index


Message-ID: <61898asstr$1330647001@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Denny Wheeler <dennyw@zipcon.net>
User-Agent: Mozilla/5.0 (Windows NT 6.1; WOW64; rv:10.0.2) Gecko/20120216 Thunderbird/10.0.2
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
Subject: {ASSM} RP: Uncle Randy and the Angry Niece (Pt 01 of 03) (Hoisington) {Mf, 1st, inc, slow, rom}
Lines: 3633
Date: Thu, 01 Mar 2012 19:10:01 -0500
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


                  UNCLE RANDY AND THE ANGRY NIECE
                            Part 01 of 03
                         Russell Hoisington

This is an erotic fantasy.  The characters and the situation
are purely imaginary, and this story is *NOT* intended to be
a guide for actual behavior.  Any similarities between this
story and actual people or actual events you should be
ashamed of are purely coincidental.  If it is illegal in
your part of the world to access and read erotic fiction, or
if you are underage, or if you don't like underage sex
stories, then stop now.

This story is copyright 2008 by Russell Hoisington.  Please
do not 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.  That does
*not* mean that these stories are in the public domain, nor
does it mean that I give permission for you to use them in
spam advertising.  I reserve the right to determine what is
"spam advertising" by *my* definition, not yours or anyone
else's.

Thank you for your consideration.

My sincerest thanks to Denny Wheeler for editing this story
and to Denny, the Night Hawk, Rod O'Steele, Tesseract, Uncle
Sky, and Wizard for their input.  Special thanks to Wizard
for allowing me to use characters and events from _The
Trailer Park: The Road Trip_.  I suppose I should also thank
myself for allowing me to use characters from my _Wynter_
series, too.

    ************************************************************

                  UNCLE RANDY AND THE ANGRY NIECE
                         Russell Hoisington

                                One

     She sat on her suitcases at the Arrivals curb, elbows on
her knees and chin on her fists, and looked ready to commit
wholesale mayhem.  I couldn't blame her.  She'd arrived at
the airport against her will forty-five minutes earlier.
The overcast sky still threatened rain.  Should I be
thankful the rain hadn't materialized or should I wish that
it had because it might have cooled her down?  I decided to
be thankful.  I raised a hand above the convertible's
windshield and waved.

     My angry niece spotted me.  The angry look changed to
one of unrestricted warfare before she rose smoothly on long
tanned legs that stretched from here back to Dallas.  The
khaki shorts and the camouflage-patterned sleeveless blouse
that missed the waistband of the shorts by two inches helped
emphasize the military nature of the look.  While on a
location photo shoot in Mexico for an advertising company
last year I'd been attacked by both a rabid pit bull and a
javelina.  The two together looked more warm and loving than
Cheryl at that moment.

     She glared at me as I braked beside her and hit the
buttons for the trunk lock and the door lock.

     "Hi!" I said as cheerfully as possible under the
circumstances.

     I carefully noted the strength in those slender arms as
she lifted one suitcase in each hand and threw them plus a
make-up case and small purse into the back seat.  _Note to
self:  stay out of throwing range of heavy missiles while
she's mad in case she's as accurate as her mother._   She
used one hand for support as she vaulted over the door and
into the passenger seat, propelled by what I call "tween
legs."  They were in that between stage:  last week girlish
slender, next week womanly sculpted.  I was lucky enough to
catch sight of them in the brief transition stage.

     "You're late," she growled in a voice that made the pit
bull and javelina sound as if they were crooning love songs.
_Translation:  a slow, agonizing death is too good for you._
I checked her eyes.  Nope.  They were still brown, not
flaming red.  Not yet.

     "I have a good excuse."

     "Yeah," she sounded like she was clearing her throat.  I
thought her next move would be to spit at me, but I was
lucky.  "You've probably been making it up all the way
here."

     I opened the car door.  "It's in the glove compartment."

     "Where are you going?"  Maybe her eyes weren't flaming
yet, but her vocal cords had to be on fire to generate that
much heat.

     I jerked a thumb over my shoulder.  "You didn't put the
bags in the trunk, so it still needs closing and locking."
I smiled and pointed.  "Glove compartment?"

     I closed the trunk and returned to the driver's seat.

     She looked up from the summons.  "Speeding?  You're an
hour late because of a speeding ticket?"

     "Forty-five minutes late.  No, that took just twenty
minutes.  They have a speed trap set up about twenty-five
miles down the road.  They're pulling lots of people over
into a line and writing tickets.  You have to wait until
they eventually get to you.  The rest of it was a wreck in
front of me that temporarily blocked the highway and kept me
from actually arriving early.  And that's why I was
speeding.  I was trying to make up lost time."

     She stuffed the summons back into the glove compartment
and glared accusingly at me.  "A wreck."  _Translation:  you
should have said a flying saucer had landed and blocked the
road because that's more believable._  "Why not?  Maybe
you'd better, like, let me drive."

     I shrugged.  "No problem.  Got your learner's permit
with you?"

     She slumped in the seat and slammed her head backward
into the headrest.  "God, I hate you."  _Translation:  "God,
I hate you."  Sometimes she says what she means_

     I put the car in gear, checked to the rear, and pulled
away from the curb.  "Now what?  You can get a permit at
fifteen in Texas.  Didn't you know that?"

     Her glare focused on the top of the windshield.  "Not if
your mother is Mandy Kuczynski."

     "Oh."  Silly me.  I should have known that without
asking.

     "Yeah.  'Oh.'"

     "Well, I can't get you a Colorado permit because I'm not
your legal guardian, but there's no reason you can't start
learning to drive while you're here.  It's a big..."

     She rolled her head around to fix her glare on me again.
"Look, don't try to bribe me to be good.  We both know why
I'm here."

     I grinned.  "Oh, I doubt that."

     She snorted.  _Translation:  starving buzzards wouldn't
eat your festering corpse because they have standards._  So
much derision in such a small sound was nothing less than
amazing.  "You're saying you don't know why I'm here?  I'm
supposed to believe that?"

     "No.  I'm saying that I doubt you know why you're here."

     "Are you, like, out of your fucking mind?"  She seemed
to wait to see what effect the accusation and dirty word
would have on me.  She seemed surprised that I didn't react,
then continued.  "I'm here because Mom caught me making out
with Allen Kirk and now I'm being punished by being sent
someplace where all the boys will be more interested in you
than me.  It's her idea of tough love."

     I grinned at her.  "I was right.  You don't know."

     She couldn't decide whether to look surprised,
disbelieving, or angry, so her face flickered between all
three.  "Okay, Uncle Smartass, why am I here?"

     Again she seemed surprised because I didn't react.
Instead, I calmly replied, "You're here because your mother
is trying to punish both of us."

     The overcast broke, and the sudden glare of sunshine in
her face caused her to squint.  "So.  My being here is a
punishment for you."

     I shook my head.  "No.  Pay attention.  That's not what
I said.  I said that your mother was _trying_ to punish both
of us.  I did not say she'd succeeded.  That bright sun will
give you a headache in short order.  Do you have sunglasses
or a cap with a visor?"

     "No!"  Translation:  _I have sunglasses in my purse, and
I'm not about to get them out because it's your idea._

     I opened the compartment in the console and pulled out a
cap.  I keep it handy for clients who don't know I'll be
picking them up in a convertible and need eye protection.
"You may have to adjust the headband."

     She took it and deliberately avoided thanking me,
expecting me to correct her manners the way Mandy would.
She again seemed surprised when I said nothing.  "So, why
would Mom want to punish you?"

     It was my turn to look incredulous.  "Come on, honey.
You've known your mom for fifteen years.  How many times
have you seen her when she didn't have a corncob up her ass
about everybody and everything?"

     She looked startled, started to grin, and then
remembered that she was mad at the world.  She had inherited
that sequence from Mandy.  She slipped on the cap, decided
it didn't need adjusting, and slumped in the seat again.
She lifted her hands in front of her face and inspected her
fingernails.  "I guess you're right.  She's gotta punish you
because you aren't perfect, either, being a faggot and all
that."

     I paused to yell curses at a pickup that almost
sideswiped me while trying to pass in the no passing zone as
the highway went from four lanes to two.  "Honey, you don't
have to worry about being perfect while you're here.  Just
be yourself.  Whatever you want to do--within reason--is
okay with me.  Think of it not as punishment but as a long
vacation from your mom."

     She turned her head away from the task of adjusting one
cuticle with a fingernail from the other hand.  I knew that
under that cap the third of her face that was high, smooth,
lovely forehead had wrinkled like crumpled foil.  "Within
reason, huh?  Which mean, I suppose, that you won't let me
get a tattoo, either?"

     I shook my head.  "No."

     "I thought not."  She returned to her cuticle grooming.

     "That exceeds my mandate.  Mandy specifically said you
couldn't get a tattoo."

     "No, she didn't."

     "Cheryl, you're fifteen now.  You deserve the truth, and
that's what I'll always give.  I won't lie to you.  There's
no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, or Tooth Fairy.  There!
Satisfied?"

     "Sure."

     "Okay.  How about this.  Do you know how old I am?"

     "Duh!  You're thirty-three."

     "No."  I waited to see if I'd get a slow turn of her
head or a quick snap-around.  She did the first one, again
something she'd inherited from Mandy.  "I'm thirty-two."

     "See?  You're already lying to me.  You and mom are
twins."

     "That's right.  We are.  And I'm thirty-two.  You can
check the date on my birth certificate when we get home if
you want."

     She thought about that.  I had to be telling the truth
if I was offering proof.  "Mom's been, like, lying about her
age?"

     I nodded.  "Obviously you've never checked her birth
certificate."

     Several emotions flickered across her face before she
decided to believe me instead of Mandy.  Her hands dropped
to her lap.  "Okay.  Why would she lie?"

     I decided to let her work out the answer.  She was a
smart girl.  "The answer to that is the date on your birth
certificate.  Think about it."

     It didn't take long.  "So that's why she wore that ugly
wedding dress.  And why all the wedding reception photos are
above the waist."

     "That's the reason.  And for the record, she caught you
in the garage, making out in the back seat of the car."

     Eyes wide, her face reddened in embarrassment for a
moment, but then the angry look returned.  "So what?  Don't
you and your boyfriends ever use the back seat?  Of a car, I
mean, not of each other."

     I let that comment slide, too, and smiled at her.
"Behind that pretty oval face, those eyebrows naturally
arched like a bird's wings, those soft brown eyes that make
Bambi's look hard as a snake's, that sensuous nose, and that
full, pouty lower lip is a brain that's just as beautiful as
your exterior.  Use it and tell me where Mandy and Marek
were when you first started the journey to this moment."

     Her eyes widened again, and she involuntarily glanced
over her shoulder.

     "In the garage, too.  Back up nine months for the
gestation period.  It was the day after our fifteenth
birthday.  Fast forward.  She has a
fifteen-year-and-one-day-old daughter being fondled by a
boy in the back of a car in the garage.  For a change, your
mother has a reason that almost makes sense.  So you see,
you're here not just as punishment for both of us, but also
because your mother doesn't want you getting pregnant at
fifteen, too.  She doesn't realize you're smarter than she
was."

     "Like, what's that supposed to mean?"

     I gave her a sideways glance.  "Allen was smart enough
to have a rubber."

     She looked totally surprised, then suspicious, then
angry.  "No, he didn't!  We were just kissing and groping.
I've never...  I mean...  I'm... Uh..."

     I shook my head.  "Cheryl, Marek found it in the
floorboard.  For the record, I got that info from him, not
from Mandy.  Allen had already ripped the foil open,
apparently not wanting to give you time to change your mind
if you said yes.  If you say you didn't know that, then I
believe you."

     She blinked.  Twice.  "No shit?"

     "No shit, there actually was a rubber.  No shit, the
foil was open.  No shit, I believe you.  Also for the
record, I'd try to discourage you from getting a tattoo
anyway, even if Mandy had okayed it, for other reasons."

     Angry was giving way to sullen now.  "Yeah?  Why?
Hepatitis?"

     "No, I'd take you to a licensed joint where disease
wouldn't be a concern.  Imperfection.  I'm sure the daughter
of Mandy Kuczynski understands that word."

     She leaned forward and pulled off her sandals before
replying.  I'd forgotten just how long and narrow the girl's
feet were.  Not to say that they were grotesque or otherwise
unattractive.  They were like mine, so they couldn't be
unattractive.  She shook her head, as if in reply to
something she'd asked herself.  "So, getting a tattoo would
make me imperfect."

     I held up an index finger and waggled it.  "MORE
imperfect according to your Mom.  Remember?"

     She had to fight to keep from grinning, but she won and
her face stayed sullen.  "Yeah."

     "No, dear.  I didn't mean it would make you personally
imperfect.  I meant that you are the prettiest of all my
nieces.  Your skin is soft and smooth and wrinkle-free.
Some might say that it's smooth as a baby's butt, which
means that they've never seen a baby with diaper rash."

     Another almost-giggle, this time distorting her face
before the glare of sullen anger returned.

     "It's a shade darker than the rest of the family's, and
it makes you look like you have a mild year-round suntan.
Unless you've added some, the only blemishes are those two
small spots on your lower back and one low in front that
won't show in any bikini bottom your mom will let you wear.
I know grown women who'd give a fortune to have your skin,
and they wouldn't spoil it with a tattoo."

     She frowned and pointed at her lap.  "How would you know
about that one?"

     I grinned at her.  "As you get older, memory is the
first thing you lose.  I bathed you and changed your diapers
enough while your parents were in night classes and Mom
babysat you.  Remember?"

     She stared sullenly from beneath her wing-like brows.
"Yeah.  I guess a queer would notice the dark spot instead
of anything else down there.  But the low back tattoo is
mostly to hide the two spots there."

     "I see."  I puckered my face in mock thought for a
moment as I checked the side and rear view mirrors, then
turned to my face to hers and morphed it into total
confusion.  "So you're saying one large unnatural blotch is
better than two small natural spots?"  I turned my face back
to the highway ahead.  "I guess I'll have to ask your mom to
explain to me why that makes sense."

     Surprisingly enough, she had to decide whether that was
a left-handed insult.  Maybe it was because the comment had
caused its desired effect of making her think.  "Did she say
I couldn't bleach my hair?"

     I had to think about that while I passed another
vehicle.  "No.  I think she started to, but she got
sidetracked when she decided to expound on some other
detail.  You've probably noticed that she does that a lot."

     "No shit."

     This time she didn't seem surprised by my failure to
react to her language.  She glared at me in silence.

     "So why do you want to bleach it?"

     She crossed her arms and stared ahead.  If she'd had
Superman's eyes, she'd have burned a hole through the
windshield.  And if she'd looked down, she'd have seen most
of her arms, but not all of them, unless Superman's x-ray
vision worked on her own body.  "You're saying I can't."

     "There you go again, telling me what I'm saying and
thinking instead of paying attention to what I actually say
and do.  Honey, you surprise me.  You weren't this much like
your mother the last time I saw you."

     The anger redoubled, then she looked like she was about
to apologize.  But her eyes hardened and she said, "It's not
fair.  You and Aunt Debbie and Sydni and Uncle Jack all got
gorgeous blue eyes and blond hair.  I got stuck with," she
lifted her right hand, extended the index finger, and spun
circles around her face, "this."

     I decided not to comment on the word, "gorgeous."
Otherwise she might retract the unintended compliment.
"So?"

     "SO?" she asked, incredulously.  "So, as you've no doubt
noticed from your boyfriends, hottie guys, especially ones
with money, prefer blonds."

     Back to the mock thought for a moment.  "Okay, let's see
if I understand.  Give me a boy's name.  Doesn't have to be
anyone you know.  I just need a name."

     The sullen face turned to me for a moment.  "Jason," she
said before glaring ahead again.

     "And another one."

     "Chad."

     "Jason and Chad are new guys in school.  Jason's family
has money, and he meets every one of your requirements for a
hottie guy.  Chad's family gets by most months.  He doesn't
even come close to being a hottie.  He's not something you'd
scrape off your shoe, he's just ordinary.  They meet you and
cousin Sydni.  Jason is all over bashful Sydni like fried
batter around a corn dog because she's a blond.  Chad finds
you interesting not just because you're attractive but
because you have the same sense of humor he has, you're
somebody he can talk to about similar interests, and you
enjoy the same activities.

     "Then one day you bleach your hair and get blue
contacts, and suddenly Jason drops Sydni like yesterday's
newspaper.  He's all over you, even though he likes
shitkicker music and you don't, he's mostly interested in
sports and you aren't, and he hates the stuffed collectible
animals that fill the shelves on that wall of your room.
But, he is a hottie with money.  So, do you now tell plain
Chad to take a hike and go for hottie Jason?"

     She blinked at me.  Twice.  "You just don't understand,"
she said, barely loud enough to be heard in the open car.
The arms re-crossed and the voice turned angrily louder.
"God, I hate you.  Almost as much as I hate me."

     "You hate yourself?  All of you, or just parts?  If so,
which parts?  Besides the three spots, hair, and eyes, I
mean.  I already know about those."

     I've always been good at getting people to tell me their
problems.  I would have been a psychologist instead of a
nature photographer, but people expect to meet psychologists
inside buildings.  It's not the patients' fault.  Why don't
psychologists understand that an outdoor setting would make
most people relax and open up?  It was working for my angry
niece.

     "Well, for a start, I hate my name.  What kind of a name
is Cheryl Kuczynski, anyway?"

     "I'm not sure about the first, but the last is Polish."

     "I know that!  Why couldn't she have married someone
with a reasonable name that I don't have to spell for
everybody?"

     "I've already answered that."

     "Oh.  Yeah.  Well, why didn't she fuck somebody with an
American last name and marry him?  Besides, they don't have
anything in common.  When they're not arguing, they're,
like, ignoring each other."

     "Because Marek Kuczynski was a hottie with money and Tim
Bell wasn't either one.  I thought you knew that.  God knows
Tim tried to get into her pants while they were dating.  But
then Marek came along and she dropped Tim like yesterday's
newspaper."

     It was several seconds before she remembered she was
angry and the stunned look of amazement was replaced by the
sullen rage.

     "Well, nobody names a girl Cheryl any more.  Why
couldn't they have named me something cool, like Tiffany or
Kendra or..."

     "How many girls named Tiffany are in your school?"

     She didn't look pleased at being interrupted.  I suppose
you know by now where she got that trait.  "I dunno.  Seven,
eight maybe."

     "How many Cheryls?"

     "Just me."  She spat out the second word like a curse.

     "So, when some guy says, 'Tiffany sure is cute,' nobody
can be sure which one he is really talking about, but when
he says 'Cheryl is a fox!' there's no question in anyone's
mind."

     "You don't understand!  It's a lame name!  It's
old-fashioned!"

     "Old fashioned?  Honey, nobody, and I mean nobody, on
this side of the Atlantic named a girl something as antique
and old-fashioned as Emma or Hermione until the Harry Potter
books and movies became a phenomenon.  Names go in cycles.
Why be the last Tiffany when you can be the first Cheryl?"

     "Cheryl's gonna become popular again?"  _Translation:
the flying saucer's about to land on the highway again?_

     "Why not?  You could always make it popular, you know."

     "No way!"

     I deliberately kept my eyes ahead.  "Is that Cheryl
speaking, or Mandy?"

     It was several seconds before she said, "Well, I hate my
body."

     "Because?"

     "Oh, please!"  She turned a hot glare on me, pissed that
she had to explain her shortcomings to an idiot who couldn't
see them for himself.  "I'm too skinny.  I got the boobs of
a ten-year-old.  I've got no hips and no ass, and my legs
are as straight as... as you aren't.  I look like a boy.  I
guess I'm perfect for you, huh?"

     "Yeah, I think you are absolutely perfect."

     That was good for another heated glare.

     "When's the last time you saw your legs?"

     "Five seconds ago.  Why?"

     "No, that was when you last _looked at_ them.  When was
the last time you _saw_ them?"  I let her frown in confusion
for a couple of seconds.  "If you're a photographer, the
difference in terms is like night and day.  I _saw_ them
when you stood up at the airport and when you got into the
car.  Cheryl, they are filling out now, and doing so nicely.
I expect there will be a world of difference in them when
you return, compared to how they were when you left."

     "Sure."

     "There's that fading memory again.  I told you I
wouldn't lie to you.  Remember?  Cheryl, there's nothing
wrong with your body."

     She turned forward, released her seatbelt, grabbed the
top of the windshield for support, and rose to her feet.
The cap blew off before she had her balance.  She yanked the
hem of her blouse up to shoulder level and yelled at an
approaching eighteen-wheeler, "_HEY!  ARE THESE BIG ENOUGH
FOR YOU?_"

     I swear I could see his eyes around his sunglasses as he
gaped at the handfuls that refused to be flattened by the
wind pressure.  He blew his horn twice before shooting past.

     Cheryl wobbled in the sudden blast of air and grabbed
the windshield top again.  I held the car steady, knowing
that anything I did could throw her over the side.

     I waited until she plunged into her seat before saying,
"I think he agrees with me that they are just fine."

     "Maybe he's a fag, too," she grumbled as she fastened
the seat belt.

     "Well, I advise you not to do that again at that next
one coming at us."

     "Why?  Does it embarrass you to see a girl's boobs?"

     "Not at all.  And I've seen yours before, remember?"

     "When you babysat me?  Yeah.  Well, they're not much
bigger now, are they?"

     I smiled at her.  Admiringly, not mockingly.  "On the
contrary, they are vastly superior now in form, size,
firmness, and attractiveness.  But the reason you shouldn't
do that again is because we'll meet that next one right in
the middle of the speed trap.  I'll be pulled over again and
ticketed because you aren't wearing a seat belt."

     She glared at me and said nothing.  I reached for the
radio knob and tuned to a local station.

     Her nose wrinkled like she'd just smelled a week-dead
calf out on the range.  "_Eeew!_  You listen to shitkicker
now?"

     "No.  I listen to the news that starts at the end of
this song."

     "Why?"  _Translation:  your IQ owes points, doesn't it?_

     "You'd be surprised what you can learn listening to the
news."

     She grumbled words I couldn't understand, slumped
against the headrest, and tried to ignite the tumbleweeds
off to our right with her heat-ray vision.  She clearly paid
no attention to the radio until she heard my name.  She sat
up and listened to the remainder of that report, then looked
at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.

     "There really was a wreck?  And you pulled that boy from
the burning car?"

     I pinched a fold of my shirt and pulled it toward her.
"This is a spare from the trunk.  I always carry two changes
of clothing because I sometimes need them when I'm working.
The one I wore out of the house this morning is the bloody
one in the plastic bag on the floor of the trunk."

     "You were telling the truth?"

     "I said I wouldn't lie to you.  I really wish you'd
remember that."

     She turned forward again and chewed her lower lip for a
few moments.  "Uncle Randy, I'm sorry I lost your cap."

     "That's okay.  I have a box of caps in the trunk.  We're
about five minutes out of the next town.  We can get another
out of the trunk or, if you don't like that logo, we can buy
you one while we're getting you some hair bleach."

     "The logo?  What was wrong with the logo?"

     "Didn't you read it?"

     She turned suspicious eyes to me.  Obviously not.  "What
did it say?"

     "_Long Studios.  Nature photography and special
assignments_."

     She stared another hole through the windshield.  "God, I
hate you."



                                Two

     I turned off the paved road, through the timber arch
that said, 'Long Ranch,' and onto the gravel that was the
extended driveway leading to the house beyond the low-rise
ridge.  At this point you'd think the house had been built
there so the ridge would block the view of the road, and
perhaps to block any road noise that might carry that far.
You'd be only partially right, though I loved the ridge
because it made the house seem that it was well-beyond the
boundaries of civilization.

     Cheryl straightened.  She lifted the bill of the green
cap embroidered with the words, '_That's MS. BITCH to you!_'
She looked over her shoulder, then turned her glare at me.
"You're shittin' me!  You live here?  This place is a
thousand miles from civilization!"

     I love it when people tell me I'm right, especially when
they put it so eloquently.

     I was sure her eyes were wide in disbelief, but I
couldn't tell because she'd fetched her sunglasses while
putting the hair bleach in her suitcase.  "Why couldn't you
live in town like you did in Phoenix?"

     "I'll show you when we get to the house.  It's just over
the rise."

     The sullen anger returned for the first time since I'd
bought her the cap and hair bleach.  "It's so you and your
boyfriends can run around naked, isn't it?"

     "It does have the advantage of total privacy."

     She slumped in the seat.  "Welcome to Brokeback Mountain
the Sequel."

     I stopped at the crest of the rise as the electrically-
operated gate closed behind us.  Mouth agape, Cheryl
unbuckled her seat belt, grasped the top of the windshield,
and rose to her feet.  To the east, in front of us, the
ground dropped away into a grassy valley with the house and
barns on the near side.  Beyond the stream that cut across
the verdant land a lush forest climbed up the western
foothills of the Rockies.  A few patches of white still
gleamed on the mountains beyond.

     I climbed out of the car and went to the other side.
Cheryl never moved.  I put my left arm around her shoulders
and pointed back toward Grand Junction with my right hand.
"Back the way we came, Colorado National Monument."  My hand
moved in a clockwise circle.  "Mountains, and over thataway
the Black Canyon of the Gunnison.  More mountains and
valleys.  To the south Mesa Verde National Park and the
cliff dwellings.  The Four Corners Area and some spectacular
slot canyons.  Plains and Desert.  Farther to the southwest
we have Grand Canyon National Park.  Glen Canyon and
Escalante National Monument.  Behind us, Canyonlands
National Park and Arches National Park.  More desert and the
Great Salt Lake.  Beyond Colorado National Monument are
Flaming Gorge and Dinosaur National Monument.  And here..."
I hugged her.  "And here in the middle of all that,
paradise.  For a nature photographer you couldn't ask for a
more ideal location."

     The awe in her voice would seem amusing to anyone not
standing there and looking at the beauty before us.  In
context it was entirely natural.  I often felt awed myself.
"How much of this is yours?"

     I pointed to and described the boundaries.  "That's a
hundred eighty acres, more or less."

     "Must have cost you a fortune," she mumbled.

     She was talking to herself instead of me, but I replied,
"I lucked out and stole it for a million and a half."

     The scenery was more than enough to slow the penetration
of any spoken words, but eventually she heard what I'd said
and turned to look at me.  "Stole it?  For _over a million
bucks?_"

     "Yeah.  I got a large break because I did the previous
owner a huge favor.  Two weeks ago I turned down an offer
for six million.  He'd started at four and was prepared to
go higher, but I convinced him that I'd no sooner sell this
ranch than I'd sell... well, you."

     Awe and disbelief warred in her voice.  It was a tie.
"Nature photographers make _that_ much money?"

     I shrugged.  "Well, I photograph more than just nature,
actually.  _National Geographic_ and the advertising
companies do pay reasonably well for my quality of output,
but this is also a working ranch.  I learned a little about
raising horses before Dad had his accident and had to sell
our ranch and we moved to Dallas.  I raise horses, too."

     "You do?  Mom never said anything about that."
_Translation:  I believe you, but how come I never heard
about it?_

     "Honey, the only one who knows what this place is really
like and all the things I actually do is Uncle Junior.  Tom,
Debbie, Mandy, and Jack haven't been out here to see for
themselves.  Debbie and Jack never even came to see me in
Phoenix.  The others listen to what Mandy assumes it's like.
They've never learned that ninety percent of what she says
is bullshit from between her ears, even though they've all
been on the receiving end of her innuendo, rumors,
speculation, and outright lies."

     I pointed.  "Those are the horse barns right..."  I
suddenly recognized a truck parked by a barn and released
her shoulders.

     "Let's go.  We might be in time for something you've
never seen before."

     "What?" she asked as I raced around the car.

     "Buena Vista is having her foal.  You might get to see
the birth of a horse."

     She dropped into her seat and wrinkled her nose.
"_Eeew!_  Isn't that _gross?_"

     I started the engine and threw the car into gear.  "It's
part of life.  You'll have a similar experience some day," I
said as we raced off down the hill.

     She gave me a sullen sideways glare.  "I don't plan on
having any horses."

     "You might think you're having one if you pop a kid as
big as Uncle Jack.  He weighed almost eleven pounds when he
was born."

     There was a brief pause while she pictured a baby that
large.  She squirmed in her seat.  "_Eeew!_   A Caesarian
section sounds better."

     I shrugged.  "The scar would be much worse than your
dark spots."

     "_Eeew!_"

     Charlie "Doc" Branson was leaving the barn as we roared
into the parking area.  He waved to let me know that
everything was okay and dropped his medical bag.  The
leather case looked far older than Doc's sixty-odd years.

     "No cause for alarm," he said as I braked.  His eyes
flickered across the front of Cheryl's cap and he grinned
before continuing.  "She was a pretty big filly, like I told
you she'd be, but mother and daughter are doing fine.
Wasn't any problem.  Diego called me just in case, was all."

     "I wasn't worried about that because they were in your
semi-capable hands.  I was hurrying because my niece here
hasn't seen a mare foaling before, even though she's from
Texas.  Cheryl Kuczynski, extraordinary niece, this is Doc
Branson, mediocre veterinarian."

     Cheryl actually smiled when she greeted him.  Maybe it
was because Doc had that kind of personality that made
everyone his best friend the moment they met.  Maybe it was
because she was grateful she didn't have to watch something
gross.

     Doc removed his battered hat.  I couldn't remember the
last time I'd seen the top of his head, but it had possessed
more and darker hair whenever it was.  He bowed.  "Well, I'm
truly honored to meet you, Miss Cheryl.  Until this very
moment I didn't know Randy's family had anyone good looking
in it.  I was afraid they all looked like him.  Now,
normally I'd take offense and correct his 'mediocre'
comment, but one look at you and I see that I truly am
mediocre in your extra-ordinary presence."

     Her smile widened, and she located where she'd stored
her manners for safekeeping.  "Thank you."

     I put one hand beside the left corner of my mouth, as if
blocking my words from him.  "Doc mostly works with cattle.
He's spent years saving up bullshit to dispense.  Watch out
for him.  He's old, but he's dangerous."

     Then I reached for the door handle and said, "Little
filly, eh?"

     Doc pulled the door open.  "Yeah.  Chestnut brown like
her dam, but with a white blaze on her forehead like her
sire, except more dainty and feminine.  Like your lovely
niece.  Cuter'n a new puppy like her, too.  You just go on
in 'n' look.  I'll escort this other beauty.  Let me get
that door for you, ma'am."

     I waited and went in with the other two.  I introduced
Cheryl to Diego Hernandez, my foreman, and Jake Matson, who
was in charge of the barns.  "Don't let Diego's size fool
you," I said as he led us to Buena Vista and her foal.  "He
may not be much bigger than a prairie dog, but he could pick
up any horse in here if he had to."

     Doc nudged Cheryl.  "And this varmint says _I'm_ the one
full of bullshit?"

     Cheryl giggled.  Then she saw the foal.  It was love at
first sight, now that the gross stuff was over with.

     Doc restrained her.  "Slowly.  Don't make her mother
nervous or frightened for her young'un.  Let me introduce
you to Buena Vista first."

     I let Doc take over and watched with Diego, who
eventually said, "She's just like my two whenever they see a
foal.  Maria says it's their mother instinct at work."

     I nodded and said in a low voice, "I'm glad to see
Cheryl inherited it, though it seems to have skipped a
generation for her."

     Diego chuckled.  I'd told him about Mandy.

     Cheryl stroked the damp white blaze on the little
filly's forehead and crooned to her in a soft voice.  She
pulled back as the foal struggled to her feet and decided to
see what Mom had to offer for her first meal.  She leaned
against Doc as he hugged her.  "What's her name?" she asked.

     Doc turned his head to me.  "The girl's definitely
smarter'n you are, varmint.  She's already worrying about a
name.  I suppose you ain't given it a thought?"

     I laughed.  "Don't be senile, you old geezer.  Well, I
guess it's too late for that.  Anyhow,  I've already thought
of the perfect name for her:  Cheryl's Blaze."

     When we eventually reached the house I still hadn't
heard another snide remark or observed one more angry glare.
I gave her the code to the door and had her unlock it to
reinforce the number in her head.  Electronic locks, backed
up with batteries while the ranch was on an automatic backup
generator system, were more practicable than key locks on
the ranch, especially with my travel schedule and the
occasional turnover in ranch hands.

     She froze inside the door.  "What the...!  I didn't
expect a log cabin to look like this on the inside!"

     I pushed her forward enough for me to enter and put her
suitcases on the floor.  "Log cabins aren't usually
two-story plus partially-finished attic, either.  Log
construction is practicable here.  It's also that much more
wall insulation."

     We took her bags to her room before I gave her the
fifty-cent tour.  "You're welcome to redecorate this room as
you like.  There's your private bathroom.  Here's your
balcony."  I opened the sliding door to the balcony and
added, "I hope you like the view."

     She followed me out.  To say the view was spectacular is
to say that the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground.  For
some reason it's more magnificent from the house than from
the ridge.  In fact, it's at its best from the house, which
tells me that the construction location wasn't randomly
chosen.

     "You'll also note that your balcony is enclosed, so you
can even out your suntan in the morning sun without being
seen from the ground.  Though I doubt anyone would notice
anyway."

     That triggered the first sideways glance since I'd named
the foal.  "The ranch hands are all faggots, too?"

     "As far as I know, they're all straight.  I meant that
these trees screen you from the ground until you're too far
away to be recognizable from the pastures.  You could stand
here stark naked and nobody out there with the horses would
know unless he had binoculars."

     Her face relaxed.  Mollified, she looked over the side.
"This place has everything but a swimming pool."

     I rested one forearm on the top of the balcony wall to
support myself and pointed to the southeast.  "Why would you
want to swim in chlorinated water?  Just beyond that little
rise the creek makes a natural pool that's perfect for
swimming.  You can see the edge of it if the water's high
with spring runoff.  But then it's cold enough to freeze
your toes off."

     She looked, then frowned.  I could hear a "_Eeew!_" in
her thoughts.  "What about the horses?"

     I pointed northeast.  "They swim over there.  Oh.  You
mean horse piss in the water?  That's downstream of the
pool.  The horses have to be concerned about you peeing in
their drinking water.  But then the stream does come down
from the woods.  Maybe you'd have to worry about bear shit."

     She sighed and blinked.  Twice.  "God, I hate you."

     I looked down over the side, then took in the meadow,
mountains, and sky.  "I buy the hair bleach you want, give
you your own room to decorate as you please, your own
balcony with a gorgeous view, and name a beautiful little
horse for you, and you hate me?"

     She sighed again.  "No, I guess not.  If you're not
lying about decorating the room."

     I said nothing, just looked at her and waited.

     "Yeah.  You said you'd tell me the truth.  Where's your
room?"

     I pointed across my body with my left hand.  "That's my
balcony."

     She frowned.  "Your room is next door to mine?  Great.
Am I going to wake up in the middle of the night and get
grossed out when I hear you doing some cowpoke through the
wall?"

     "I can guarantee that you won't hear me doing any men in
this house."

     "What about..."

     "Nor on the balcony.  Or anywhere else on the property."

     "I'm not going to look out..."

     "You won't _see_ me doing any, either.  In fact, I
guarantee that I won't do any men while you're here."

     "Promise?"

     I gave her another silent look.

     "Sorry.  After fifteen years with Mom..."

     "Believe me, I understand.  Do you want to see the rest
of the house, or do you want to stand here and enjoy the
scenery some more?  Either is perfectly fine with me.  I've
spent two hours standing on my balcony with a camera in
hand, waiting for the right instant when the light was just
perfect for a shot of that mountain and not regretting a
second of the wait."

     Cheryl looked where I pointed.  "It looks fine to me.
I'd shoot a picture right now."

     "Of course.  You're taking vacation photographs.  I was
waiting for a shot to sell."

     She brightened.  "That reminds me.  I brought my new
camera with me.  Daddy gave it to me for my birthday."

     "Yeah?"  Professional curiosity was piqued.  "What did
he get you?"

     "It's right here."  She dashed inside and opened a
suitcase.  I followed and watched her pull a small
chrome-plated hand-held gizmo out of the bag.  "This one."

     I turned it over in my hands.  "Yeah.  I thought so.
It's a FUPOS 1369."

     She frowned.  "No, I don't think so.  Yeah!  See the
name right here?  It's a..."

     "It's what I call a FUPOS 1369:  a fucked up piece of
shit for an unlucky cocksucker."

     The angry glare returned.  "It's a gift from my father!"

     "Cheryl, I'm not disputing that.  I'm simply saying that
Marek could have done a lot better for the same cost.  Would
you rather have me lie to you?"

     She blinked at me and forgot that she was angry.
"Well..."  _Translation:  you could have been more tactful._

     "I'm sorry.  Actually, the photographer is a bigger
detriment to good photography than most cameras.  Someone
who knows the limits of her camera can always do good work."

     "Yeah?"  The voice was tentative, hopeful.

     "Absolutely.  If you want me to, I'll teach you how to
use this camera to its best advantage, and I'll let you use
some of mine, too.  Deal?"

     She smiled.  She's really beautiful when she smiles,
like the view from the balcony.  "Deal."

     She seemed eager to get to the studio, but that was our
last stop on the guided house tour.

     Again she froze in the doorway and looked around.  "It's
not what I expected for a nature photographer."

     Again I carefully moved her out of my way.  "I told you
I do more than nature photography.  Like it said on the cap
you lost, 'nature photography _and special assignments_.'  I
also do portrait work and other projects on commission.
Portraits over there, macro and tech photography here,
editing and other mechanics there, darkroom over yonder..."

     "Darkroom?"  _Translation:  you're still living in the
dark ages?_

     "Contrary to popular belief, film isn't dead.  Not in my
line of work.  Electronic photography is fine for easy
editing and adjusting, but I get much better quality from
film, especially Kodachrome slide film.  I do my editing and
adjusting with lighting and exposure settings before I push
the shutter release."

     She looked skeptical at best.  Today's youth know so
little.

     "Over here.  Let me show you what I mean."  I took her
to a file cabinet and extracted a file.  "Here's a print
from an electronic camera shot."

     She took the print and examined it.  "She's beautiful."

     "I know.  See the quality of the print?"

     "Yeah."

     "That's a high-quality laser print made from the
computer's adjusted image."  I handed her another.  "This
was made from a Kodachrome transparency.  Now, the
conversion from a transparency to a print positive cost some
quality, but compare it to the other one.  See how much
better it is despite that small degradation?"

     "Yeah."  Her face brightened.  "Yeah!  I do!"

     I extracted the eight-by-ten transparency from its
envelope and put it on the lightbox.  "Now check the
original that the print was made from."  I flipped on the
light.  "The only adjustments were the lighting, aperture,
and shutter speed before I shot the picture."

     Cheryl leaned over the transparency and studied it
closely.  "Ohmigod!  She looks like she could speak to me!
Hey, wait a minute."  She straightened and looked at the
wall behind my desk.  "That's the same woman over there."
She pointed to a high-contrast black-and-white portrait in a
silver and onyx frame.

     "Yes.  Kelly Torrent.  This was from a portfolio shoot I
did in Phoenix.  She wanted to be a model.  I did several
portfolios.  We became best friends.  She's been out here to
see me several times."

     Cheryl had focused on two words.  "A model?"

     "Um hmmm.  Want to see one of her portfolios?"

     "Sure!"

                               ~ ~ ~

     When she closed the cover she looked at me in almost
reverent awe.  Quite a change from the ride out here.  "You
do great work!  Of course, it helps that she's so pretty.  I
wish I looked that good."  Her shoulders slumped and her
voice turned moody.  "I hate my looks.  I could never be a
model and have a glamorous life."

     "Cheryl," I said as I replaced the file and extracted a
folder, "there's a lot more hard work involved than glamour.
But sure you could be one.  You're prettier than she is."

     "Yeah, right."  We were back to sullen again.

     "I'm serious.  I told you I wouldn't lie to you.  Here's
a quick grab shot of what she looks like without the
lighting and make-up and accessories."

     She looked.  "No way.  I mean, she's not ugly, but this
one..."  She stared at the new picture.

     I shook my head.  "Don't be like Mandy.  Check the ear
shapes.  They're like fingerprints.  It's all make-up,
lighting, and camera angles to adjust for the imperfections
in her face."

     She frowned at the picture.  "Imperfections?"

     "Sure.  Nobody's face is perfect.  You have your own
quirks.  Look at me."

     She turned her face to me, and I raised my right hand,
fingers up, the edge down the line of her nose.  "Now, this
is exaggerated to make my point, but your face isn't a
vertical line like this."  I curled my fingers forward
slightly.  "It's curved like this, though not nearly this
much."

     I held my left hand palm down with the edge along the
line of her eyes.  "Again this is exaggerated, but your eyes
are like this."  I curved the fingers slightly upward.
"Don't worry, it's not obvious to anyone who isn't looking
for it.  But everybody's face is unsymmetrical.
Everybody's.  Put a mirror down the line of the nose, so
that you have mirror image left and right sides.  You'll
have three different faces:  the real one, the one with the
mirror-imaged left side, and the one with the mirror-imaged
right side."

     It took a few minutes and an exercise with one of my
mirrors to convince her.  "So, how would you shoot me to
hide my flaws?"

     "I can best show you by shooting a portfolio of you.
Would you like that?"

     Vanity warred with teenaged reluctance to be
photographed.  Vanity won.  "Really?"

     "Whenever you're ready."

     On our way out she stopped to look at the picture of
Kelly behind my desk again.  "She's still beautiful," she
said.

     Cheryl was right.  Kelly was beautiful, though not
Cheryl's equal.  I had many other pictures of Kelly, but
this wasn't the time to let Cheryl see most of those.



                               Three

     Dinner was interrupted before it began.  Diego stopped
by with an update on the foal and two problems that needed
decisions at my level.  Diego has virtually a free hand in
running the ranch, but he always defers to me when big money
is involved.  After the update Cheryl complained when I
asked for her help, but she shut up carried the food to the
table when I informed her that we'd have to check on the
foal right after dinner, and then again just before bedtime.

     I had to run some numbers on a spreadsheet before we
ate, although that required less than a minute after I
called it up.  Afterward I found Cheryl standing beside the
dining room table, frowning at the bottle of Beaujolais held
in one hand while the fingernails of the other slowly
scratched the back of her leg just inside the edge of her
khaki shorts.

     "Bad vintage?" I asked as I quickly scanned the table to
see if anything was missing.  Nothing was.  She didn't want
any delays getting back to the foal.

     I'd startled her.  Surprise turned to sullenness.  "You
drink this?  Don't you have any Boone's Farm?"

     "Boone's Farm?"

     She flared at me.  "What's the big deal with me having a
little wine?  It's not like I get drunk on it, you know!  We
all have a glass--just one--when I do a sleepover at...
well, when one of my friends has a sleepover party.  You're
just like Mom!"

     I smiled and said, "The birth certificate is still in my
office if you want to check it."

     "What?"  Anger turned back into the sullen attitude when
she connected.  "Oh.  Yeah.  Well, you don't want me to..."

     I took the bottle from her hand, interrupting her.  "How
do you know what I don't want?  You haven't asked, and I
haven't said."

     The look relaxed for a second while she thought, then
returned.  "Well, you acted like you didn't want me to have
any wine."

     "You need to work on your body language interpretation
skills.  I acted like I couldn't imagine you drinking
Boone's Farm.  That's like the Pepsi Cola of wines.  Have
you ever sampled a good Beaujolais like this?"

     The nose wrinkled.  _Translation:  Eeew!_  "That's a red
wine.  Red wines taste like vinegar."

     "They do?  What color is Boone's Farm?  No, wait!  I
don't want to know."  I was afraid she'd say it was green or
mauve or puce.  Whatever color that last one is.  "You're a
brunette," I said as opened the china cabinet.  "Brunettes
look like bulldogs and are as dumb as retarded cows."

     "_WHAT?_"

     I removed another wine glass before giving her a puzzled
look over my shoulder.  "You judge all red wines by one you
apparently tried, unless you inherited your mother's habit
of pronouncing judgment on things without any first-hand
knowledge whatsoever.  Okay.  I judge all brunettes by one I
knew:  Carla Tenny.  Isn't that fair?"

     "Well..." she drawled as I closed the cabinet door.  The
sullen look turned blank when she saw me holding the other
glass.  "I guess not."

     "See?  Some brunettes are quite beautiful and can be
brilliant when they take the time to think."

     She watched in silence as I opened the bottle and
sniffed the cork, but her eyes reflected the activity behind
them.  She was taking the time to think.

     I poured a taste of the Beaujolais and sipped it.
"Nicely full and fruity," I said.

     Her eyes rolled up like she was trying to look at her
own eyebrows, and she sighed.  "I suppose that's another fag
thing?  Wine snobbery?"

     "That's refreshing!  You used a term you learned from
your dad, not your mom."

     That was good enough for a return to silent anger.

     I ignored the look.  "No, it's not snobbery.  Anybody
who has a sense of smell and taste can appreciate the
difference between a bad wine and a good one.  You don't
have to concern yourself with silly things like whether the
grapes were picked before or after lunch on Tuesday.  You
merely determine how good the wine itself is."  I poured a
little in the bottom of the second glass and held it out to
her.  "Smell the bouquet first. Don't gulp it, sip it.
Notice the different tastes and the fruitiness?  It's fruity
without being sweet.  It's not vinegary and it's not as dry
as some reds."

     Her hands didn't move.  "_Eeew._"

     "Have I lied to you yet?"

     She had to think for a few seconds.  "I guess you
haven't.  Not that I can tell."

     "Then try it.  If you don't like it you may have
something else."

     At first I thought she was going to pinch her nose shut
when she took a sip.  The brown arched wings over her eyes
lifted in amazement.  "Oh!  That's not so bad."

     I nodded.  "For most people, reds are more of an
acquired taste than the whites, though I've seen some white
wine that was far worse than vinegar.  It's best to start
out with something like this and gradually learn to
appreciate the dryer reds."  I tilted the bottle into her
glass.  "You get one glassful, so make it last.  You've
indicated that you can drink responsibly.  I'm not about to
allow you to change that while you're here."

     "Whatever."  She turned to her chair.

     "Wait a second," I said as I filled my glass.  Then:  "I
propose a toast."

     She tried to look at her eyebrows again.  "The food's
getting cold."

     "Hey, you'll have to do this when you're an adult, and
it's embarrassing to do it wrong in public.  Would you
rather have me or your mom teach you how to do it properly?"
I knew Mandy wouldn't let Marek teach her because he'd not
meet her standards.

     I won by a landslide vote.

     "No, correction:  two toasts.  Okay.  Anybody can slam
glasses together, but it's considered bad form to slosh your
drink over somebody's expensive tux or shatter a glass and
splatter it everywhere.  You hold your wineglass this way,
you lift it so, you repeat the initial part of the toast, we
lightly touch the rims afterward so that the crystal rings,
and we sip.  We always sip a small amount because at most
social functions we have no idea how many windbags we'll
have to endure, and it's also bad form to run out of
beverage before the blowhards run out of blather."

     That was good enough for a smile.

     "See, I've told you two toasts, but most gasbags won't
do that.  And, of course, there's always some other gasbag
who wants to propose more toasts to grab the spotlight for
herself.  Okay?"

     She grinned like she thought I meant Mandy.  "Okay."

     "To the success of your visit.  May we both have such a
good time that none of your mother's intentions come to
pass."  I pulled my glass back as hers moved forward.
"First you say, 'To the success of my visit.'  Well, say
it."

     "To the success of my visit."  She sounded like she
meant it but didn't actually expect it to happen.

     After we clinked and sipped, I said, "To Cheryl's
Blaze."  I tried not to grin at the sudden startled, then
pleased, look on my niece's face.  "May she remain healthy
and strong, and may she have the beauty, grace, and legs of
her namesake."

     Startled struck again, but she got the first three words
out and managed the movements smoothly.

     "Let us be seated, my dear.  Our Chateaubriand grows
cold."

     After she'd tasted everything she rested an elbow on the
table and waved the fork at me like a backscratcher.  "Are
all queers good cooks like you?"

     I shrugged.  "I don't know, but I doubt it.  Are all
women good cooks like your mother?"  Despite her many flaws,
Mandy was the best cook in the family, a fact she wouldn't
let you forget, and it's not easy to outdo our mother, even
when Mom's having a bad day.

     Cheryl retreated back into thoughtful silence.  The girl
had already accomplished more introspection in one day than
she'd done the entire previous month.  She might revert back
to original form after she returned home, but for a brief
period she would be someone Marek and Mandy would not
recognize.

     She wasn't pleased with having to help with clean-up
afterward, what with her being my guest and all.  I reminded
her that she was family, not a guest, and that on a working
ranch, everyone worked.

     The sullen attitude disappeared when we headed out the
door to check on Blaze.  I was pleased that I didn't have to
remind her to greet Buena Vista first.  I gave her a section
of the apple I'd brought and told her to give it to the
mare.  She attempted to hold the end in her fingertips.  I
had her hold it in her flat palm and warned her that the
horse's lips might tickle when she took it.  I also
explained that Buena Vista wouldn't bite her.

     She flinched at the touch, but she didn't drop the apple
section.  I gave her other sections until it was gone and
then said she could greet the little filly.  She squealed
and cooed and petted the little animal.

     Buena Vista watched for a moment and then turned her
soft brown eyes to me.  Sometimes I know exactly what a
horse is thinking.  Her face said it all in unequivocal
words:  "Kids.  They're worth the trouble."

     I never argue with a horse when she's right.

     Cheryl was reluctant to leave, but she didn't argue when
I reminded her that newborn infants need their rest if they
are to remain healthy.  I showed her around the other
buildings.  She was still too awed by the foal to be
properly resentful.  We looked at the stables, checked the
horses in them, and then toured the shop, tool sheds, and
other barns.

     "And this building is the bunkhouse, where the workers
sometimes stay."

     She was two steps ahead of me.  She turned and walked
backward.  "Sometimes?"

     "Yes.  There's nobody here but us now.  They all have
families and go home at night, but in emergencies or really
bad weather most usually stay here."  I walked to the door
as I spoke and punched the lock code.  "They can usually
make it through snow on their own horses, but sometimes it's
better for them and their horses to bunk here."

     I let Cheryl enter and flipped the light switch.  "This
is it.  This sort of living and dining room combo here, that
small kitchen over there if they want to do their own
cooking, and they usually do.  They're strictly meat-and-
potatoes guys.  Canned goods are always available in the
pantry, and that small freezer is full of meats, frozen
potatoes, ice cream, and frozen apple pies."

     "Apple pies?"

     I grinned.  "Jake Matson loves them.  A la mode.  Which
is the main reason for all the ice cream.  Bunks are back
here," I swept a hand to indicate that she should go first,
"and there are two three-quarter baths, plus one full bath
at the rear for when they want to soak away aches in a tub
of hot water.

     "As you can see, they don't have individual rooms, not
even the foreman, but these partitions divide up the area
into cubicles to give them some privacy.  Each hand keeps
personal items here to make it seem more home-like.  See how
each cubicle has a clothes locker and a trunk?  I pay for
the extra clothing and toilet items in them because they do
me a favor when they stay here, even if it's sometimes for
their own convenience."

     Cheryl kept walking slowly but looked over her shoulder.
"Like when the snow's too deep to go back and forth?"

     "Sometimes, but I was thinking about Ricky Unger, next
on the left.  Sometimes he stays here to keep his wife from
shooting him.  She has a bit of a temper."

     Cheryl glanced into the cubicle and stopped, turned into
it, and angled forward, her eyes wide.  "I guess these
pictures of other women are why she wants to shoot him?"

     Stupid me!  I'd forgotten what was on the walls of
Ricky's cubicle.  "Actually," I said as I eased up behind
her, "those pictures are all of his wife."

     She stepped forward, peered intently, and tapped one
with a long forefinger.  "If there'd been a little more
light on this one you could see her teeth."

     "Well, actually, uh, there was more light at first and
no, you couldn't.  Her mouth was full at the time.  See?
This picture right here was taken next, and only the camera
has moved."

     She glanced at the picture of Penny Unger on her hands
and knees deep throating Ricky and did a slow turn, an old
silent movie staple come to life.  She frowned at me in
disbelief.  "Are you saying _you_ took these pictures?"

     I shrugged.  "That's also included in 'special
assignments.'  I took all of them."

     She sucked her upper lip between her teeth and studied
the picture of Penny riding Ricky cowgirl style.  Penny was
riding high at that instant, and it was obvious that Ricky
had no chance of landing the title role if anyone filmed
_The Johnny Wadd Story_.  Cheryl had a curious look on her
face.  Maybe she was wondering if Penny could feel that
little thing in her.  Maybe she was wondering if she could
feel it in herself.  Maybe she was comparing it to the one
in the back seat of the family car.  Maybe she...

     "Doesn't it bother you to see heteros humping?"

     Maybe I'd overlooked the obvious.  "No.  Why?  Does it
bother you?"

     "No."  Her voice sounded detached, distant, echoey, as
if speaking from the bottom of a cavern or well.  She moved
to the next picture, Penny on her hands and knees while
Ricky buttfucked her, though you couldn't tell from the
angle of the picture which hole it was in.  Angles were the
reason I took that picture:  the angle of her straight body
from the horizontal, the angle of her arm, the angle of the
"V" her breast made hanging free, the angle his straight
body made with hers.  The angles were multiples and even
fractions of the forty-five degree angle the edges of her
breast made with a bisecting line.

     I waited in silence, then finally said, "Want me to
leave you here and you can join me later?"

     She straightened and whirled on me.  She felt the heat
of her blush, and her face turned angry.  She said nothing
and stormed to the front of the bunkhouse and out the door.

     I shrugged to myself.  "I guess not."

     I checked the pantry, refrigerator, and freezer, then
turned out the lights and set the lock before leaving.  I'd
given her a moment to compose herself.  She was staring at
the tallest mountain, its peak no longer lit by the sun
below the horizon.  I pointed to it and said, "You should
see that in the fall, when those aspen have turned golden
yellow and the sun is halfway down from vertical.  It's like
a cone of saffron-colored ice cream turned upside-down.
Would you like to walk down to the stream?"

     She relaxed when she finally decided I wasn't going to
mention the pictures.  Spotting the baby rabbits foraging
for themselves helped her attitude.  When we finally reached
the creek, I turned south.  We meandered upstream, sometimes
next to the water, sometimes many yards from it, in a nature
expedition.  Cheryl was remarkably content, even happy, as
we explored and I identified various plants and showed her
how to interpret animal footprints we discovered.

     Near dusk, as we reached the swimming pool in the creek,
we froze and watched as a bull elk flowed in majestic
silence through the distant trees the way a trout would flow
through so much underwater vegetation.

     We stopped on the bank, between the stream and the small
hillock that blocked view of all but the roof of the house.
The ground was too coarse to be sand, too fine to be gravel.
I pointed to a depression and said, "Okay, let's see what
you've learned.  What animal made that track?"

     She squatted and looked at it carefully, extending a
finger to trace the outline in the air, not actually
touching it.  "I'm not sure," she said, then traced again
and hummed to herself a tune I didn't recognize.  "It looks
too big to be a dog.  Not any dog I can think of.  The pads
are wrong, too."

     "That's right."

     She twisted her head to look up at me and grinned,
pleased with herself, then examined the print some more.
"Toes, foot pad.  These look like claws." Her head shot up
in alarm to stare at where the stream emerged from the
woods.  "It's not a bear, is it?"

     I grinned when she swiveled her head to look at me.
"It's supposed to be, but it was made by _homo sapiens_.
Me.  I was practicing making a phony bear track."

     She rose to standing in one graceful lift.  She frowned
at me for tricking her and then blinked.  Twice.  "A
_smartass homo_, you mean?  Why would you make that?"

     I shrugged.  "Sometimes you can't get exactly what you
need as a nature photographer, so you cheat a little.  I'd
been swimming and was lying on my towel right there," I
pointed, "and thought of a shot I'd like to do of a polar
bear.  I thought about making a phony footprint in the
foreground for effect and was practicing.

     "Actually, that was the sixth try.  See how the ground
is smoothed around it, where I erased the earlier attempts
and started over?  My teaching point is that you shouldn't
look at just the print itself but also at the area
surrounding it.  Sometimes you get more information from the
surroundings than from the track.  For instance, it's still
smooth around it.  No raindrops have splashed down and
roughed up the ground, so you know it was made after the
last rain."

     The frown stayed put.  "But I don't know when it rained
the last time.  I wasn't here."

     "No.  But you didn't know that you needed to know,
either.  That's something you can always look up later if
you think it's important."  I smiled at her.  "I'm not
trying to trick you, I'm trying to teach you.  There's a big
difference.  If I tricked you, you'd have a bad time and
your mom would win.  If I see to it you have a good time,
then Mandy loses and we win.  See?"

     She screwed up her face in thought.  "You said you
wouldn't lie to me."  She seemed to be talking to herself,
not to me.

     "And I keep my promises," I said anyway.  "We'd better
turn back.  It will be dark by the time we get to the
house."

     She looked at the water, then turned and started walking
with me.  "Uncle Randy, how deep is the water?"

     "On you..." I straightened and looked at her.  "It's
about to your neck a couple of feet from the far side, about
knee deep at the bank on this side.  By the way, that's
another good spot to even out your tan in the afternoon if
you want.  You can't be spotted from the balconies on the
house or from anywhere else on this side of the creek."

     She turned and walked backward a few paces.  "Are any
people over there?"

     "Not for a few miles."

     She faced forward again, then slid sideways as she
walked.  Her arm snaked around my waist.  "You don't mind,
do you, Uncle Randy?" she asked.

     "Never have, never will," I said as my arm squeezed her
against me in a brief hug.

     She giggled when she remembered where she'd heard that
response before.  It had been almost ten years earlier, on a
beach in Galveston.  She'd buried me with toy bucket after
toy bucket filled with sand, then had asked the same
question when Mandy finally noticed and snapped at her for
"bothering" me.  Cheryl then asked if she'd been a bother.
I'd used the same reply then, but my gaze had been fixed on
my sister that time.

     "Is it time to check on my Blaze?"

     "No.  But it will be close enough when we get to the
house."

     "Can we take Buena Vista another apple?"

     I squeezed her shoulders again.  "Sure."

     "Cool."



                                Four

     Who'd have thought that something as simple as a newborn
horse could make such a change in a person.  I'd always said
that animals worked magic on a person's attitude, but the
little filly had passed by mere magic and moved on to
miracle-worker status.  We'd spent the remaining time until
bed discussing how quickly "her" Blaze would grow, the
training she'd receive, when she'd get her first shoes, when
she'd be ready to ride, riding in general because Cheryl had
never been on a horse, grooming, and a dozen other topics
related to the little animal and her future.

     Shortly before bed the conversation drifted to how I
used horses when I was doing nature photography, and from
there it was a short jump to photography.  As we made our
way up the broad staircase to the landing that overlooked
the family room and led to the bedrooms I promised to teach
her to ride the next day and to take her on a photo
expedition.

     She squeezed next to me and looked at me with the same
soulful brown eyes that I'd seen in Buena Vista.  "Thanks,
Uncle Randy."

     "For?"

     "For everything.  For the new cap.  For the hair bleach.
For the wine.  For Blaze's name.  For the walk.  For the
nature lesson.  For tomorrow.  For... everything."
_Translation:  for not getting upset over my being bitchy._

     I circled an arm around her supple waist.  "Would you
believe me if I said I did it all because it was to get back
at Mandy?"

     She looked at me for a moment, then smiled with those
wide, full lips and eyes sparkling with mischief.  "You said
you'd never lie to me, so if you say it, I'll believe you."

     I sighed.  "Then I guess I'd better not say it.  Do you
need anything before we turn in?"

     We stopped in front of her door.  She hesitated.  "Well,
uh, would you mind, me being a girl and all, if we had a
goodnight kiss?"

     "Never have, never will."

     That brought back the smile.  I'd kissed her goodnight
hundreds of times when I babysat her, and the comment had
reminded her.  "I was just a baby and a toddler then, and
I'm older now, I wasn't sure that you'd be okay with it
since you're...  I mean...  It's just... well, it's silly, I
know, but... well, I never go to bed without a goodnight
kiss from Dad, and..."

     "And I'm the best substitute you have."

     She looked horrorstruck. "Uncle Randy, I didn't mean it
that way!"

     "You didn't mean it as a compliment?"

     "No!  I meant..."  The high, smooth forehead wrinkled in
confusion.  "What?"

     We stopped in front of her bedroom door and faced each
other.  "Your number one choice was your father.  I was
number two, the next person after your father.  I thought
you meant that out of everyone else, you chose me.  I was
wrong?"

     "Oh.  I thought you thought I meant it was because I
didn't have anyone else to choose."

     I circled my arms around her and pulled her against me.
"There you go again, deciding what I'm thinking for me
without asking first."

     Her head tilted onto her right shoulder and the right
corner of her mouth twisted up toward her nose.  "Are you
going to be a pain like this for the rest of my visit?  What
am I going to do with you?"

     I smiled, something that required no effort.  "You could
start with that kiss."

     I believed, though I knew she'd never admit it if it
were true, that she missed her mother as well as her father.
She missed home, felt the distance of being more than a few
blocks away at a pajama party.  She wanted a small ritual of
home life to fill the void she felt.  It was brief, but I
poured into it all the love for her that I had.  I wanted
her to know that I appreciated her presence and that I
wasn't performing some ritual to appease her.

     She clung to me afterward.  "I guess I miss home more
than I thought.  I hope you don't think that means I don't
like being here."

     I heard the soft sniff that followed.  I squeezed her
against me and used one palm to smooth the still-brown hair
back from the top of her head, down her neck, and down her
shoulders.  "After you get used to a place, you miss it.  It
can be a place you love, a place you hate, or anywhere
between those extremes.  Don't forget that I'm away from
home frequently.  I know what it's like."

     "Thanks."  She didn't look up at me as she turned,
entered her room, and closed the door.  She didn't want me
to see her tears, so I ignored the ones that had soaked into
my shirt.

     It wasn't long before I heard the water running in her
shower.  She might love having the little horse named after
her, but she didn't want to go to bed smelling like it.

     I showered, too, and slept well, awakening two minutes
before the alarm.  I switched it off, dressed, and went in
search of caffeine, the paper, and television's morning news
programs.

     Cheryl slept late, despite the hour time difference.
She never had been a morning person.   I was considering
waking her when she came staggering down the staircase,
using the handrail to keep from falling.

     She was wearing a clingy turquoise lace something that
left no doubt that nothing was beneath it.  The effect was
breathtaking.  In addition to the tween legs and the perky
handfuls on her chest, she had the slightest onset of
womanly hips that made you think, "I'd bet a hundred bucks
that those weren't there yesterday."  They bracketed her
third hated dark spot and a thin sheen of curly brown that
as yet couldn't decide whether to be a vertical bar or an
upside-down triangle.  Above that was a pad of remnant baby
fat that gave definition to the flat stomach below the
slightly prominent ribs.

     The upper part of her nightwear split into two broad
bands that covered those perky handfuls and  joined in a
loop behind her neck.  I knew that it left much of the long,
lovely back exposed because Kelly Torrent had a white one
just like it.

     If Kelly could make reasonably good money as a model,
Cheryl was so beautiful and graceful that she could make a
fortune.  That didn't seem so apparent as my niece suddenly
stumbled sideways while her face disappeared behind an
open-mouthed yawn.  And in bare feet, not high heels, no
less.  But I'm a professional photographer.  I have an eye
for details and for potential and can ignore temporary
distractions.

     "Good morning!" I said in a voice as cheerful as the
birds twittering outside.

     "_Ufrumagagah_," she said while yawning again.
_Translation:  Beats me.  I'm not sure if it was "Good
morning!" or "What's so good about it?" or "Up yours."_

     She staggered to a halt in front of me, used her
fingertips to find my face, and managed to get her mouth
closed long enough to pucker for a quick peck before it
turned into another fly trap.  Technically her eyes were
open, but I couldn't tell if they were still brown, red, or
some new color that she'd invented overnight, and then they
disappeared behind the mouth again.

     "What would you like for breakfast?"

     "_Hoohragahkha_."

     "Barbecued, al dente, or over easy?  Anything is
possible on this bright and sunny day!"

     The mouth closed.  _Brown!_  For just an instant I was
able to determine that they were still brown, but then the
lids drew together into microscopic slits and she blinked.
Twice.  "God, I hate you."  She stroked her fingertips up
and down on my cheeks and dropped her hands, adding a
mumbled, "You need to shave."

     She stepped to her right--I said "stepped" because it
seemed to be a mostly-controlled movement--and pitched
forward over the arm of the couch.  Her right leg stayed on
the arm of the couch, and her right arm landed on the couch
seat.  Their opposites landed on the floor, as might have
her head had it not been attached to the willowy neck.

     I stood at the inside of her right ankle and looked for
a long moment at the strap that was barely wide enough for
the two snaps that secured it.  No, a longer moment than
that.  No, I mean a _really_ longer moment.  Finally I
asked, "Is your swimsuit a thong?"

     "Mandy Kuczynski."  It was slurred, but there was no
doubt of the actual words.

     "I realize that.  Perhaps I should have reworded the
question for the chronologically impaired.  Do you wear your
swimsuit as a thong?  I know it can be done.  I sometimes
shoot model portfolios, as you'll remember when you wake
up."

     I didn't know girls could smirk while yawning until that
moment.

     "Yeah.  Why?"

     I took one last look.  "Then I'm not the only one who
needs to shave."  While she tried to wrap her brain around
that one I turned away.  Time to search the pantry.  I
couldn't remember if we were out of _hoohragahkha_.

     We were, so I fixed her favorite instead: French toast
with homemade vanilla sugar syrup and sausage links.  I was
buttering and stacking it on her plate when I heard her
behind me.

     "What's that supposed to mean?"  She was rubbing her
fingertips on her cheeks below eyes that  were
intermittently pulled wide enough to show color.

     "Breakfast is ready.  You're checking for an answer at
the wrong end."  I pointed at her chest with the spatula.
"And you might want to put that back before you drip syrup
on it."

     She again yawned, then looked down, frowned, and finally
focused on the perky handful that had crawled into the gap
between the bands.  "Aw, damn it." The nipple suddenly
erected.  She tugged the bands straight and the visitor
partially disappeared behind the lace, where it and its twin
stayed erect.

     The frown deepened and then suddenly turned to
understanding as she hunched her hips forward and looked
lower down.  One hand shot to the very narrow strap pressed
up between her legs.  Now she was fully awake.

     "Shit!  I'm not wearing anything else!"

     "That's not true.  Milk, orange juice, hot tea, coffee,
pear juice?"

     "What?"

     "Milk, orange..."

     "Milk!  What do you mean, it's not true?"

     "The glasses are in that cabinet."  I pointed with my
head.  "I mean you're wearing the prettiest face this side
of the Rocky Mountains and above that, the softest,
loveliest rat's nest of brown hair this side of the Atlantic
Ocean.  Though the first might not be readily apparent to
anyone seeing you now for the first time."

     She drew a glass from the cabinet and said, "God, I hate
you," before closing the door.

     I set her plate on the kitchen table and couldn't help
smirking as I asked, "Even though I named a horse after
you?"

     She whirled around, somehow freeing the nipple of the
other perky handful from its confines.  "_BLAZE!_  I forgot
about her!"

     "Sit down.  I'll get the milk.  Hey, it's your first
full day on a horse ranch.  By the time you leave it will be
so ingrained that your first day back home you'll stagger
down the stairs and go looking for the stable.  Much to the
delight of the neighbors if you go out flashing those."

     She followed my eyes to their target, sighed, and tucked
the escapee away.  "Not really.  I'd never be allowed to
wear this at home."

     I grabbed the milk jug from the fridge.  "I thought it
looked new."

     She slid into her chair.  "I have one crummy old one
that sat on top in the suitcase, in case Mom looked."  She
took a bite, nodded approval, and chewed.  She was thinking,
so I stayed quiet.  Finally she said, "I wish Blaze could go
with us today."

     "Now you have a reason to visit next summer."

     "Yeah," she said, sounding like she was speaking from
Cleveland or points beyond.  I silently counted to six
before she realized how that had sounded.  The fork and its
chunk of toast froze before her mouth.  "I didn't mean that
I didn't have a reason to visit otherwise."

     "That's nice to know about someone who hates me."

     "Uncle Randy, I didn't really mean that, either.  It's
just..."

     "It's just that you've spent fifteen years being Mandy
Kuczynski's daughter and old habits are hard to break?"

     She sighed.  "I don't really hate Mom, either.  It's
just that sometimes she makes me so..."

     "Yeah," I said when she couldn't decide what to say,
"she has the same effect on me.  Hey, you're dripping
syrup!"

     She crammed the bite into her mouth, but she was too
late.  She leaned backward.  The drop landed on the right
side of her stomach, just below where the strap merged into
the body of her nightie.

     I grinned at her scowl.  "See?  I warned you that you'd
drip syrup on it if you didn't put it away."

     The scowl remained as she tried to remove the drop with
a fingertip.  "It would have been easier to clean off.  It's
soaking into the cloth.  I'll have to wash it out."

     "Then I'm extra sorry that I had you put it away."

     She'd been able to remove a portion with the fingertip.
She sucked it clean then grinned slyly at me.  "Too bad
you're a fag or you might have liked licking it off my boob
for me."

     I drained the last of that cupful of coffee.  "I must
admit that I've never had the pleasure of licking vanilla
sugar syrup off a girl's breast before."  I rose for more
coffee.  "I'm sure I'd have enjoyed it."

     The sugar rush from the syrup must have worked.  She had
enough energy to scowl a second time.  She was silent while
I refilled the cup, then asked around a mouthful of sausage
as I sat down, "Where's the washer?"

     "Basement.  Remember?  You saw it yesterday.  Of course,
you were awake then."

     A forkload of French toast halted in front of her mouth.
She blinked.  Twice.  "God, I... _shit!_"

     "That's what happens when you hate your favorite uncle."
I calculated the trajectory and estimated a landing site
near or on the hated dark spot.

     "At least it didn't land on the cloth again," she said
around the bite she was chewing.  She reached down and then
brought up a drop of syrup on a fingertip.  She sucked it
clean.

     Now you know why I wasn't good at sports.  Poor ability
to tell where the descending ball would land.

     She saw me looking at the fingertip between those soft
lips.  She sucked harder and pulled it out with a "POP!"
sound.  She gave me a sly grin.  "I guess if I was a guy,
you'd be all excited by now."

     "I'd rather have you sitting there than any guy in the
world."

     She was awake enough to generate a dubious look.  She
came fully awake when she attempted to spear the last bite
of sausage link with a quick stab of her fork.  The tines
weren't as sharp as her family's forks.  The piece rolled,
then skidded toward her, got an elevation boost from the
edge of the plate, and hit her dead center between the
straps.  At first I thought it would plunge down behind the
top of the lacy nightwear, but it bounced enough to clear
the edge and skid down the front in a trail of syrup and
grease.

     "_SHIT!_"  She pounded the table top once with the side
of her fist.  The salt shaker moved.  The kitchen table is
not flimsy, it's solid oak.  _Note to self:  do NOT get into
a karate fight with Cheryl._

     "We should get that into the washer as soon as you can
change out of it," I said.

     She sat staring at the mess for a long moment, then
spread her fingers and picked up the bite with the nails of
her forefinger and thumb.  Apparently touching it with your
skin would cause sausage leprosy.  She tossed it into her
mouth--oral tissues must be immune--and then rose, crammed
her plate and utensils into the washer, and stormed across
to the basement door.

     She waited until she was in the basement and the washer
was filling before she said anything.  That was when I
discovered there were sailors in her part of Dallas.  I
couldn't think of anyone else who might have taught her the
words she was spouting.  I took my coffee to the living room
and let her blow off steam.

     She didn't bother grabbing a towel to cover herself for
the return.  As she stormed through enroute to the stairs,
fists clenched by her thighs, I said, "Cheryl?"

     She whirled on me.  "_YOU'RE THE ONE WHO SAID YOU'D SEEN
ALL OF ME WHEN YOU BATHED ME!_"

     "Yes.  And now I'm going to say two more things.  If you
have anything else to wash with that, you might as well
throw it in now, and Blaze needs you to hurry."

     The face switched to one of memory that had resumed
functioning.  "Oh."  She scurried away.  Those saucy little
butt cheeks, which had no doubt looked like a kid's last
week, made a stimulating display as she dashed up the
stairs.  She was back in a flash--literally since she hadn't
wasted time putting anything on--carrying one handful of
what had to be feminine underthings encased in two hands.
She had an embarrassed, "You aren't here, so you can't see
this" attitude about her.  Therefore, I pretended to be
reading the paper as I watched instead how the muscles moved
under that smooth layer of tawny skin that had tan line
issues.

     It wasn't difficult guessing what she was carrying and
why she was hiding it.  It was what Mandy had insisted she
wear, and she wore it all the way to DFW.  At the departure
terminal she'd dashed into a restroom, removed her plain old
ordinary bra, and switched the "granny panties" she'd been
wearing for some racy item she'd hidden in her purse.  Her
embarrassment was that I would see what she'd been wearing
to the airport, not what she'd worn from the airport to
here.

     A guy has to learn a little when he grows up with two
sisters.

     I was pondering grain futures when she suddenly appeared
in front of me.  "Uncle Randy, how much time do I have to
wash up?"

     The curly brown of indeterminate shape wasn't all that
curly yet.  It would be when it grew a little longer, like
the soft growth that had been exposed outside the edges of
the narrow strip of her nightie.  I reluctantly ratcheted my
eyes up to hers.  "We should be there by now."

     "I'll just use a wet washcloth, then."

     I stopped her from turning away with a soft, "Hey."

     "Yeah?"  Suspicion tinted the sound.

     "You're going to learn to ride this morning.  You should
wear jeans or long pants.  The softer the cloth the better
at first."

     "Oh.  Thanks!"

     The trend in the grain futures was not good and was
something I urgently needed to study and to talk about with
Diego.  But not so urgently that I couldn't take the time to
again enjoy the spectacle of that gorgeous moon ascending
the stairs.



                                Five

     "Sore?" I asked.

     "My legs and butt hurt a little bit," she said as she
switched on her camera, "but it's not bad."  After we'd
finished with Blaze we'd spent the rest of the morning
learning to ride in the paddock and then had lunch after
she'd retrieved her things from the dryer.  Finally we had
embarked on our photography lesson.

     "No, I meant sore at me for making you ride all the way
across the valley."

     "I should be."  She scowled at the horse and then
focused that look on me.  "Are you sure Misty is the
gentlest horse you have?"

     I grinned.  "It's because of the cross-valley ride over
uneven ground, even if we didn't ride fast.  If you'd ridden
that distance around the level paddock, you wouldn't feel it
quite as much.  But if you'd ridden Buena Vista across to
here, you probably wouldn't be able to walk now."

     The scowl turned accusing.  "Buena Vista?  Are you
making fun of me?"

     I laughed and shook my head.  "No.  Some horses are like
riding a luxury automobile.  That's old Misty.  Some are
like riding an old Army jeep with busted shocks and springs.
That's Buena Vista, who's for breeding show horses, not dude
ranch rides.  That's why horses are like girls."

     The gull-wing brows pulled together and she crossed her
arms below her breasts, over the knot where she'd tied the
tails of her trendy western-cut front-buttoning blue gingham
blouse that was the latest rage in Dallas.  "What's _that_
supposed to mean?  Is it, like, some sort of queer diss for
girls?"

     "Not at all," I said, taking her camera and looking at
the controls.  _Moderate wide-angle capability, limited
zoom, macro, autoflash._  "You see it every day at school.
Some girls are merely eye candy, not much good for anything
except decorating the arm of a football jock.  Some girls
are talented, capable of running the world, but too often
could also serve as models for Halloween masks."

     "Uh huh.  And which am I, in your esteemed
_professional_ opinion?"

     "You?  Don't you know?  You're in that lucky minority
that is both beautiful and talented."

     She blinked.  Twice.  Then:  "Oh."  She uncrossed her
arms and waved one at the horses, who had moved several feet
down from the edge of the trees to graze on the lush grass.
"Uh, aren't we supposed to tie their leashes to something?"

     "Reins, not leashes.  Usually you tie the reins or use a
hobble, but not with these two.  Misty won't wander away
from us, and Durango will stay with his mother."

     "Oh."

     "Okay, today's lesson will be composition in the
viewfinder and picture exposure options.  You have macro
capability..."

     The smirk appeared.  "Is that, like, something the
doctors can cure?"

     I sighed.  "Correction.  You are in that group that is
smart, smart looking, and smartassed."

     She smiled like I'd just crowned her Miss Dallas.

     "Macro capability means you can take close-up pictures,
like flowers or insects or baby animals.  Those rabbits, for
instance?"

     "Oh!"  I had her undivided attention again.

     "We'll get to macro photography tomorrow, or maybe this
evening in the studio so that tomorrow you'll be ready to do
take some close-up nature shots first thing tomorrow.
Okay?"

     She shrugged.  "I guess.  You know what you're doing."

     I stared at her in disbelief.  "I have no idea what I
could have done to give you that idea.  Okay, let's talk
about framing your shot.  First, look around and find a
scene you want to photograph..."

     The afternoon went quickly.  Cheryl was an apt student
as long as we were doing something of interest to her, and
the photography had definitely caught her interest.  She
took a few pictures of me, even though I said portrait
photography was a future lesson.

     "Then I'll have something for comparison to see how much
I improve," she said, sounding uncomfortably like Mandy
explaining (choose-any-topic) to us ordinary dimwitted
mortals.

     I laughed.  "You assume that if the later pictures of me
are better, that it will be because of you.  Maybe it will
just be that I improved with age."

     She blinked.  Twice.  "God, I hate you."  _Translation:
Damn!  I'm not the only one who's a smartass._

     I whistled.  Misty raised her head, looked at me, and
then trotted toward us, Durango following two lengths
behind.  "Does that mean you don't want to go with me to see
Blaze?"

     She sighed.  "Okay, I'll forgive you.  This time."

     I wiped imaginary sweat from my forehead and tossed it
away with a flip of my wrist.  "That's a relief.  Remind me
to put it in my diary tonight.  Okay?"

     She blinked.  Twice.  "Would you take my picture sitting
on Misty?"

     "Sure."

     She mounted.  Not gracefully, but that would come with
practice.  By the time she left it would be as natural and
as graceful as the way she walked.  Except, of course, for
the way she walked after half-awakening every morning.  "I
want the house and barns in the background.  That means
you'll have to compensate for the brighter background
because of the afternoon sun, so show me how you do that
again."

     I walked through the steps as a teaching point and then
did it again for the actual picture.  "Ready?"

     She crossed her arms over the knot in her blouse again.
"I'm going to duck my head so that my hair hangs down in
front, then straighten and flip it back.  Okay?"

     "Yep.  I do that shot a lot, though you're the first
model whose been on horseback at the time.  You know that it
usually takes several attempts to get a good shot, don't
you?"

     "No.  But okay."

     "Let's do a couple of practice runs first so I can time
your hair movement.  You need to move the same way every
time."

     She frowned.

     "I told you a model's life wasn't all glamour.  A lot of
it is dull, boring repetition."

     She did it four times before I was satisfied.  I set the
exposure and framed the shot where I knew she'd be at the
moment I tripped the release.  "Okay."

     She leaned forward, wiggled for a moment, and said,
"Ready."

     "On zero do it exactly the same way," I said and counted
down from three.

     On zero she straightened, throwing back her hair and
pulling the untied shirt tails and the unbuttoned shirt
front  wide.

     When I lowered the camera she grinned and asked, "Ready
to do it again?"

     "Nope."

     The grin widened and she dropped the ends.  "What's the
matter?  Awww.  Does it bother Uncle Homo to see a girl's
boobs?"

     "No.  I told you that before.  And I saw them at
breakfast and survived, remember?"  I set the viewscreen to
show the last photograph and handed the camera up to her.
"I don't see how we could improve on this shot before dark."

     She looked at it and then handed the camera down to me.
"God, I hate you."  _Translation:  What does it take for me
to get to you?_

     I waved away the offer.  "It's your camera.  You keep
it.  I have enough of my own."

     "Smartass," she muttered as I mounted Durango.  I'm sure
that doesn't need translation.

     "And it's okay with me if you want to ride back like
that, but it's only fair to warn you that the guys haven't
left yet."

     She gave me a smoldering glare and then tied the shirt
tails together again.  A moment later, seemingly having
arrived at a decision, she also fastened one strategic
button.

     I was once again removed from the hate list when we
stopped at the stream and I had her tell me from the
hoofprints how many deer had come to that spot to drink.
She got it right:  three.

     By the time we'd left Blaze and returned to the house
for salad with house dressing, _filet mig�+/-on avec
champignons_, baked potatoes, steamed mixed vegetables, and
more Beaujolais wine I was again her favorite uncle.

     She didn't pretend to gripe about the post-grub cleanup.
I wasn't sure if the reason was Cheryl's Blaze or the
photography lesson or both.  Afterward we plopped down on
the couch together.  She leaned sideways and rested her head
on my shoulder.  "I had a nice day."

     "So did I.  Do you want to do learn the basics of
macrophotography tonight or just skip it?"

     Her head popped up like a prairie dog's.  "Can we?  I
mean, if it means we can shoot the baby rabbits in the
morning.  Well, not 'shoot' them but..."

     I laughed. "Go get your camera and bring it to the
studio."  The last three words were spoken to her retreating
back.  I watched her bouncing butt climb the stairs.  Her
muscle soreness was evident in her awkward movements.

     I was ready when she returned.  She was still wearing
the same tied blouse, but she'd traded the long pants for
painted-on white shorts with a single empty hip pocket,
empty because the shorts were so tight that not even a
single thickness of tissue had room enough in it.  She hit
the camera's power switch.  The screen lit up, showing the
picture of her on horseback.

     "It's set for display.  We need to set it for shooting
again and click the macro setting on.  No, wait.  Turn it
off."

     She did, and I removed the memory card.  Standard SD
memory.  I put it aside and fetched an empty card from a
stack on the shelf behind me.

     "Are you getting rid of my pictures?" she asked with
that familiar angry expression.

     "No, I'm saving them.  I don't want to overwrite them.
We'll back them up on the computer, too, and then we can
more easily note the progress of your improvement over time.
Plus I don't want to lose that last picture of you."  I took
it to the computer desk, grabbed a marker pen, and wrote
"C-01" on it.

     She grinned slyly.  "Boobs and all?"

     "Boobs and all.  Let me show you something."  I dug out
two portfolios, one of Kelly's and the one I did for Debbie
Richardson.  I flipped to vaguely similar poses in both,
then stuck the SD card in the card reader and popped
Cheryl's image onto the computer screen.  "Note that these
two were the best shots out of almost fifty and just over
seventy.  Now look at yours.  It's better, and I did it on
the first shot."

     She looked.  "I guess."

     I pointed.  "Look at the way your hair looks, like the
wind is blowing it back rather than flipped.  Now look here
at your blouse.  You pulled your arms forward a little just
before I tripped the shutter, so that the material caught
some air and bulged backward.  It looks like the wind has
caught it and is blowing it back, too.  Your eyes look
determined.  Your chin is still up slightly, and your chest
is thrust forward.  Symbolically it looks like you are
facing into the approaching storm of some unknown adversity
and are prepared to meet it.  See?  Don't look at yourself
but at what image you project.  Understand?"

     The brown gull-wings pulled together and her lips
tightened as she studied the screen.

     "Yeah."  She thought about it.  "Yeah!  I see what
you're saying.  Hey, you're good!"

     "Some of it has to do with having the right model," I
said, admiring the image on the screen, "and some of it has
to do with the fact that I'm one of the greatest
photographers of the twenty-first century, even if the rest
of the world doesn't realize it yet."

     "Now, there's one thing that you can't possibly deny,"
she said as a finger traced lines in the image without
actually touching the screen.

     "My greatness?"

     "The fact that you're Mandy Kuczynski's twin."

     I straightened.  "Your meals for the rest of the week
will be gruel and water."

     "Eh," she said dismissively.  "Tomorrow's Saturday
anyway."  She still hadn't taken her eyes off the screen.

     Maybe she'd noticed it, at least on a subconscious
level.  I waited a few seconds for it to sink in and then
asked, "Okay, what's not working in that picture?  What's
keeping you from buying the description I just gave you?
What's the inconsistency?"

     After a minute I lifted a hand to point, but she said,
"No, don't tell me.  Please, Uncle Randy?  I want to figure
it out for myself.  I understand what you mean, and I know
it's there, but I don't see it yet."

     That's the kind of student I love to teach.  "Take your
time."

     Another minute later she said, "Oh!  Well, duh!  Misty's
mane," she said, pointing at it.  "It's lying down instead
of being blown back in the wind."

     "So you admit I was right?"

     Her voice turned suspicious again.  Matching eyes turned
to look at me.  "About what?"

     "That you're both beautiful and smart."

     "Oh.  Thanks."

     "I promised I would tell you the truth, no matter how
pleasant it is.  Now," I said, reaching for the mouse, "this
is how we can correct that."

     I cropped the photo to remove the horse and saved the
cropped image to a new file.  "Now,  notice that you're no
longer centered in the photo.  Your face is closer to an
edge than the back of your head.  This plus the hair
streaming gives an impression of movement forward.  Not only
are you prepared to meet that unknown adversity, you are
moving toward it, planning to meet it on your terms, not its
terms."

     The look of wonder on her face was worthy of capture,
but I had time only to impress it in the memory of my own
mind.  "You did all that out of a quick snapshot!"

     "It wasn't planned.  Those portfolio shots were planned,
and that's why they took so long.  Serendipity happens.
Maybe if I'd had you practice one more time the actual
photograph would have left you looking sweetly vulnerable or
defiantly angry or maybe only like a Halloween decoration."

     That was good for another glare.

     "The camera freezes very tiny slices of time.  It
catches transitional expressions that our eyes don't
otherwise notice, such as eyes closed in a blink."

     "Oh."  She sighed and turned an embarrassed shade of
pink.  "Yeah, I've had a couple of those."

     Obviously there was more than just a blink involved, but
I knew asking would be foolish.  It didn't matter.  She
understood the point, and that mattered.  "This may turn out
to be my favorite photo of you.  We might spend the rest of
your time here shooting portfolio shots and not catch one as
good as this.  Or we might top it on the very next shot.
That's because good photography is an art, not a science.
Forgetting that can cause a lot of grief.  Now:  are you
ready for your macro lesson?"

     I left the cropped image on the screen.  She seemed
pleased.

     We spent almost a half-hour practicing depth of field
and framing with small objects on the table, with the camera
both hand-held and tripod-mounted.  I noticed that she was
moving stiffly, especially when she had to move her hip
joints.  At the end I said, "If you want, I'll massage the
soreness out of your leg muscles when you're ready for bed.
I recommend you first fill your tub with hot water and soak
for about twenty minutes.  Let the heat penetrate and relax
the muscles.  Then I'll massage them."

     She looked up from stuffing her camera in the carrying
case.  "That sounds good," she said with a smile, though for
an instant her face indicated that some smartass comment was
about to appear.

     "We'll do the massage on your bed so that you don't have
to navigate the stairs, straining the muscles again after
you've relaxed.  While you're soaking I'll put some heavy
towels on it so that we don't get oil on the sheets.  Then
you can just roll over and go to sleep."

     "That sounds even better.  Is it time to check on Blaze,
or can I look at those portfolios?"

     I glanced at the clock.  "We have an hour or so.  If
you'll grab those two tall chairs over there, I'll adjust
these lights as you can look at them on this work table.
Okay?"

     "Sure!"

     She studied Kelly's portfolio first.  "It looks like
this is the real her and that snapshot was one of those
frozen moments you mentioned."

     "That's why I get paid a good fee for the portfolio.
Even with someone as pretty as you it would still be a lot
of work and would require time to make the best possible
presentation for someone using it to land a job.  Portfolio
shots have to be the best of the best of the best."

     Cheryl grunted.  _Translation:  I have no idea, but it
seemed to be "I never thought of that."_  She frowned and
twisted her head to look at one shot from several angles.
"She looks sorta familiar."

     "Kelly's appeared in several local commercials on
Phoenix television, with regular appearances for five
businesses.  No local ones in Texas or Colorado, but she has
two national commercials to her credit, with a contract for
another beer commercial to be shot here after the snowfall
accumulates."

     She frowned at the picture, then at me, the picture
again, the general direction of the mountains, and me again.
Her eyes widened in recognition.  "She's the one on the skis
by that creek?"

     "Yep."  I nodded.  "Remember the upside-down ice cream
cone mountain?  That was it in the background.  Where she
slipped and her boyfriend caught her was about fifteen or
twenty feet upstream from where you counted the deer
tracks."

     "That was here?"

     "Uh huh.  If they run it again this winter, check out
that devilishly handsome guy in the blue down jacket at the
end of that group of cross-country skiers."

     Blank look until it soaked it.  Then more wide brown
eyes.  "You?"

     "Also in the background in the lounge, but that shot had
a very short depth of field, by design.  I'm so blurred Mom
wouldn't recognize me.  That waiter, by the way, was Ricky
Unger."

     "Huh.  I didn't recognize him with his clothes on."

     "Well, that was before you met his picture."

     "Yeah.  I guess...  Wait a minute!"  She looked toward
the door.  "That ski lodge..."

     "It's right out there.  The camera trick is called
forced perspective.  The lounge wasn't nearly as big as it
appeared in the commercial.  The camera blocked the entrance
to the kitchen for the shot of Kelly.  That's what
photography is all about:  letting you see something you
wouldn't otherwise see, showing you something the way you
normally see it, and making you see something that isn't
there.  It's a field with several specialized sub-fields."

     "Huh.  And both her commercials were shot here?"

     I ticked off the seven national commercials that had
been filmed on Long Ranch, then named at least a dozen of
the local and regional commercials.  "It helps that I'm a
nature photographer.  The directors and the directors of
photography tell me what type of scenery they're looking
for. I tell them whether it's worth their trouble coming
here to look, can send them shots of what I think they want,
and usually can recommend something else if I don't have
what they need."

     She looped her arm around mine and squeezed tight
against me.  "I didn't know I had an uncle who was a star on
national television," she said in a voice that sounded like
it belonged to a quarterback's arm candy.

     I preened.  "Now you do.  And I have the minimum scale
payment checks for an extra to prove it.  Of course, the
consulting fees and use of the ranch are considerably more."

     She giggled and said, "What about this other model?"

     "Debbie hasn't done any national commercials yet," I
began.  She stopped pressing against me but kept her arm
around mine and thumbed through the portfolios until we had
to make the final check of the horses for the night.

     The final check was delayed because I foolishly
attempted to leave the house without an apple for Buena
Vista and had to backtrack to the kitchen.

     Cheryl was ready for her soak and massage when we
returned.  I sent her into her bathroom with instructions to
fill the tub with water as hot as she could tolerate, and
then I fetched towels and massage oil.

     Kelly had given me an oil warmer three Christmases
earlier.  I dug it out and put it on Cheryl's bedside table,
next to the bottle of hair bleach.  I thought that was a
strange place to keep the bleach, but having grown up with
two sisters I didn't really expect it to be someplace
sensible, such as in the bathroom, either on the sink or in
the cabinet.

     I started the oil warming and noted Cheryl's soft
singing in the tub.  I couldn't make out most of the words
through the closed door, but I understood enough to realize
that it wasn't something she sang around her parents.  She
got her singing talent from Marek.  I wondered if she got
those lyrics from him, too.  I knew she didn't get them from
Mandy.

     "Time to soap and rinse," I said through the door.  The
last of the heavy towels was in place, and the spicy scent
of the warmed oil spread throughout the bedroom.  I had
another stack of towels to cover her while I worked,
trapping the heat so that her muscles didn't tense.

     When the door opened she was wearing a towel wrapped
around that long torso and a smirk on her face.  "What if I
wear just this??

     "If that's what you're going to sleep in, fine, though
you'd be better off wrapping in a dry one."

     She rolled her eyes and then draped the towel over the
door before cocking her hips and shoulders in a sassy pose.
"Maybe I'll just wear this.  Less laundry."

     "Fine.  Now get in bed before you chill and your muscles
tighten.  We're trying to make your aches better, not
worse."

     She straightened and her face blanked.  "Oh."  She
scurried to the bed and lay on her back atop the towels.

     "Turn over."

     She turned.  "I forgot.  You don't like looking at my
boobs."

     "I'll give you five hundred dollars if you can honestly
tell me when I ever said that," I said as I draped towels
over her, leaving only her head and legs exposed.  I pulled
the blanket up to cover her calves.  "You like to sleep on
your stomach.  I'll do the backs of your legs first, then
have you flip over and do the fronts.  After that you can
roll off the towels and be on your stomach for sleeping."

     She blinked.  Twice.  "Oh."  _Translation:  I'd never
have thought of that._

     "If you are a photographer, you must learn to plan
ahead.  The baby bunnies aren't going to sit still and wait
until you're eventually ready to shoot them."  I covered the
right thigh, which was closest to me, then pumped some
massage oil into my hand.  "The oil's warm, so it won't
chill the muscle and tighten it."

     She pulled her pillows together and buried her face
between them, purring happily as I spread the oil on her leg
and began squeezing.  "It will be a little rough at first to
get the soreness out, but it'll be gentler at the end to
relax you."

     "_Ha hom mm oo hmoy muhef_," she mumbled into her
pillows.  _Translation:  no clue, but I think it was
probably something in English._

     "Sure."  Apparently that wasn't the wrong reply to
whatever she'd said.

     Skin comes in a plethora of textures, from leathery to
velvety to exotically sensual.  Kelly's and Debbie's were in
the exotically sensual category.  Cheryl's was in a new
category above all the others, to the fingers what poetry is
to the ears.

     "I should massage your butt muscles, too, while I do
your hip joints," I said.

     "_Humooma_."  A word I understood!  _Translation:
Whatever._

     Cheryl is an active girl.  That's why her legs are so
slender:  they're muscle, not fat.  The same goes for her
butt, though it had a small amount of firm padding that made
its feel more sensual than her legs, something I'd not
thought possible.

     She whimpered once when my fingers pressed into the hip
joint.

     "I know," I said.  "I'm sorry.  I was trying to avoid
too much discomfort, but I underestimated how sore they are.
Too much discomfort will cause you to tense muscles already
relaxed."

     "_Hih hohay._"  _Translation:  It's okay._

     "I'll start there on your right leg."

     "_Haroo hmoy muhef?_"

     "Absolutely."  Again a correct response.  I was holding
my own in this conversation, even though I hadn't the
faintest clue of the topic.

     I cupped my right hand around the top of her left cheek
and the left hand around the junction of her thigh and her
butt, pressed in and massaged the joint with the fingertips,
and squeezed and massaged the gluteus maximus with the base
of my thumbs and heels of my hands.

     Which had the side effect of showing me places I hadn't
seen in ten or twelve years.  Baby-cute had been replaced by
another aspect of her exotically sensual appeal.

     And she'd shaved enough for wearing a thong.

     After I finished with the right leg I moved to the left
and started with the hip.  In the quiet room I noticed that
a new sound had suddenly materialized when I pulled and
separated her cheeks, a soft wet sound that didn't come from
my hands on her skin.

     I always said that a well-performed massage was
indistinguishable from an erotic experience.  I was in
danger of having it become a too-erotic experience for me
and tried to concentrate on her joints and muscles, not her
more interesting aspects.  In the relatively cool room the
heat of her body was causing air to rise, bringing with it
her incredibly erotic scent in addition to the scent of the
warm oil.

     Fortunately I was starting at the hip, not ending with
it.  I had time to get my own body back to normal by the
time I finished at her lower thigh.

     "Now," I said after I wiped away the excess oil, "when
you turn over, do so slowly.  Don't tense your legs any more
than necessary.  They're relaxed, so let's not cause then to
tighten again."

     "_Hohay._"

     I removed the towels long enough for her to turn, then
covered her body again.  I didn't want to.  The languid flow
of her body and long limbs as she turned was definitely on
the list of the top five erotic sights in my life and
probably on the top one list.  I wished I'd captured it on
film so that I could watch it again and again for decades.

     I spread the towels over her and tucked them under.
"Still warm?"

     "Yeah.  Thanks."

     "Won't be too much longer."

     Her face made a little moue of disappointment.  "Awww.
I'm in no hurry for it to end.  It feels sooo good."

     "Well, we still have two legs to go."

     She grinned happily and then turned sly as she asked,
"So, are you still absolutely enjoying yourself?"

     I needed a couple of seconds to realize she was
referring to what she'd mumbled into the pillow.  _That_ was
the topic of the question to which I'd absolutely agreed.
Well, I'd promised that I wouldn't lie to her.

     "I haven't enjoyed anything this much since...  Well,
not since Phoenix, and maybe even before that."

     "Even though I'm a girl and not a boy?"

     I covered her left leg, using one corner of the towel to
screen the beautiful distraction where her legs began.
"Have you ever petted a baby seal?  Touched a downy new
chick before it grows adult feathers?  Stroked the back of a
baby rabbit?"

     I pumped a dollop of warm oil into my hand as she said,
"No."

     "They're all very sensual experiences, and by that I
mean they appeal to the sense of touch in a very pleasing
manner."  I spread the oil on her hip and began working on
the muscles around the joint.  "It's a softness you can't
begin to describe in words except to compare one to the
other, which doesn't do you much good if the one listening
hasn't experienced any of them.  But in comparison with
something you have experienced, they're a softer, more
sensual experience than stroking Blaze's neck.  But you
wouldn't find those quite as enjoyable as stroking Blaze.
Can you guess why?"

     "No."

     "It's because you care about Blaze."

     "And you care about me," she said, drawing the right
conclusion despite some wrong assumptions.

     "Absolutely."

     "Cool."  She lay quiet for a moment, then whimpered as I
hit one particularly sore spot.

     "Sorry.  I'm trying to get the soreness out."

     "I know.  It's okay.  I know I'll feel great when you're
done."

     I hoped she wouldn't be too disappointed with the
results.  I'm a photographer, not a miracle worker.  She lay
quietly as I massaged the joint and muscles while trying not
to think about the junction of hip and body under the heels
of my hands, thoughts that again threatened personal
anatomical modifications.  I worked my way down to her knee,
the silence broken occasionally by a whimper, moan, or purr.

     When I finished I moved the towels from her left leg to
her right and pumped more oil from the warmer.

     "You're very careful to keep it hidden, aren't you?"
She'd startled me because I'd thought she'd drifted off to
sleep.

     "I'm careful to keep anything except your face and the
area I'm massaging covered, not hidden, so you'll stay warm.
I don't want you getting chilled and having your muscles
tighten."

     One corner of her mouth quirked.  "Those muscles didn't
get sore."

     "Then I won't need to massage them."

     "Allen Kirk would leave it uncovered so he could look
and then insist he had to massage it to keep the muscles
from tightening because the ones near it were sore."

     I smeared the oil around her hip.  "Allen Kirk doesn't
know what he's doing."

     "But you do?"

     "I certainly hope so."  I wasn't sure if that answer was
directed at her or at myself.  I was gradually losing the
battle to control my own body.

     She was quiet for a moment, so quiet that at one point I
could hear faint wet smacking sounds as the pulling and
twisting of the skin tugged her slit open.  She was wet, but
her surrounding area wasn't puffy from the engorgement of
arousal.  That realization led to the collapse of my
defenses and I lost control of my body to my reflexes.  Her
eyes were closed, so I used my upper forearm instead of my
oily hands to make a crucial adjustment.

     Finally, eyes still closed, she asked, "Do you think
it's ugly?"

     "By design or because of the dark spot?"

     She thought about that.  "Both."

     I finished with the hip and began working my way down
the thigh.  "The dark spot is just that:  a spot.  A tiny
one.  You could hide it under a pencil eraser with room to
spare.  In another year or so, you'll have to do some
serious shaving for anyone to see it, even in a thong.  More
shaving than you did this evening."

     She twitched a smile, pleased that I'd noticed, perhaps;
or perhaps merely amused by the comment.  Then her face
relaxed.  "What about the design?"

     "If there's anything ugly about you, it must be your
pancreas or spleen or some other internal organ I can't
see."

     Her eyes opened.  The curious expression changed to one
bordering on worry.  "Uncle Randy, I'm serious.  Are you
trying to keep from hurting my feelings because you won't
lie to me?"

     There was the proof that she believed me.  "I think the
design is magnificent.  Girls are perfectly designed, with
smooth, flowing curves everywhere.  Men are lumpy because of
muscle bulges, and then there's an opportunity to have one
smoothly flowing curve, but it's interrupted by a
ridiculously designed collection of projections."

     She grunted and twisted a skeptical expression with the
corner of her mouth.  "Smooth flowing?  Only on the surface.
Haven't you ever looked inside one?"

     "Yours."

     "Not a baby's!  Girls change as they grow older.  Things
grow at a different rate and amount."

     No argument there.  Kelly's and Debbie's twats looked
like they belonged to different species.  "You know I've
seen Penny Unger's."

     "Oh.  Yeah.  So I guess you did mean on the surface."

     "I'm proud of you.  I'd still have to explain to Mandy
which I meant.  You figured it out for yourself."  She
giggled, then turned expressionless when I said, "I'm
surprised you know so much about other girls."

     "I'm not the one who's the family homo.  I guess you've
never been in a girls' locker room for PE class, have you?"

     "Can't say I've had the pleasure, no."

     She whimpered as I found a particularly sore spot above
her knee.  She accepted my apology, then turned pensive.
"Somehow I don't see you having this conversation with Mom."

     "Me either.  I wouldn't want to anyway.  Some things you
just don't want to discuss with your sister.  You know how
that is."

     "Oh, yeah.  But you don't mind talking about it with a
niece."

     "Not 'a niece.'  Niece Cheryl.  You know, that's the
improvement of you over your mom.  I can't think of anything
I'd not want to do with you."

     She looked at me a long moment, then closed her eyes and
smiled.  "Cool."

     When I finished I dried my hands and removed the towels.
I had her roll carefully and slowly to her right until she
was face-down and then removed the towels from the bed.
That gave me the opportunity to make the lump in my pants
more comfortable while she wasn't looking.  I had her lie
still and arranged the covers over her until she was
satisfied.

     I gathered up my things and wished her a good night.
That's when she reminded me about her good night kiss.
"Don't move," I said and went to the other side of her bed
since that was the way she was facing.

     "Uncle Randy?" she asked as I reached for the light
switch by the door.  "Did you really enjoy yourself, too?
Really?"

     "Absolutely.  It was a wonderful sensual experience,
just like I explained."  I turned out the light and reached
for the door knob.

     "Huh!" she grunted in the sudden darkness.  "I guess
that explains the boner."



                                Six

     I wasn't sure if I was disappointed when she stumbled
downstairs in that robe the next morning and ordered _gah
hamaha_ for breakfast, but when she collapsed on the couch I
briefly verified that the robe was all she was wearing.
Since I was also out of _gah hamaha_, she had to settle for
bacon and eggs, hash browns, and cinnamon toast with her
orange juice.

     I sent her to her room afterward with instructions to
change into something suitable for crawling around on the
ground.  "Including a bra," I added.  "Preferably something
industrial strength like your mom wants you to wear.  You
want protection, not comfort or sex appeal."

     She paused on the first step and flashed a teasing grin.
"If I hurt myself, you'll massage them, too, won't you?"

     "Depends," I said with a shrug.  "If you're cut or
stabbed by thorns, you'll want alcohol and band aids and
probably a topical anesthetic, not a massage."

     She blinked.  Twice.  "Oh!"  She scurried up the stairs,
still moving somewhat stiffly but better than the night
before.

     We made the check of the horses.  She stroked Blaze and
cooed to her while I discussed business with Diego and Jake
for a few minutes.  Then we saddled Misty and Durango.
Ricky handed her his lucky coffee mug, something he'd never
before entrusted to anyone else that I'm aware of, and
checked her results while I took a leak.  When I returned I
said, "Go pee.  You have no idea how long we'll be, and you
can't get up and leave right in the middle of waiting."

     While she was gone I fetched a couple of ground suits
I'd created for my own crawling around.  They were a
lightweight leather combination of sleeved aprons and chaps
sewn in one piece.  I had six, two for me and four for
others who might be working with me.  The smallest of those
was too small for her; the next smallest, a little too
large.  They were adjustable enough that she could wear the
too large.  I handed it to her when she returned.

     "We'll dress in these here," I said.  "We don't want to
alarm the rabbits more than necessary by dressing on site.
They're still young enough that we can get closer to them
than to an adult before they run, but the movements involved
in dressing near the location might scare them and make them
jumpy.  Your hair will probably protect your neck from
sunburn, so you can get by with just a cap if you want, or
you can use one of these wide-brimmed camouflage hats like
I'm going to wear.  Okay, let's review the hand signs one
more time."

                               ~ ~ ~

     We left the horses a short distance away and crawled
toward the brush where Mama Rabbit had made her nest.
Surprisingly, I had no complaints from the other half of the
expedition.  Instead, she'd occasionally throw me an
excited, eager grin.  That vanished when I stopped her and
pointed to a low bush.  When she saw it was filled with
burrs the look turned anxious.

     I put my mouth next to her ear and whispered, "It's the
only one between us and the nest.  It's a landmark, too,
because it means we low-crawl the last thirty feet from
here.  Move around it, then down on your stomach and crawl
flat and slow like I taught you.  Okay?"

     She nodded.  Once we were past the burrs the grin
returned.

     The nest was under half a fallen log that was mostly
obscured by some brush.  One young rabbit sat three feet
from it, chomping a mouthful of grass.  Mama was nowhere to
be seen.  Junior stopped moving except to twitch its ears
toward us.  I whispered a soft shushing sound, and Cheryl
froze.  After a minute, when an adult would have dashed
away, the youngling resumed chewing, moving nothing but its
eyes and jaws.  Finally it dipped its head for another bite
and resumed watching us.  Several minutes later it turned
its side to us and stepped forward for another mouthful.

     Cheryl's hand moved to form a sign I'd taught her:
_Shoot?_  The rabbit's head turned and it froze again.  I
barely heard a soft, "Damn."  Two minutes later it was again
cropping grass.

     _No_, I signed, then slowly moved forward a foot.
Cheryl copied my movement with remarkable precision.  I knew
the chance of getting Cheryl as close as I could approach
alone was very slim, but it was worth the risk if I could
get her within that three-foot radius.

     It was the day for slim.  She restrained her eagerness
and slowly moved her head to check the viewfinder.  As she
tripped the shutter the young rabbit spun and dashed away.
She looked at me and whispered, "The noise wasn't that loud.
Did I do something wrong?"

     I moved a thumb to point behind us.  She looked back at
Misty approaching several feet behind us.  "I did.  I didn't
hobble the horses like I knew I should.  Let's see it."

     "Aw," she moaned after she recalled the image to the
screen.  "It's out of focus."

     "No," I said after examining the image on the little
screen.  "I think it's just motion blur, but only a tiny
amount.  I would keep this picture."

     She gave me _that_ look.  "Uncle Randy," she said in
that downsliding voice.  Translation:  _Stop patronizing
me._

     "No, I'm serious.  I said _I_ would save it.  Remember,
I'm a professional.  I take pictures to sell, but I can't
sell every one.  Some I can never sell, others I might be
able to sell some day.  I'd put this one in the 'some day'
pile.  Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a few years, maybe never,
but maybe some day I'll need a close-up picture of a
motion-blurred young rabbit to illustrate an article on...
whatever.  Motion-sickness in rabbits."

     _That_ look didn't go away.  "Motion sickness in
rabbits," she said in a voice as flat as a tortilla.
Translation:  _You think I'm five years old, don't you?_

     "Look, I don't know what I'd need it for.  As I said,
maybe I never will.  I have drawers full of film shots that
I may never sell, but among them are maybe a dozen that some
day I will.  All have been transferred to digital for
indexing and searching.  And then I have a hard drive or
three filled with electronic pictures that also may never
sell.  But if I find myself needing a focused picture of a
motion-blurred rabbit, it would be a lot easier to dig this
out of a file than to try to shoot another one."

     _That_ look softened.  "Maybe."

     "Cheryl, I didn't say I'd keep it for the mantel or
offer it for sale tomorrow.  Actually, I might keep it on
the mantel as an example of modern art."  I should have quit
when the look softened because it was returning to its
original hardness.  "But my point is that you're thinking
like a weekend vacation photographer.  I'm thinking like a
pro who gets calls like, "Do you have any pictures of a lime
green flamingo standing on one leg with the sun centered
behind it just above the horizon?"

     "Sure."  Her eyes said she couldn't believe I'd be
stupid enough to think she'd buy that excuse.  "And how
often do you get a call like that?"

     "Just the one two weeks ago from a rum distiller."

     "Really?"

     "Really."

     "And what did you say?"

     "PhotoShop."

     She frowned for a couple of seconds before it occurred
to her.  "Fake it?"

     "I've never even heard of a green flamingo, other than
the cocktail recipe they'd invented and wanted to use in an
advertisement, illustrated by that picture."

     "Oh.  Well, couldn't you fake the rabbit picture?"

     "Yes, but it would look like a fake to a professional.
There's a big difference in what's good enough out there," I
pointed to the world at large, "and what's good enough in
here."  I pointed at my chest.

     She frowned in concentration and chewed that pouty lower
lip.  "I hadn't thought about that."

     "But you're thinking about it now, and not just agreeing
and moving on to some other topic.  That's why you're
special.  Remind me to ask Marek and Mandy if I can adopt
you.  Meanwhile, come on.  We could have shot the rabbit
with a telephoto lens from a distance.  The real reason
we're doing macro is to shoot the nest."

     "The nest?"

     I grinned.  "Nature photographers shoot more than just
fuzzy animals and scaly snakes.  Suppose Doctors Hoppalott
and Whatzupdok are writing an article for _The Journal of
the American Rabbit Association_ that talks about how wild
rabbits live.  Could you write about how humans live without
talking about houses?  Well, they'd have to mention rabbit
nests at some point.  Isn't it easier to show a picture of a
house than to draw it in words?  Same holds true for rabbit
nests.

     "Now assume you have a beautiful talented niece who you
want to teach nature photography because she's shown an
interest in it.  Wouldn't it be easier to get her to crawl
across open ground and around burrs by telling her that it
was to shoot pictures of baby rabbits than by telling her it
was to shoot pictures of their nest?"

     She looked like I'd slapped her.  "Do you really think
that little of me?"

     "Are you looking through the right end of the camera?
Maybe I think that much of you."

     She blinked.  Twice.  "Oh."

     "Come on.  This is good practice, because a few weeks
ago we'd have done this to get pictures of the babies and
Mama in the nest.  And you never know what you might meet
while you're down here doing this.  I'll have to show you
some serendipitous pictures that I never planned on getting
because I was crawling toward another objective.  Remind me
to show you the thousand dollar butterfly while I'm doing
that.  Let's go."

     I had to explain that it was a picture of a butterfly
thought extinct in North America.  Some lepidopterist saw it
while looking through my butterfly collection, asked about
it, and immediately offered a grand for the photo and my
location notes and maps.  Who knew guys with literal
butterfly nets had that much money to spend?

     After the nest we spent most of our time on the ground
crawling around the stream banks, where we shot plants,
bugs, other invertebrates, and a bewildered-looking lizard
that Cheryl named "Larry."  She refused to explain the
reason for that name.

     Some pictures weren't so hot, most were what I call
vacation-quality, and one or two were excellent.  In other
words, it was much like my usual day crawling around on my
belly.  For a beginner like Cheryl I felt like putting up a
sign, "Genius at work," even though the law of averages
would have predicted that outcome for the day.  After all,
there's talent involved in being a good photographer, but
there's a hell of a lot more luck.

     The session was eventually halted by emergency signals
from Bladder Operations Central.  She insisted on riding
back to the facilities, even though I promised not to look
and even though every bounce in the saddle was a cause for
alarm for each of us.  I told myself, "If she can do it, I
can do it."  But if the facilities had been another ten feet
farther away, I might not have made it.

     She agreed to delay lunch until we reached town.  That
delay may have contributed to completion of her personal
hygiene process in record short time, even though it
included her shower.  Or, perhaps she merely turned on the
water and spun around twice in the steam escaping through
the open shower door.

                               ~ ~ ~

     I took her to Bobbi Jo's Buckskin Diner and showed her
the difference between a restaurant chain's mass-produced-
by-the-billions output, complete with stringy frozen fries,
and a genuine hand-made cheeseburger with the spices mixed
into the meat and topped with aged cheddar, accompanied by
thick, hand-sliced, unpeeled fries.  I thought she was going
to lick the plate when she finished.  Bobbi Jo said that
lots of tourists had the same reaction as Cheryl.  I'd never
noticed.  Maybe on all my other visits I'd been too busy
concentrating on the food because none of the tourists had
been as beautiful as my dining guest.

     We shopped for room redecorating supplies before heading
for groceries.  I was pleased that we didn't acquire day-glo
orange paint for the walls and purplish-black enamel for the
trim.  We settled for aquamarine paint and color-matched
curtains, bedspread, and pillow throws, along with a poster
of a boy band I'd never heard of and one of some actor of
likewise pedigree, and some picture frames of various sizes
and designs ranging from... well, I can't begin to describe
the style or design.  Most were what I'd expect a boy to
choose, a couple were what not even residents of unsound
mind at the Home for the Criminally Insane would have
chosen, and the rest were... yeah.

     When I asked what pictures she planned to put in them,
she replied, "I don't know.  I haven't taken them yet."

     Call it vanity on my part, but I took that as a
compliment.

                               ~ ~ ~

     We need a new grocery chain here.  What kind of major
grocery doesn't stock _hoohragahkha_ and _gah hamaha_?

                               ~ ~ ~

     I covered Cheryl with her blankets and kissed her good
night before gathering up the oil and towels.  I left the
warmer on her night stand because I was certain I'd need it
the next night, even if we stayed off the horses.  "Anything
else before I turn out the light?"

     "Well..."  She didn't finish the thought.

     "Yes?"

     She twisted her head to look up at me, but she didn't
move her sleek massaged and relaxed body.  "I guess I was
just wondering.  Yeah.  I have a question.  How come you got
another boner while massaging me?  I mean, you being...
well, you know."

     I inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.  I'd half-expected
something like that and, fortunately, had a response ready.
"Haven't you studied pheromones in school?  Females exude
them, males have receptors that react to them, and the
results are biochemical.  I guess it's something like
hydrogen and oxygen always making water:  chemistry is
chemistry wherever it occurs.  I suppose it would work with
homosexuals as well as with straights.  I don't know enough
about it to speak with any authority, not even whether I'm
completely right, but I think I remember that from what I've
read.  Nature photographers actually should know about these
sorts of things, but, unfortunately, I'm lacking on many of
the details.  Sorry."

     "Oh.  Okay.  Good night."

     "Good night, honey.  Tomorrow's Sunday and I sleep late
then.  I turned off your alarm to let you sleep late, too."

     "Thanks.  I love you, Uncle Randy."

     That caught me a little off guard, even though I knew
how she meant it.  Still, I thought I noticed a tiny catch
in my voice when I said, "I love you, too, Niece Cheryl."

     She yawned.  "Cool."

                               ~ ~ ~

     "_Eekawhum._"

     "Darn," I said, snapping my fingers.  "I think we're
fresh out of _eekawhum_, and I didn't see any at King
Soopers yesterday, either."

     She was yawning again.  "_Aahoe,_" she managed to squeak
as she pitched forward onto the couch.  When I didn't move
she cocked a baleful eye back over her shoulder.  "What..."
She had to pause for another yawn.  "...are you looking at?"

     I made a puzzled look with my face, but I couldn't tear
my eyes away to look at her face.  "I was just wondering,
because I don't have any experience in that area.  When my
beard starts to grow, it catches on my shirt collar and
irritates the hell out of me for a couple of days when it's
that short."  I pointed.  "Doesn't that catch on your
panties and irritate, too?"

     "Thong," she managed to get out before the next yawn
seized control.

     "Yeah, I guess so.  But, what about catching on your
jeans or shorts or whatever?"

     "Uh huh... huuuh... huuuuuuuuuuuuhhhh."  She could set a
world record for number of yawns before breakfast.  I should
start counting them.  "Maybe I shouldn't wear any today.
Wear a skirt or go skinny dipping."

     "There's nobody here but us, and anybody wanting to
visit will have to call in from the gate," I said, trying to
tear my eyes away and go look for a substitute for
_eekawhum_.  I didn't want to stop looking.  Instead, I
wanted to grab a camera and save that view forever.

     She seemed to be thinking about that, but then the next
yawn wiped the expression away, and I forced myself into the
kitchen before she had to question me about another boner
when I wasn't close enough for the pheromones to be the
answer.

     There in the pantry, right where the _eekawhum_ should
have been, sat English muffins and bagels.  I decided to
substitute the English muffins.  The bagels had holes in
them, and I didn't want them to modify my memories of the
hole I'd been admiring.

     Cheryl made it from the couch to the table in only one
yawn, but it took three to slather butter on the bottom half
of a muffin, drag some ham onto it, and drape an egg over
that.  She slapped the top on and lifted it off her plate
before she noticed me watching her.  "What?  McDonald's does
this all the time."

     "Yeah," I conceded, "but they use hard-cooked eggs.
Your over easy is already starting to drip."

     Her head sagged in a quick drop so that she could
examine her handiwork.  "Shit!"  Fortunately it had dripped
only in her plate, and that's where she quickly placed her
handful.  She sucked her fingers clean, doing so in a way
that made me glad that the table was there to prevent
embarrassing repeat questions.  "Why didn't you tell me?"

     I shrugged and reached for my coffee.  "Maybe I wanted
to watch you take your ... whatever it is you're wearing to
the laundry again.."

     Maybe it's good that I wasn't able to understand her
comment, this time because it was grumbled rather than
yawned, but I was eighty percent certain that she'd recited
an ancestry that precluded my being Mandy's brother.  And
the way her knife and fork were attacking the Drip McMuffin
helped me decide to wait for her to resume the conversation.

     She finished half before I rose for more coffee and she
chose civil discourse.  "Nobody can come here without coming
through the gate?"

     "Not unless they want to trek through a few miles of
woods and rough terrain and then climb fences.  Why?"

     That sly grin returned.  It was so much prettier than
the sullen and angry looks.  "Maybe I should even out my tan
down at the swimming pool."

     I raised my coffee cup at her in a salute.  "As one of
the most beautiful people I have ever met says, cool."

                               ~ ~ ~

     Because we'd stopped by the barn to check on Blaze
first, I had already observed that the only thing she had
under that terrycloth beach cover-up was sandals and the
earth itself.  Not that I'd have been all that surprised to
have discovered the truth at the swimming hole.  She spread
her beach towel, shucked the beach cover-up, and stretched.
I reminded myself of the physical consequences of ogling as
the muscles moved under that sleek exterior.  She stepped
out of her sandals before walking to the edge of the water
with more wiggle than I'd ever noticed before.  She looked
upstream and down before dipping a toe into the water.

     "_EEEW!_"  She jerked her foot away and simultaneously
hopped back on one foot.  She whirled around and glared at
me.  "It's cold!"

     "I know," I said.  "I usually don't go swimming for
about another two to three weeks, though sometimes I tough
it out, like just two days before you arrived.  Once I even
took a plunge on New Year's Day."

     "Am I the only one in this family with any sense?"

     "Your Uncle Tom has some.  I think he keeps it in the
garage in that green toolbox."

     She growled and threw her arms up, making her chest do
interesting thing.  "You're hopeless!"

     "No, I'm Randy.  You obviously have me confused with my
twin sister."

     She didn't want to laugh, but she lost that battle.
"Well, at least we can even out our tans."

     "We?"

     "Awww!"  She wiggled up to me and put the tip of a
forefinger under my chin.  "Is Uncle Homo afwaid I'll see
his widdle dinky?  Or see hims get anovver boner?"  The baby
talk suddenly turned harsh.  "I've seen one before, you
know."

     "No."

     "Awww!   No, which?  No, him's not afwaid I'll see it,
or no, him's not afwaid I'll see hims get a boner?"

     "No, I don't know that you've seen an erection before,
other than those pictures of Ricky's.  I heard you were
making out in the back seat, but nobody said that anyone had
any exposed naughty bits.  In fact, the impression I got was
that you were groping each other through clothing.
Therefore, I have no knowledge of your having ever seen one
before."

     Her hand dropped and the glare appeared.  "You're saying
I can't look at a boner whenever I want to," she snarled,
reminding me of that pit bull.

     "Once again we aren't paying attention.  I said no such
thing.  I can't imagine a girl as beautiful as you having to
ask more than three guys before one of them whips his out
for you.  I should think most times you'd hit gold on the
first try, even in a monastery.  But that is speculation.
When I said that I didn't know if you'd seen one, I was only
stating a fact and nothing more.  You've never sent me a
letter or message that said, 'Dear Uncle Randy, today I saw
my first boner.'  You've also never sent me one that said,
'Dear Uncle Randy, today I saw number three hundred and
seventeen,' or any number in-between."

     She blinked.  Twice.  "Oh.  Well, I've asked _you_ once,
and I'm still waiting."

     "I don't have an erection."

     For a moment I thought she was going to take that as a
challenge, but she said, "I'll keep my pheromones downwind."
Before I could decide whether I was happy or sad she
shrieked, grabbed the legs of my trunks, and yanked
downward.

     I looked down and tapped the top of her head.  She
straightened.  "That trick," I observed, "works best when
the victim isn't standing with his feet apart, so that the
trunks aren't stopped by the outspread legs."

     However, my legs had stopped them when the beltline was
halfway to my knees.  I still had no verification that she'd
ever seen one erect, but I now knew that she'd seen at least
one flaccid.

     Her body was standing erect, but her eyes were still
downcast.  She lifted her sunglasses.  "That's... uuuh...
awesome," she said.

     I shifted one foot so that gravity could finish what
she'd started.  "The difference between men and boys is the
size of their toys."

     "I don't think I've seen _boners_ that big!"

     "The boys your age are still growing," I said as I
stepped out of my shorts.  "Give them time."

     "Uuuh...  Uncle Randy?  Would, uh, you..."

     "No."

     She looked disappointed, then finally lifted her eyes to
mine.  "Well, let's spread our towels and catch some rays."
She waited for me to spread mine first, then looked around
for the spot to spread hers.  It might have been my
imagination, but I got the impression she was checking the
wind direction.

                    [Continued in Part Two]

Copyright Russell Hoisington 2008


    ************************************************************

      We who write the stories you like to read have received, and
continue to receive, a great amount of support from the people
here at ASSTR (The Alt Sex Stories Text Repository).  ASSTR's
major service is the archiving of our stories to make them
available to you, the readers.  ASSTR is a non-profit
organization and is staffed entirely by volunteers.  This
operation is costly, and the only source of operating income is
from donations.  I ask that you consider donating if you have
enjoyed my stories.  Your donation will help insure they remain
available for all to read at no cost. You can learn more about
donating, anonymously or otherwise, at this link:

      http://www.asstr-mirror.org/donations.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+