.  Now run your finger over my
nipple."

I did and could feel it instantly become even more erect.

"Most girl's nipples will be flaccid when you start stroking
them," she said softly.  "Kate thinks most guys like turgid
nipples, and she showed me how to keep mine that way.  Do you
like it?"

I put my whole hand over her breast and very gently squeezed.  As
I did, I moved closer and my lips met hers.  The effect was
heavenly.  As we kissed, I could feel her breathing come faster
and again her hand went behind my neck.  The feel of her fingers
-- like feathers -- was like nothing I had ever experienced.  I
was getting hard as a rock, and I knew Jean knew it.

"Squeeze hard," she whispered.  "Most girls like gentle caressers
-- exactly what you're doing -- but some gals like the guy to be
rougher."

"What do you like?" I responded.

Her reply was humbling.  "I... I... I don't know."  Then her eyes
began to tear again and she added, "I've been a prostitute for so
damned long, I've never thought about what I might like.  I've
always been focused on the john in hopes of getting a bigger
tip."

Caressing her tit was utterly incredible.  In spite of what she
had said, her breasts were perfectly sized for me.  As big as my
hands are -- and I can palm a basketball -- I couldn't get my
hand completely around one.  Then I squeezed a little harder.

This provoked a gasp from Jean and I instantly released my hold.
"No!" she protested.  "Please don't stop.  It feels utterly
wonderful!"  I squeezed and she put her hand over mine.  "Harder!
 Squeeze harder, please?"

I increased the pressure and she murmured, "Better..."  At this
point her eyes were closed and her head was resting on the sofa
back.  For my part the sensation was incredible.  I could feel
her erect nipple moving against the palm of my hand.

At that point I guess Jean remembered where she was and what she
was supposed to be doing.  She opened her eyes, blinked and shook
her head as if to clear it.  "Jim, you really can't hurt me." 
Again I could see tears in the corners of her eyes as she
continued, "One thing that's very common with prossies: Guys like
to hurt us.  Believe me when I say for most of the last ten years
my body has been a mass of bruises and more than a few
lacerations."  Then with a shy little smile she asked, "Squeeze
my tit really hard.  Please?"

I did and obtained a surprising reaction.  And from what I could
observe, it was as much of a surprise to her as it was to me. 
When I squeezed her tit hard, her pelvis shuddered.  Obviously
she was as startled as I was.

At that point, ignoring her prior reaction, she gave me
instructions on how women's skirts are constructed, buttons,
hooks, zippers and so forth.  We got past that and got to her
bikini.

"This is going to require the girl's cooperation," she said with
a grin.  "If she really doesn't want you in her panties, she'll
likely try to keep them on."  Then with a friendly wink she
added, "At that point you have two choices.  Either rip them off
-- and that isn't as easy as it looks.  Although it might be very
sheer -- you can often see right through it -- nylon is very
strong.  Or you can fuck her with her panties still on."  Then
she showed me how the crotch could be moved to one side or the
other to create an opening.

Again, Jean was naked on the sofa.  Now she had me sit in a chair
facing her.  It was an utterly incredible experience.  Here I am
sitting about a foot or so away from an utterly gorgeous naked
girl, and she's acting as casual and as natural as if she were
fully dressed.

It was as if she could read my mind.  "I've been a prostitute for
almost ten years, Jim.  Being naked with a man is my normal
working uniform."

For some reason her remark provoked a derisive giggle from Susan
who was still sitting quietly on her chair, only now she had her
feet tucked under her bottom and was kneeling on the chair more
than sitting on it.

Jean started to spread her thighs wide when she suddenly stopped,
snapped her fingers, jumped up from the sofa and ran to the door.
 "Samantha!" she called out.  "We need you!"

A few moments later Sam appeared, hopping on one foot as she
tried to disengage the other from her bikini.  Like the other two
girls, she was now completely naked, too.  Obviously, being
called in came as no surprise, but I wondered why she was taking
off her clothes.   Because Jean was waiting at the doorway, the
two women were together long enough for me to see that they were
close to being twins.  The only significant difference was that
Jean's hair was long while Sam's was worn in an urchin cut.  Both
of their bodies were utterly exquisite.  But as I thought about
it, I realized that their facial structures were dissimilar,
although both were beautiful; it was their bodies that were
nearly identical.

"To what do I owe this gracious invitation?" Sam asked with a
grin.

"Well..." Jean replied, really stretching out the word, "we're
now at the point in female physiology where we're about to look
at the cunt.  And since yours is in the anatomy textbooks..."

"Oh, no you don't!" Sam exclaimed.  "Jim is your client, not
mine.  But I'll tell you what I'll do..."

She sat on the sofa beside Jean, spread her thighs wide and told
Jean to do the same thing.  "Now, Jean, spread your lips wide so
Jim gets a good look and I'll do the same.  Okay?"

Under the circumstances, there was nothing Jean could do but
comply.  When she spread her right leg -- the one closest to Sam
-- Sam lifted hers and put it over Jean's, holding it in
position.  Then she asked Susan to hold Jean's left leg so it
remained spread wide.

With a cute grin, the girl scrambled from her chair to comply. 
But first she knelt on the sofa and gave Jean a loving kiss.  As
she did, I'm almost certain I heard her whisper, "I love you,
Aunt Jean!"

"Okay, Jean," Sam ordered, "use your fingers to spread your lips
wide.  Let Jim have a good look."

When she complied, I looked on in astonishment -- I think.  Here
were two utterly gorgeous blue-eyed blondes holding their pussy
lips spread wide so I could get a good look at their cunts. 
Before I even looked at what I was supposed to, I realized
something else: First, like Jean and Susan, Sam was tanned all
over.  There wasn't anything close to a strap mark anywhere. 
Both had their pubic hair plucked so that there was only a small
triangular patch of golden curly hair remaining above their
slits.  Beyond that, though, both girl's crotches were deeply
tanned too, as were their hands with their fingers holding their
labia wide apart.

I guess I've never thought much about hands, but I realized that
these two were exceptional.  Both girls had hands that were
perfectly formed with long slender fingers.  Simply lovely! 
Glancing at Susan, I could see that, although her hand was much
smaller, it would be the same when she was older.  She had the
same relatively small palm with long slender fingers.

"Have you finished your wool-gathering?" Sam asked with a quirky
grin.  "I don't want to have to sit here all evening and risk my
cunt catching a cold."

I looked from one cunt to the other and back again.  I couldn't
see any difference and said so.

"Neato!" Sam exclaimed, "I'm outta here!"  But she didn't release
her lips.  Instead, she glanced down at herself and then looked
at Jean's cunt.  "You missed something," she said to me. 
"Something very significant, in fact.  See this?" she asked,
indicating a nubbin high in her slit.

I swallowed hard and nodded.

"Now look at Jean's."

I did, and just shook my head.  "They still look the same tome."

"That's the clitoris, Jim," the girl explained.  "Mine is
relaxed, but Jean's has popped its head out of its hood.  See the
difference?"

Looking again, I did see a difference.  "Okay.  Her clitoris is
out of its hood.  What's that mean?"

"It means that I don't trust her is what it means," Sam replied.
"She's been telling me for months that she's incapable of
achieving orgasm -- that's cuming to you, Jim."  Then to Jean she
said, "I guess you'll have to be the demonstration vehicle, not
me.  And it just goes to show you: Marion may have thought I have
a perfect cunt, but if it's true, you do, too, Jean Peters." 
Then with another grin she added, "I think yours really is
perfect."

The girl thought for a moment and then continued, "So I think
I'll stick around.  It's a little hard to coach a guy when it's
your cunt that's being eaten."

To Susan she said, "Go get Sandy.  I think we're going to need
her."

"You can't do this!" Jean protested.  "It's not just that you
have a beautiful pussy.  It's the fact that it's just not right
for Jim to be eating a whore's cunt!"

"How many times has your cunt been eaten?" Sam asked.

"Lots of times," Jean pouted

"How many times by a man?"

"What difference does that make?  It's been eaten lots of times.
And everything filthy and disgusting has been done to it and in
it!"

Ignoring the second sentence Sam retorted, "When you're doing an
exhibition with another girl, you mean."

"So what?"

"So it's not the same thing.  And you're about to see why.  And
you insist you've never cum and can't cum, right?"

Jean was sitting alone on the sofa now, but her legs were still
spread wide.  Tears began to run down her lovely cheeks as she
replied, "Sam, you know damned well that I might as well be dead
from the waist down.  There's no feeling there and there never
has been any.  That's another reason for using you.  How can Jim
possibly know if he's doing it right if he gets no reaction of
any kind?"  (It was only much later that I remembered the orgasm
Jean had had when I squeezed her tit.)

"We'll see," Sam replied noncommittally.  "All I know is that
your clit is standing at attention!  You're clearly not as dead
as you think you are or would like us to believe."

While Susan was gone, I suddenly realized the anomaly: I was
still dressed while all the girls were naked, yet no one seemed
to mind or even notice.  How odd.  Furthermore, I was learning
something about myself.  Although Jean was being paid for it, I
felt their was a real attraction between us.  Of course, it could
be just the usual result of kissing and viewing a naked beauty,
but I began to doubt that was true.

Susan returned with Sandy who proceeded to shed her clothes, too.
 Sam told the girls that she wanted each to hold one of Jean's
arms against the back of the sofa to keep her hands out of the
action.  Sandy scrambled up to kneel at Jean's right side with
Sue on the left.  Like her sister, the first thing Sandy did was
to melt her lips to Jean's in a loving kiss.  With her back to me
I could see the still-livid brand, SLUT, on her right ass cheek.
What a terrible thing to do to such a beautiful girl!

Sam then proceeded to instruct me in eating a girl's cunt.  I
licked up Jean's slit and focused on her clit, flicking it with
my tongue.  By this time I hd her legs over my shoulders.  As
Samantha had said, I found Jean's juices to be lovely and sweet.
Following her instructions, I found that I was bringing Jean
toward her crest.  I guess she was on the verge of an orgasm, but
I really had no idea what to expect.  For that matter, I didn't
know then, nor do I know now, how I could tell she was on the
edge of cuming, but I did... and still do.

Just as I could sense her reaching a crest, Sam told me to ease
up just a tiny bit.  The crest subsided.  Following Sam's
detailed instructions, I did it again and again and again.  Each
time Jean reached the crest faster than the time before. 
Finally, I had her right on the edge: She couldn't go down, but I
wouldn't let her go over, either.

By this time she was writhing in agony on the sofa and it was
taking the not inconsiderable strength of the two girls to hold
her arms outstretched.

"Let me cum!" she screamed.  "James Dawson, let me cum this
instant!"

"But how can he, Jean?" Sam replied in her most-reasonable tone
of voice.  "You can't cum, remember?"

I pulled back a bit from Jean's cunt to get a look and was amazed
at what I was seeing.  By now her clit had extended to the point
of being like a baby's penis.  It was bright red now and
vibrating by itself.

"Are you really sure you want this?" Sam asked.

"Samantha Callaway!" Jean screamed.  "I'm going to kill you! 
Just you wait!"

"I'll tell you what, Jean.  You ask Jim very nicely, and I'll see
what I can do.  I want you to say, 'Jim, please eat my lovely
cunt.  If you make my cum, I promise to reward you with the
sweetest cum cream you've ever tasted.'  Now say it!"

"That's absurd!" Jean gasped.  "And it would be a horrible lie,
too.  All there is is filth and dirt!  It's a whore's cunt!" she
wailed.

Following Sam's instructions, I just maintained the girl on the
edge.

Finally she couldn't take it any more.  "Please!" she whispered.
"God help me!  I can't take this any more.  I'll do anything, say
anything..."  Her words just dissolved into hopeless-sounding
tears.

Sam repeated her words.

Gasping, Jean stammered, "Jim, please eat my lovely cunt.  If you
make my cum, I promise to reward you with the sweetest cum cream
you've ever tasted."

At Sam's nod, I gave her vibrating clit a sharp flick with the
tip of my tongue.  That was all it took.  Her pelvis exploded as
she was taken with an incredibly powerful orgasm.

Then following her instructions, I licked up her cream and began
to probe her vagina with my tongue.  Her cum flowed in quantity,
and it was remarkably sweet, as promised.  I went back to licking
her slit and flicking her clit; again she came.  By now Jean was
gasping for breath; her pelvis was in such a spasm that her
diaphragm wouldn't work.  I eased up to let her breathe.

Slowly she came down from her peak and color returned to her
face.  Then, at a signal from Sam I took her up again and again
and again.  Finally, she was just sprawled on the sofa with her
legs still spread wide and her arms flopped out in both
directions.

She had been screaming, "Eat me!  Eat me!", but that had turned
into incoherent babblings and finally just gasps.  The fact was,
though, that as her ordeal continued, her cream had become
progressively sweeter.  Sam had said that the first flows had
been accumulated over the years, while at the end it was all
fresh... and incredibly sweet.

Now Jean's eyes were closed.  Whether she was sleeping or
unconscious, I really couldn't tell.  Going into the bedroom,
though, I found a light blanket in the closet and covered her
with it.  Then I followed Susan into the kitchen while Sam and
Sandy left our apartment.

There the 8-year-old sat me in a chair and proceeded to make me a
very dry martini.  I guess I was still in a daze myself because
all I did was sit there with my drink while she left the kitchen
and then returned with a plastic milk case.  She overturned it
and used it as a step-stool to be tall enough to cook.

I was astonished.  She moved around as if she was very much at
home in a kitchen cooking, and so she proved to be.  She had
three lovely strip sirloin steaks and prepared a sauce of some
kind.  Then she proceeded to prepare pommes souffle, fried
potatoes that puffed like balloons.

It appeared she was ready to do the steaks when Jean came
staggering into the kitchen and collapsed on the chair opposite
me.  Susie stopped what she was doing and quickly made a martini
for her.  While she was doing that, I picked Jean up, returned to
my seat and sat her down across my lap.  She still hadn't said a
word.  All she did was rest her cheek against my shoulder and
murmur softly.

Lifting her head, I turned it and kissed her.  Again there was
that marvelous electricity and the bells.  At the same time, it
was so soft and loving; there was no passion in it, at least not
on her part.

When we parted she whispered, "Thank you, Jim.  That was a lovely
kiss.  And a perfectly marvelous cunt-eating."

Then pretending to be angry, her tone changed dramatically and
she said, "But look what you did to my poor cunt!"  Her thighs
were still spread wide -- she claimed she couldn't get them any
closer together -- and her cunt was a brilliant red.  Her labia
were still swollen and her clit -- still crimson -- was still
protruding beyond the line of the lips.

Then she changed again.  "Was I screaming, 'Eat me, eat me'?" she
asked.

"Uh huh."

Hitting me lightly on the arm she continued, "Well, you didn't
have to take me literally, did you?  I mean...  Just look!  At
this rate I won't even have a cunt after a week."

"But you're a prostitute," I protested.  Then I raised an eyebrow
and added, "And you lied to us, too.  You said you couldn't cum.
If you can't, lady, that was the greatest imitation the world has
ever seen."

Instead of replying, she just snuggled close in my shoulder and
sipped her martini.

A few moments later, Sue finished cooking and put filled plates
on the table.  Only then did I notice that everything about the
table setting was just lovely, complete with lighted candles.  To
complete the setting, Susan even dimmed the lights.

Jean took her seat beside me while Susan sat opposite.  Only then
did I cut into the steak and take a bite.  "This is incredibly
good, Susie!  But what's this sauce you have on it?"

"It's sauce Perigord," she replied.  When she did, I could see
her lower lip trembling and tears appearing at the corners of her
eyes.  "I hope you don't mind it too much.  I guess I know how to
cook a lot of things, but this is about the only dinner I can get
to come out so everything's ready at about the same time."

"Absolutely delicious!" Jean pronounced.  "And are these fresh
truffles I see slivered through the sauce?"

"I hope you don't mind...?"

"Jim, by the pound, truffles cost substantially more than gold."
To the little girl she replied, "Darling, this meal is
exquisite!"

My astonishment continued as the girl very expertly tossed a
c'sar salad and served it.  This was followed by crepes Suzette
which she flamed at the table.  I could scarcely believe my
eyes... or my taste buds.  This little girl had prepared a
gourmet feast from a standing (or sitting) start all by herself.

Then she put out a small plate of assorted cheeses with crackers
and served coffee to Jean and me.

Oops!  I forgot to mention that she had previously served a
chateau-bottled Bordeaux to the two of us along with the steak. 
Again, Jean had done something that I was coming to see as so
typical of her.  Without a word, she got another wine glass and
poured half a glass for Susan.  "This is a perfect French meal,
Sue," she said, "and there's no minimum age for drinking wine in
France."

The girl was so utterly delighted, she was bouncing in herchair.

For my part, it truly was the finest meal I had ever eaten to
that point in my life.  After the cheese had largely disappeared,
Susan again disappeared and came back with another bottle and two
cigars.  Then she obtained two snifters and poured.  It was Remy
Martin's Louis XIII, possibly the world's finest cognac bottled
in a Baccarat crystal decanter.  She looked at the cigars
hesitantly and finally decided not to try to light them herself.

Without a word, Jean took them from her and carefully lighted the
larger -- a Corona corona.  When it was burning to her
satisfaction, she passed it to me and then repeated the exercise,
lighting a slim panatella for herself.

Along with the cigar, the cognac was a perfect ending to a
perfect meal.

Finally, with her eyes wide Susan asked, "How was the dinner,
Uncle Jim?"

"It was... satisfactory," I pronounced pontifically.

At that point I was astonished.  The girl was out of her chair
and headed toward the door like a shot.  While I sat there like a
dolt, Jean's arm shot out, caught the girl and pulled her,
struggling, close to her body.

Then holding her tightly in her arms, she whispered, "Darling,
Jim was just teasing.  It was an utterly marvelous dinner!"

While still holding the girl tightly she looked up at me and
said, "Jim, please don't do that again.  I know you were just
teasing, but you really can't do that with these girls in a
situation like this.  You see, they have two problems that aren't
very common.

"First, there's the matter of their extraordinary intelligence. 
It is said that the beginning of wisdom is the knowledge of how
much one doesn't know.  These girls truly thirst for knowledge. 
Don't forget that the brutal treatment they sought -- yes,
_sought_ -- was so that they could go to school the following
week.  It was true for Sheila, Steph and Sandy: They had to have
at least 50 strokes with a pussy whip on their cunts on Saturday
night or they couldn't go to school the following week.

"It became well known to the 'patrons of the establishment', so
they had to beg, plead and do every vile thing you can imagine
just to get their 50 strokes."  Jean grimaced and shook her head
sadly.  "Of course, once they reached 50, the sky was the limit.
Typically they would then be beaten so badly, they would regain
consciousness sometime the next morning still lying on thefloor.

"It was Sandy's volunteering her virginity that saved Susan from
those beatings.

"But the second element is their personal standard: It's
perfection."  She just shook her head and interjected, "I know
and you know that perfection is granted only to God.  But these
girls don't really accept that.  Their personal standard is
perfection, and anything less is just not acceptable... tothem."

At that point she lifted Susan's head from her shoulder where the
girl had buried it and melted her lips to hers.  While their
mouths were joined, Jean gently ran her fingers through the
girl's hair and very gently caressed any part of her lovely body
within reach.  At the same time I could almost literally see the
woman pour her love into the little girl.

Finally she eased apart so she could look into Susan's eyes. 
"I'm right, aren't I?"

Very reluctantly, Susie nodded her head just once.

"Okay, Jim," Jean continued, "what did you really think of that
meal?"

Before answering, I extended my arms toward Susie who came
running into them.  Holding her tightly I whispered, "Darling
Susan, that was without any question the finest meal I've ever
eaten in my life!  And I've eaten at one time or another at
virtually all of the Michelin three-star restaurants.  They're
supposed to be the very finest in the world, and I'm not sure
there's even one of them that's in your class, let alone as good
as you are.  That meal was utterly magnificent!"

"Honest?" Susie asked skeptically.

"Honest!"

And you know what?  I was being absolutely honest.  This
eight-year-old girl who had to stand on an overturned milk crate
to be tall enough to use the pots and skillets had prepared a
truly world-class dinner.

"Now will you give me a kiss, Susie, to show that you forgive me
for tormenting you like that?"

With a little squeal, the girl hurled herself at me, wrapped her
arms around my neck and melted her lips to mine.  The kiss I
received from that little girl was fantastic.  I could literally
feel her love flowing from her lips into me.  As we kissed, I
tried to do what Jean had done: As gently as I could I caressed
her small body and could feel her wriggling with delight (at
least I thought it was delight).

Finally, I eased her away to repeat, "The dinner was simply
perfect, honey!"

When I said it, the girl blushed but then said, "It wasn't
perfect at all.  And all the other stuff -- the Bordeaux and the
cognac -- were really to disguise the fact."  Shaking her head
she added, "It wasn't a fraction as good as what Aunt Jean would
have made."

"That's flat not true, Susan!" Jean interjected.  "It was utterly
perfect.  But how did you ever learn to cook?  I've never seen
you make more than a peanut butter sandwich."

"From watching you," the girl replied.  "You're really great!"

At that point Jean rose from her chair and then sat down again
across my lap where she just snuggled against my shoulder while
we puffed on our cigars.  My question to myself right then was
whether things could ever be better?  I had had a marvelous meal
that I was still savoring while enjoying a perfect cigar with a
gorgeous nude woman snuggled on my lap.

"Well, I guess it's about that time," she finally said, taking my
hand and pulling me to my feet.  We returned to the sitting room
while Susan -- at her insistence -- did the dishes, but then kept
going into the bedroom.  The first thing I noticed was that the
king-sized bed had been turned down on both sides.

"Do you see anything strange about this situation?" she asked
with a very cute but quizzical grin.

"Huh?" was my oh-so-intelligent response.

"For several hours now, James Dawson, there have been a
succession of naked women in your life.  Now how about you?"

At that she reached out and unfastened my belt buckle.  In
moments, my pants were on the floor, followed by my golf shirt. 
Then she dropped to her knees and lowered my jockey shorts
releasing my cock.  While I had been hard as a rock earlier, now
I was only semi-erect.

"It's so beautiful!" she exclaimed as she gently took its tip
into her mouth.  That was all it took for me again to become as
hard as a rock.

Just then Susan came in from the kitchen.  "Aunt Jean, why don't
you lie on the bed and let Uncle Jim warm up your cunt with his
tongue?  While you do that, I'll get him ready for you."

The significance of her last words were lost to me at that
moment, but I did what she suggested.  Jean lay on her back and
spread her thighs wide.  Her cunt was still bright red -- almost
scarlet -- from my preprandial cunt-eating.  I knelt between her
wide-spread thighs and lowered my head to her cunt.  Gently, this
time, I began to lick her slit and tease her still-erect clit.

Just then I felt the most incredible sensation in my cock. 
Looking down, I saw Susie on her back.  She had wriggled under
Jean's left leg and had taken my cock in her mouth.

"Aunt Jean, he's so big!" the little girl exclaimed.  "Uncle Jim
has the biggest cock I've ever seen.  It's going to be a real
challenge..."

Like the nitwit I was -- and may still be -- I didn't get the
significance of that statement either.

Sue moved like a contortionist, and I realized that much of what
she was doing could only be done by someone her size.  Not even
Sandy, let alone Sam or Jean, could do what that little girl did.
 Somehow, she managed to align her mouth and throat so that she
took in the full length of my cock.  I guess she was sucking on
it or something, because it seemed to be getting even longer and
fatter.

Trying to focus on something -- anything! -- other than what that
little girl was doing, I again probed Jean's vagina with my
tongue, then licked under her still-swollen labia and finally
flicked and then sucked on her lovely little clit.  Again her
pelvis shook in spasm as she was overtaken by another orgasm.

"He's ready, Aunt Jean," the little girl pronounced.  "And boy! 
Are you ever lucky!  He's absolutely enormous.  I could scarcely
get him all in."

Jean looked down at me and gasped.  "My God!  James Dawson, you
are enormous!  Susie's right.  You're the biggest I've ever
seen."  She looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "I
think I had better be on top the first time, if it's all right
with you."

What did I know?  I said, "Of course," and we exchanged places.

Lying on my back, my cock was vibrating and pointing up and back
toward my head.  I don't know how big I was (or am) but there
have never been any complaints that I'm not big enough.

Jean straddled my hips and put her right foot on the bed.  Later
I learned that that was a first, too.  Previously, she had always
been able to rise up on her knees which lifted her plenty high
enough to position a guy's cock.  I guess maybe I am a little
different.  Anyway, she rose up partially on her right leg, took
my cock and placed it at the mouth of her vagina.

One synonym for fucking is "screwing."  Well, I guess that was
essentially what Jean did that night.  She put her cunt on my
cock as if she was putting on a pair of very long, very tight
gloves.  I could feel my cock going deeper inside her, stretching
the walls of her vagina as it did.  I guess I was a little more
than halfway in when I felt some resistance on my cockhead.

Looking up, I saw an expression of pleased surprise on Jean's
face.  At that point, I decided to no longer be a lump and pulled
her head down to mine.  As our lips met in a wonderful kiss, I
could feel her body turning back and forth on my cock as she
continued to screw herself deeper and deeper.  The kiss we shared
was utterly breathtaking.  With my left hand I held her in
position, while my right hand and fingers roamed all over her
perfect body.

"My God!" she exclaimed.  "Never in my life..."  Her voice just
trailed off into warm sounds of pleasure.  Then she whispered,
"Thank you, Jim.  This is the first time in my entire life I've
been kissed while I'm being fucked."

"You're not being fucked!" Susan piped up.  "You're being made
love to.  And it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."  She
paused for a moment and then continued, "I always thought that
Mom and Dad had a patent on it; I had never seen real lovemaking
before.  But you know what?  I think you two might be even
better."

Jean's response was another incredibly loving kiss.  At that
point I realized that she had managed to get my entire length
inside her.  At first, she just sat there, savoring the feeling,
I guess.  Then, without moving up or down, she began to
rhythmically squeeze my cock with her vaginal muscles.  This
caused me to pull her head down for another kiss.

Then starting with very tiny up-and-down movements, she moved on
my cock.  "I never knew it could ever be this good," she
whispered as her strokes lengthened.  Then with a little grin she
added, "There's another neat thing: You're so damned long, rising
up straight on my knees still leaves a lot of you inside.  I
don't have to worry about you popping out on me.

"Oh, God!  Oh, God!" she cried as she moved up and down.  Now she
was doing what she had said: She was rising up straight on her
knees and then settling back down.

Incredibly, I really think my cock was still growing longer and
fatter in response to her cuntal stimulus.  I was at the point
where I had to release and was about to when she changed her
tempo so my orgasm receded.

After I don't know how many cycles, I was dying.  I screamed,
"Let me cum!  I've got to!  I'll explode if I don't..."

"Well..." she responded, drawing out the word, "all you have to
do is say, 'If you let me cum, Jean, I promise to flood your cunt
with the most luscious cum in the world.'"

_"What?"_

"You heard me," she responded placidly.  "And it's such a small
thing, too..."

_"Let me cum!"_

"You heard me."

"But I've forgotten the words!..."

"Very simple: 'If you let me cum, Jean, I promise to flood your
cunt with the most luscious cum in the world.'"

Somehow, I guess I said it.  The next instant, I utterly
exploded, shooting into her cunt like a firehose.  For her part,
she leaned forward took me in her arms and melted her lips to
mine while I continued to pump cum deep into her body.  The
instant my orgasm triggered, hers did too.

Here we were locked in each other's arms while my cock erupted
and her pelvis was in spasm.

Finally my orgasm slowed and stopped.  Her cuntal muscles
continued to pulsate, milking the very last drops of cum from my
sac.  As my cock began to shrink, she could feel it, so she
flopped off me and lay on the bed beside me.  Like me, she was
gasping for breath.

As we lay side by side, only semi-conscious, I heard a lovely
young voice murmur, "Yum!"

Looking over, I saw Susie with her mouth at Jean's cunt, licking
and sucking to extract the mixture of my cum and hers.  That
little girl had a mouth like a vacuum cleaner, and a tongue that
could -- and did -- get into the smallest crevices.  While this
was going on, I turned Jean's head and again melted my lips to
hers.

The kiss we exchanged was one of a kind.  It was soft, sweet,
loving and passionless.  We were both utterly drained.

We continued our kiss until we were interrupted by Susan flopping
on Jean's body.  "That was utterly incredible!" the little girl
exclaimed.  "Never in my life have I found so much cum and syrup.
 You two cum in quarts!"

"Jim, that was supposed to be the first of several tonight, but
quite honestly, I really can't make it.  Beyond that, it was the
finest fucking..."

_"Lovemaking!"_ Susan exclaimed.  "You weren't fucked, Aunt Jean.
 Uncle Jim was worshiping your body with his."

"...Lovemaking I've ever had."  Then with her blue eyes full of
warmth and the beginning of tears, she added, "Thank you."

I guess right about then I fell asleep or lost consciousness.

* * *
End Part 1 of 9

To be continued --

Comments and constructive criticism are sincerely welcome.  Let
me hear from you.  morg105829@aol.com


"Jean & Jim."  Copyright   2001 by Morgan.  <morg105829@aol.com>

All rights reserved.  No part may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any electronic means, including photocopying,
recording or by any information and retrieval system, without the
written permission of the author.

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