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From: Denny Wheeler <dennyw@zipcon.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP: A Prickly Situation {Hoisington} (Mf humor cons inc oral)
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Date: Sun, 04 Mar 2012 05:10:02 -0500
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A Prickly Situation
by Russell Hoisington


My sincerest thanks to Denny Wheeler for editing this story and to 
Wizard, the Night Hawk, and Old Man Ted for their input.

"It is so not fair! You and Mom and the squirt got to, like, take a 
vacation on the way to Ohio and I don't," Caysi said with a quivering, 
pouty lower lip. I'm still getting used to that name. It's what happens 
when you leave your older daughter alone in San Diego for four months. 
When the rest of us moved to Columbus in February, the name was Casey.

Okay, she wasn't exactly alone. She had stayed with my cousin and his 
wife, who were first generation Californians. At the time it had seemed 
like a good idea.

"Well, you're the one who wanted to stay here to avoid the snow," I 
replied as I tried to lift another suitcase into the back of the SUV 
without ripping off its handle. An equivalent volume of lead would have 
been lighter. I realized with sudden clarity that I was about to learn 
what a hernia felt like.

Her mother had needed twenty-three years of single life plus nine or ten 
years of marriage to cultivate the same indignant look that Casey, I 
mean Caysi, had developed in only fifteen. "Oh, please! Like, it was so 
not the weather, Dad. Like, I didn't want to leave in the middle of 
classes, you know."

I pushed the suitcase forward until it hit the back of the middle seat. 
I'd folded down the rear seats, not because I needed the extra room but 
because I didn't want all that weight concentrated at the rear of the 
vehicle. The middle would give a more stable ride and better control. If 
the engine was strong enough to move the load. I gasped for air, amazed 
that I could do so without emitting a scream. Nothing left but cosmetic 
cases, gym bags, and other small items weighing not more than a 
quarter-ton each.

"Sure. You didn't want to leave Angie, Brittany, and Amy," I said, 
wondering how she managed to squeeze an entire set of barbells in the 
cosmetic case. A man my age didn't need this much outdoor exercise at 
ten on a San Diego June morning.

Her green eyes seemed to roll up and vanish under her coppery eyebrows. 
"Angi, Brytni, and Aymi."

I scooted the case forward and gasped for air. "What?" She repeated it. 
"That's what I said."

Abby no longer could do the 'How stupid can you get?' look better than 
Casey. Caysi. "No, you went, like, 'Angie and Brittany and Amy, ' but 
it's like 'Angi, Brytni, and Aymi, ' you know."

I shook my head. Maybe the strain had busted a blood vessel in the 
hearing part of my brain. "What's the difference?"

She pronounced them both ways again, tilted her head acutely to one 
side, and arched her eyebrows in anticipation. "So, do you, like, see now?"

No way in hell. "Sounds exactly the same to me."

This time it was the look of vexation that's about equal to Abby's, 
accompanied by the arm-lifting by which Abby signified I was too 
thick-headed to ever understand.

I blinked. I remembered that sleeveless striped red blouse having short 
sleeves when I left. She turned her back to me in frustration, and I 
blinked again. "You forgot your bra."

"Daaaaaaaad!" She dropped her arms and spun to face me. "Like, you're 
not supposed to be looking at my tits, you know."

It seems we had some alterations to our vocabulary while I was gone. 
"Then why did you rip off your sleeves and forget to put on a bra if you 
don't want people looking at your boo ... your, uh, breasts?"

She did it again, this time mumbling, "Men!"

"Okay," I said to her back. I wanted to say my piece now, in case I 
didn't survive lifting the gym bag. "You'll just have to translate what 
I say into..." I didn't know what to call it. "Californese. Aren't you 
going to put a bra on before we leave?"

She dropped her arms and her head and spoke slowly. "Like, do you wanna 
call Mom and, like, have her explain it to you?" The implication was 
that maybe an old fogy female might be able to explain it to an old fogy 
male in terms he could understand.

Me call Abby? No way in hell. Abby was the one who argued for Casey ... 
Caysi ... Casey-at-the-time to go with us in February. I was the one who 
argued to leave her here.

I loaded the rest of her things into the back, the silence broken only 
by several strained grunts, three whimpers, a whine, two "Oh, shit!"s 
and one "God damn!"

I had to lean against the door to close it. I didn't have the arm 
strength to pull. "Come on. Let's go say goodbye to Phoenix." She sidled 
away from my reaching arm. Gravity took over as the last muscle died, 
and it flopped to my side. She moped around the side of the house ahead 
of me.

That was odd. She'd apparently grown during that four month stretch. I 
didn't remember the bottoms of her butt cheeks peeking out of those 
cut-offs four months earlier.

Phoenix was sunning himself next to his pool. He was the quintessential 
graying hippie surfer, clasping a cold beer in a frozen gel holder. He 
was wearing a pair of Speedos that were about as wide as a strip of 
lasagna and looked like they were smuggling a cannoli. "Hey, man, like, 
I'm totally sorry I couldn't help with the bags, you know, but my back 
is, like, killing me. It's like all I can do to stand up, you know."

Phoenix and I go way back, all the way to when he and Rainbow were my 
cousin Calvin Donatello and my neighbor Isabella Epstein growing up with 
me in Philadelphia. Maybe I should rephrase that, since only I grew up. 
Anyway, that's how I knew he was lying.

Not that I wouldn't have gotten out of hoisting Cas ... I mean, Caysi's 
bags myself if I could have. "Don't sweat it, cuz. I wouldn't want you 
to put yourself out of work any longer than necessary, especially since 
Rainbow has to work two jobs now to augment your meager unemployment. 
So, uh, when do you think you'll be able to manage a job this time?"

"I expect about another week, dude. Maybe two." He reached up a hand, 
and I shook it. Then he jiggled an index finger at Caysi. "You hang ten, 
there, Cayse. Don't take any plastic surfboards." He managed to lift his 
head and then his mirrored sunglasses to peer down at her right foot. 
"How's that ankle?"

Miss Mopey exploded out of her funk. "Oh, it's like wow! now. It's, 
like, so not hurting or burning or itching or anything, you know?"

"Like, I told you so, babe. The Inkster's totally chillin'. Got that, 
like, magic touch. Totally fine artist, too."

Ever have somebody throw a bucket of ice water at you on a hot day? 
That's how I suddenly felt. "Wait one minute!" I looked at the red rose 
above her right ankle. "Are you saying that's not one of your decals? 
That it's a tattoo? A real tattoo?"

She looked at the graffiti marring her ankle and then gave me a huge 
smile. "Chillin', isn't it?" She seemed rather upset that I didn't 
immediately agree with her.

"CALVIN!"

He grinned up at me. "Phoenix, dude."

He wanted pseudonyms, so I gave him one from high school. "QUICK DRAW!"

He glanced around. "Dude! Somebody might, like, hear that! I, like, got 
my studly image to maintain, you know."

"How could you let her get an ankle tattoo!"

"The Inkster's a friend, man. Did them totally free. Didn't cost her a 
penny, or you either."

"I don't care if they were free, how could..."

Uh oh.

"Them?"

Phoenix beamed like a new father showing off his first kid. "Yeah, dude! 
Two totally righteous pieces of work. He knows how to blend his colors, 
like, real subtle-like, you know. And both of them for free. Well, I, 
like, bought the margaritas, but The Inkster's, like, a total 
professional, dude. He won't take a drop until the job's done. Like, he 
calls it 'pride of workmanship.' Dude thinks he made that up himself." 
Phoenix shook his head. "He ain't too bright, even if he is, like, a 
totally righteous artist, you know."

"Neither is somebody who would let another man's fifteen-year-old 
daughter get a tattoo." I circled around Caysi. "I don't see another 
tattoo. Where is it?"

She looked like a toad being strangled. A pretty toad with 
copper-colored hair down to the armpits. "Daaaaaaaad! Like, there are 
some things a girl just doesn't show her father, you know."

I frowned. "There's a law against showing me a tattoo?"

I got the 'How stupid can you get?' look again. "Like, not the tattoo. 
The location, you know?"

"Location? What location?"

"Daaaaaaaad!"

"Calvin?"

"Phoe ... uuuuh ... hey, dude, it's totally her body, you know? You 
don't own a copyright on it or anything. And slavery totally ended in, 
like, eighteen ... uh, something or other, with Lincoln winning the 
Revolutionary War. Or maybe it was World War One when he righteously 
beat the not happenin' French pirates? But, like, she's got a 
fundamental right to privacy totally guaranteed by the Constitution..."

He was receding into babble, as he always did when he had no legitimate 
retort in an argument, so I ignored him. "It's somewhere I'm not 
supposed to see, yet you exposed it to this Inkstain and Calvin?"

"That's Inkster, dude."

"Shut up, Quick Draw."

"Pauly!" he whined, looking around again to see if anyone was in earshot 
of the nickname. When he found no one, he went back to nursing his beer, 
recognizing his defeat.

Caysi, however, continued alone. "It's like the Inkster is, like, a 
doctor, you know? You wouldn't, like, go to a doctor and expect him to, 
like, treat you for the clap without dropping your pants, would you, Dad?"

"You dropped your pants in front of this Inkstain and Calvin?"

"Daaaaaaaad! Phoenix was, like, the nurse assisting the surgeon, you 
know? Besides, it's not like Rainbow could because she was, like, 
working, you know."

I didn't bother pointing out the incongruity of a surgeon treating 
gonorrhea. On the other hand, if it were an advanced case and 
antibiotics were useless...

No. I was distracting myself from the issue at hand.

I recognized defeat, too. "Fine! You can show your mother, then." We 
made our goodbyes with the reclining Phoenix, whose back was too sore 
for him to stand up, and left. As I reached the front corner of the 
house I heard the rattle of the diving board and a loud splash.

I learned a couple of things those first few days. The Grand Canyon, for 
instance, was "A radical example of the consequences of environmental 
disinterest." Yes, I did ask for a translation of that, and the 
translation needed a subsequent translation. Recognize defeat and quit 
time. And I learned that Carlsbad Caverns was "A major hole," but one 
with apparently no environmental deficiencies attached. Whereas White 
Sands was "Just like snow but without that cold weather aching your 
fingers out."

I also learned that wherever this tattoo was, it didn't show when Caysi 
wore her shorty top and matching panties to bed. That is, it didn't show 
during a cursory visual inspection for owner modifications. The first 
night at a motel I scanned for it and got a, "Daaaaaaaad! Are you 
checking me out?" while I was looking for the tattoo. I don't think she 
bought the truthful answer of "No" as I rolled over in my bed and waited 
for her to turn out the light over hers.

Lights out didn't occur for several minutes because she sat on her bed 
in a lotus position, her back to me and chanted her mantra, "Ommmmmmmm." 
Which would have been okay, I guess, if she hadn't chanted it loud 
enough to keep me awake.

The next couple of days went well. For some reason she thought the Alamo 
was "Chillin'!" and didn't involve any environmental impact analysis. 
The oil wells we saw were "A stain on the fundamental testament of man", 
though she didn't mind riding past them in a large, air-conditioned SUV 
with semi-reclining seats that let her put her feet on the dash.

And then we had our usual picnic-style lunch at an interstate rest stop. 
As usual, we parked at a table near the back of the area, as far away 
from the restrooms and vending machines as possible. Something to do 
with how their layout disturbed the feng shui of the little park.

We put away the picnic materials and closed the back doors of the SUV. 
As usual, I carried the trash to the feng shui-disturbing, but 
environmentally necessary, metal bins designed for its receipt. She 
clambered over the fence and onto the adjoining property to grab 
something off the ground. Whether she was trying to beat a magpie to 
something shiny or to rescue an endangered species that was responsible 
for global warming or merely to rectify the feng shui of that corner of 
the universe, I didn't know. And I knew better than to ask. She snatched 
it up and attempted to climb back over the fence with one hand, the 
other holding whatever it was.

And lost her balance. Arms windmilling she fell backward and sat down 
hard. Whatever it was went sailing off to her right rear, and she let 
out a shriek that I could have recorded and sold to a Halloween spook 
house for good money.

She sprang up and began dusting the seat of her shorts, only to cry out 
again, this time more quietly as she jerked her hands around to look at 
them.

"DADDY!"

She had landed on a small, low bush containing a cross between 
peppercorns and porcupines. The seat of her shorts was covered with 
them, except where her left hand had pulled a swath away when she tried 
to brush them off. Those had become imbedded in her hand. Apparently it 
had happened quickly enough to keep her from also brushing with her 
right hand.

I lifted her over the fence and used a stick to scrape away the dried 
fruit from her palm. Somehow she'd avoided getting any stuck in her 
fingers. Several barbs detached and remained in her hand. She danced 
around and whimpered and chanted her new mantra, "My butt hurts!" The 
little spines were long enough to penetrate the thin cloth.

I looked around and thought for a moment. "Okay. The way we're parked, 
nobody can see the back of the vehicle from the service building or the 
main parking lot. Nobody can drive up without us seeing them coming 
because it's one-way traffic.

"I'll get the first aid kit from under your front seat while you stand 
behind the vehicle and remove your shorts. Pull them down slowly, and 
that will remove most of the stickers. I'll use tweezers to remove the 
few that are left and get those out of your hand. I think there's some 
anti-itch goo in the kit, too. Then you can put on some other shorts.

"Pull them down slowly, understand? If you jerk, the prickles will break 
off and stay in you, and well be here the rest of the day trying to get 
them out. Okay?"

She was trying to hold back tears. "I can't!"

"Okay. Do you need help pulling off your shorts?"

"No, Daddy! I mean I can't take them off! I'm not wearing underwear!"

I blinked at her. What was the right thing to say? Better yet, what was 
NOT the wrong thing? Should I mention that I would be more like a 
surgeon than Inkstain with his tattoo gun?

"Look, honey, you have a choice: you can remove your shorts and pull 
most of those prickles out of your rear, or you can ride face down on 
the back seat for two days and nights and let your mother pull them out. 
Better not drink any liquids for those two days, though, or you'll be 
pulling them down soon enough."

"Daaaaaaaad!"

I threw up my hands in frustration. "Hey, I'm flexible. I'm willing to 
go with Plan C. What is it?"

She squinted at me, wrinkling her nose with the movement. "Huh?"

"I thought so. Look, there are multiple stickers on almost every one, 
and the barbs on the stickers won't let me pull them out by pulling on 
the ... uh, the ... fruit? Berry? Burr? The main part where the prickles 
grow out from. They'll hang in the cloth and break off, and then you may 
not be able to get them out of your skin after you remove the shorts, no 
matter how carefully you try. So, choose: Plan A or Plan B."

She stood there, looking decidedly undecided. I wasn't helping by 
standing there waiting expectantly, so I excused myself to get the first 
aid kit. She opened the rear doors again as I pulled the kit from under 
the front passenger seat.

I opened it to check the contents and almost threw them everywhere when 
I jumped. I jumped because of the screech from behind the vehicle. The 
screech from behind the vehicle was caused by the shorts around her 
ankles. More precisely, it was caused by jerking down the shorts now 
lying around her ankles. Pulling slowly had hurt, so she'd panicked and 
jerked them down instead. While the sharp pain was more much intense, it 
was over almost immediately, leaving behind the nagging, itching, 
burning of a couple of hundred tiny dark points imbedded in tanned skin.

Completely tanned skin, I noticed. She stood between the open rear 
doors, her back to me, one hand cupped for privacy in front and the 
other fighting, and about to lose, a skirmish with her willpower that 
was telling it not to rub the places that hurt with the right hand that 
didn't hurt.

"Don't touch it!" I said. "You'll force them in deeper. If you do that, 
I don't know how I'll get them out." Duct tape, maybe, except we didn't 
have any.

Reluctantly, that hand joined its injured counterpart in its mission to 
provide lower cover and concealment in front.

I didn't see any skin that was untanned. Had she been sunbathing nude, 
holding her butt crack open to make sure everything tanned evenly? And I 
didn't see any tattoo, either.

"Uh, do you want me to get the thorns out of your hand or your tail first?"

Her only response was to move her left hand around to her side, then 
swing her arm back and up, and whimper softly.

I bent forward, stretched the skin taut with my left thumb and 
forefinger, and used the tweezers to remove one short black barb from 
her thumb near her wrist. This wasn't going to work. I needed a better 
angle to attack the problem. My choices were to kneel or to dislocate 
her shoulder. The latter wouldn't make her mother happy, so I knelt.

The asphalt wasn't kind to bare knees, even if it was in a shaded spot. 
I asked her to hand me the folded plastic tablecloth we'd spread over 
the picnic table. She hesitated and began to reach for it with alternate 
hands, finally deciding it would be less painful to risk humiliation and 
use the hand currently providing cover and concealment. Not that it 
mattered: I couldn't see around the wide, tanned globes in front of me.

That's not to say that she was turning into a big-butted woman. Until 
puberty she'd been like a wooden pencil. Now she was developing curves 
and bumps and dips that indicated she would turn into a clone of her 
mother. And there was nothing wrong with her mother's butt. Except, 
maybe, that Abby's had tan lines. Abby's tan lines were no more than two 
inches apart at the narrowest approach, but her butt had them.

I placed the folded plastic under my legs and took her hand to resume 
surgery. She complained when I pulled the next prickle out.

"If I stop to put the anti-itch cream on after every one I remove, we'll 
be here until breakfast."

"Well, do ... uh, something. Make it better!"

That was what she used to say when she was six and hurt. It was 
interesting the way she switched between the near-woman and the little 
girl. I couldn't think of anything else, so I did what I did for the 
little girl: I kissed the red spot where I'd removed the prickle, being 
careful not to press on the others with my lips and drive them deeper. 
"Better?" I asked, as I'd always done.

"Yeah," she said in a small voice. "Better." The near-woman was trying 
to regain control, though I heard a faint sniff.

Surgery resumed. I'd remove a few prickles, and then I'd kiss and ask if 
it was better whenever I saw the discomfort getting the better of her. I 
was at the center of her palm now, and it was especially sensitive. I 
continued, shifting my weight from time to time to adjust the strain on 
my knees. After about fifteen minutes, around the half-way point, I 
noticed that her thighs didn't quite meet before her legs joined her 
body, which caused me to notice two things: no tan lines and no tattoo. 
And no coppery-curly obstructions to the sight line, either.

I supposed that was a good sign under the circumstances. It would make 
finding the fragments of the stickers easier--I knew there were some 
because I could see them--and would make removal easier if there were no 
razor stubble. I didn't see any.

"Dad?"

I looked up. She was frowning at me over her shoulder. "You're checking 
me out again."

"No! I was looking at ... at the work left to do. At where all the 
stickers are. It's worse than I thought. The stickers, I mean. They're 
everywhere. They're all over ... everything."

I realized I was doing a Phoenix-babble and shut up. Besides, she knew 
better than I did that they were all over 'everything' as well as her butt.

To call her look 'skeptical' is to make it sound better than it actually 
was. "Don't you think you should, like, finish with my hand before you 
start enjoying the view?"

"Honey, honest! I was looking at the stickers. And, I guess, looking for 
the other tattoo. Okay, I noticed that you'd shaved ... everything ... 
but I was thinking about how that would make the finding and removal 
easier. Unless there's stubble left."

"Uh huh." She turned her head forward and shook it. It was the same tone 
and attitude I'd use with my dentist when he'd say we didn't need 
novocain because it wouldn't hurt.

"Honest!" I went after another fragment in her hand and slowly began 
removing it. "If I noticed anything it was that your butt looks like 
your mother's, but that's all."

She was silent for a moment, then spoke in a quiet voice. "You think it 
looks like Mom's?"

"Well, uh, yeah. You know. It's the same shape and size as hers at your 
age."

She whimpered when I removed the next fragment. I kissed it and asked if 
it was better.

"Uh huh. Better." She was quiet for the next couple of thorn fragments, 
so I foolishly thought she'd dropped the subject. "So," she said in the 
soft voice and the exact tone that Abby used when I was about to lose an 
argument, "you, like, saw Mom's butt when she was fifteen, did you?"

Despite the warning I said, "Yes," because I was distracted by the 
difficulty in getting a grip on a very short fragment. In fact, I didn't 
realize I'd heard the warning until she said, "So if it's, like, okay 
for you to look at Mom's butt when she's fifteen, then what's wrong with 
the Inkster seeing where he tattooed me? Like, he was doing his job, you 
know, and not being pervy getting his jollies checking me out like you 
with Mom."

I mentally ran through every expletive I knew. Twice. "Honey, I ... I 
don't know how to answer that. I can't think of the words. It's just 
different." I have to admit that I couldn't even convince myself that I 
wasn't lying. "Look, I think we're in the area where men and women don't 
communicate effectively. I can't translate it into girl-talk, and you 
don't understand man-speak yet. Maybe we should just wait and let your 
mother explain it."

"Uh huh." That downbeat tone again.

She was quiet until I said, "Only three more to go in your hand."

I expected anything except, "So, who has the better butt, me or Mom?"

Once again I had to wonder whether anything was not the wrong thing to 
say. I knew how competitive daughters were at this age. I was born 
between two sisters. If I said Abby did, then it would be an insult and 
maybe an injury to her self-esteem. If I said she did, then I was saying 
that I had been 'checking her out.'

"Well, if it looks like your Mother's at your age, then neither one 
looks better than the other."

"That is so not an answer."

No, but I was hoping that she'd think it was. Stupid me. That trick 
never worked with Abby, either. Maybe I should try an honest approach. 
"Honey, I don't know how to answer that without getting myself in 
trouble either way because you can misinterpret whatever I say."

"You're saying it's, like, Mom, then." Disappointment.

Okay, then Abby was the worst of the bad choices, and honesty wasn't the 
best policy.

"I didn't say that. See? You misinterpreted that, too."

"So you think mine is better?" Neutrality.

"Two to go. That's not what I said either. If I say it's yours, then 
you'll accuse me of checking you out again."

She said nothing.

I flicked a fragment from the tweezers. "Last one."

"Dad? I promise I won't get mad or, like, accuse you of being pervy or 
whatever."

"Well," I said, as she twitched her hand and I lost the grip on the 
spine fragment, "guess I'd have to say that since your mother's wasn't 
full of thorns, hers looked better."

"Uh huh. But, what if I, like, didn't have the thorns?" Hopefulness.

Okay, she was fishing for a compliment. "Maybe yours is just a teensy 
bit better."

"Uh huh." This time it was an upbeat sound. "Like, thanks."

"Done," I said, kissing her hand. "Better?"

"Yeah. Better. Except it, like, really itches."

I fished the tube of anesthetic goo out of the first aid kit and held it 
up for her. "If you rub this in yourself, I can get to work on the rest 
of them sooner. They have to be burning and itching pretty bad, too."

"Yeah. Um, Dad? I guess it's okay if you see my other tattoo."

She turned before I could reply. She hadn't completely shaved. She'd 
left a coppery postage-stamp-sized patch at the top of her crease. It 
was notched in one corner, and the notch held a tattoo of a small 
stick-figure man pushing a stick-figure lawn mower.

"Whose idea was the design?" I asked.

"Uh..." She had suddenly turned bashful. "Phoenix went, 'There's, like, 
room to cut a notch and have Inkster tattoo in this design I saw.' He'd 
seen the design on some website. So, when he did my ankle, I, like, had 
him do that one, too."

Phoenix. I suspected as much, since I saw no tan lines here, either.

"So, like, do you like it?" Hopefulness again.

"Honey, I don't like any tattoos, okay? It's just ... Look, can we talk 
about this later? Unless you like having those stickers in your skin?"

"Oh! Okay. Like, later." She turned around, and I pondered where to 
begin while she smeared the anti-itch goo in her hand and rubbed it in. 
Every place seemed like a worse place to start than the others.

"Dad, are you checking out my butt again?"

I glanced up. She was frowning over shoulder at me. "Honey, I told you. 
Well, actually, I guess maybe in this case I am. I'm checking out the 
best place to start. I'm not sure where to begin because everywhere 
looks like I might make it worse if my hands move wrong."

"Well," she said in Abby's patient 'It's a good thing you have a woman 
to think for you' voice, "then just start anywhere. Just hurry. It 
hurts, you know, and it's itching, too."

I shrugged. Out of the mouths of babes. "Okay. Here we go." I decided 
I'd just work my way from left to right. "You know I need to use one 
hand to stretch the skin while I pull, the way I did with your hand?"

"Daaaaaaaad! Hurry uuuuuuuup!" A tear crept out of one eye. I finally 
realized that she'd been hiding pain behind her brave voice.

"Okay," I said as I isolated one sticker between fingertip and thumb, 
spreading them slightly and grasping the dry invader with the tweezer 
tips. "I was trying to make sure I didn't get accused of feeling up your 
butt."

"No," she said in a small voice. "Not if you make it feel better. I 
promise."

The second time I adjusted the plastic tablecloth she again looked over 
her shoulder at me. "I'm sorry. I so forgot about your bad knees," she 
said. "I can, like, put those pillows on the back floor of the car here 
and kneel on them. Then you can stand up and work."

"That's a great idea," I said, thinking only about my knees. A minute 
later I saw the problem with her idea. With her on her hands and knees 
in the back of the SUV, butt facing outward, the problem was winking at 
me. However, there was a plus side of sorts: I finally found tan lines.

I placed my little fingers to steady my hands and stretched the skin for 
the next prickle.

"Dad?" I barely heard the quiet word.

"Yes, honey?"

"It hurts," she whined. "Make it better."

Great. This one was so short I could barely get a grip on it. "I'm 
working as fast as I can without making it worse, sweetie." Fortunately 
these were good tweezers. I had others that wouldn't be able to get any 
grip on the tiny piece remaining above the surface.

"No! Make it better like you did my haaaaaaaand."

"That's what I'm..." The tiny fragment came out as I realized what she 
meant. "Uh ... honey, I don't think Mom would like it if I kissed it."

"You kissed my hand."

"Sweetie, your hand isn't your butt. There's a difference."

"Wouldn't you kiss Mom's?"

I caught another prickle and slowly pulled. "Yes, but she's my wife."

"But I'm your daughter."

"That's the problem."

"Well..." She thought for a moment. "Mom's not here. You don't have to 
tell her. Daaaaaaaad! It hurts! Make it better?"

For a second I thought this one had broken off and left some under the 
tanned skin. I checked closely. No, I'd gotten it all. 'What the hell?' 
I thought and gave the cleared spot a drive-by kissing.

"See? That, like, didn't kill you, and it, like, made it better." It was 
that combination 'Thank you' and 'I was right all along' sound that I 
once thought was unique to Abby. I know now that it's something all 
women can do. Casey used it by age four. Caysi had perfected it and 
could give her mother lessons.

"Just don't tell your mother. Or anyone else. I mean it. Anyone."

"I won't even tell Phoenix and Rainbow."

"Especially Phoenix and Rainbow."

By the time I'd cleared half of the left cheek, I discovered that I was 
looking forward to 'making it better.' And instead of answering 
"Better," she was now saying, "Much better." I reminded myself that it 
might look like Abby's butt, but it was Casey's. Caysi's. My daughter's.

By the time I reached the last inch on the left I was having to hold my 
breath when I 'made it better.' Caysi was definitely female, and 
breathing in not only reminded me of that, it stirred feelings I'd best 
leave unstirred with anyone except Abby. Which meant I was close to 
passing out from oxygen loss, because she was now asking me to 'make it 
better' after I removed no more than three or four more of the prickly 
barbs.

However, I realized my own emotional discomfort was nothing compared to 
her physical one. If the distraction helped her cope with the burning 
pain and itch, then it was a small price to pay to help. I had been 
thinking about myself and not about her. That was how Calvin the Phoenix 
acted. I was better than that. Whenever she asked, I 'made it better.'

The wind died. Not that there was much to begin with, but it had been 
enough, assisted by the shade from the trees, to provide a little 
cooling. Caysi's sweating made it more difficult to get a grip on the 
fragments, but I'd managed to avoid leaving any pieces imbedded.

"Last six on this side," I said.

"Make it better?" She sounded as if she were holding back tears.

I didn't bother holding my breath. In the still air it was impossible to 
ignore that she was female, no matter how tightly I focused my vision. 
Although, seven barbs from that point, no amount of focus would allow me 
to ignore that fact. I was already at the line where the tan lines 
should have been. There wouldn't be any 'making it better' for the next 
... I counted them as I braced my hands with my little fingers ... 
eighteen prickles.

"Dad? My hand's starting to burn again."

"Use more of the goop." Five to go.

"What if we run out?"

"We buy another tube."

"You don't have to buy a whole new first aid kit to get more?" I figured 
her tone was the same one Einstein used when he got down to 'E equals M 
C-squared' on the blackboard and said, "You mean that's it?" Apparently 
her environmentalism education didn't cover buying replacement parts 
instead of buying a new assemblage and discarding the remaining useful 
components of the old one.

"It's the environmentally responsible thing to do," I said.

"Oh! Like, wow! That's a chillin' idea!"

Yeah, groovy. But that plus smearing more of the anti-itch goo on her 
hand had taken her mind off the pain in her butt for a few moments.

Technically speaking, the last two prickles weren't in her butt. They 
were right on the dividing line, and there was no way I could get them 
out without using either an unsteady grip on the tweezers or touching 
Forbidden Territory. That was what my father called it. You could hear 
the capital letters in his voice, building a fence around areas where 
men should not venture without the sanction of marriage.

I would have to touch it anyway, because her butt wasn't the only thing 
that was like her mother's. Abby's outer lips were broad and soft, 
unlike those of ... well, let's not talk about who or how I knew about 
the way she was built. But Caysi's were just like her mother's.

I cleared my throat. "Honey, I guess you know that I'm going to have to 
touch more than just your butt to get the stickers out."

"I know."

"I just want to be sure you don't think..."

"You aren't being pervy, you're making it better! I know. I don't care 
what you touch, just hurry! It's getting worse."

As I pulled the second one free, she said, "Someone's coming."

If it had been Abby instead of Caysi, I'd have made a crude joke. But a 
car was approaching along the one-way loop. One with a red-and-blue 
light bar across the top and a nice young man in a state patrol uniform 
behind the wheel.

He stopped and rolled down his window. "I noticed y'all been here a 
while," he said in a warm western accent. "Y'all got a problem?" This 
was a 'no camping' picnic area, and the obviously thought we were about 
to set up camp.

"Unfortunately," I said, taking her shorts with me to his car. I 
explained what had happened.

"Maybe next time she'll observe them 'No Trespassing' signs. You know, 
when I was growing up on a farm 'bout sixty mile from here, we called 
them thangs 'little devils' 'cause they hurt like hell. I got into 'em 
bad three times. I kin understand her yankin' them off, but I know from 
experience that it's the wrong thang to do. Leastwise, you're using 
tweezers. My father tried duct tape once, unfortunately on me, not 
himself. Now, you know to pull slowly and not break off any?"

When I assured him that I did, he raised his voice and asked Caysi if 
she was okay.

Caysi straightened and rose to look at him over the top of a rear door. 
"No! My butt hurts!"

He gave me an odd grin. "Don't break any off, but you go as fast as you 
kin. The pain gets worse with time until you get 'em out, and then it's 
going to be uncomfortable for three, four days. I recommend Caladryl 
lotion for that--any supermarket or drug store will have it--but have her 
sit on a towel. If she sweats it through her shorts, it'll permanently 
stain some seat covers. Good luck. Good bye, Miss!"

He drove off. I turned around and understood his grin. He could see 
through the side window. I wondered if he could make out the details of 
the second tattoo.

"Daddy, can you put some goop on the left side now?"

"Sure."

She began unscrewing the cap herself. "Make it all better first?"

I thought of two arguments, but I'd already made it better as I went. 
I'd lose the arguments and waste the time. So, I made all of it better 
and asked for the anti-itch goo.

Instead of handing the tube to me she said, "You missed those last ones."

"Casey! You know where those were located."

"It's Caysi." I pronounce them the same, no matter now I spell it in my 
head, but somehow she recognized what spelling I thought. "You kissed 
the others and made them better."

"Yeah, well, it's bad enough that I kissed your butt, but now we're 
talking about ... about a place next to your ... your..."

She frowned over shoulder at me. "My what? My vagina? My vulva? My box? 
My pussy? My cunt? My bearded clam? My fertile crescent? My temple of 
love? Daaaaaaaad! It's, like, you know, all me. It's not, like, some 
stranger's. And it hurts! Please? Make it better? And then, like, put 
some goop on it for me?" Her voice shifted into a whine. "You'd do it if 
you loved me!"

That argument. That was a surprise. Always before it had been used when 
she wanted me to spend more than what I thought was a prudent amount on 
some object she had to have right then, but would discard before the 
week was out. It was a main weapon in that arsenal, so she didn't waste 
it on lesser wants. I started to speak, then noticed the tears in her eyes.

"Pleeeeeeeease?"

As I made it better I received a sudden reminder that it had been a week 
since Abby gave me that 'one for the road' quickie sitting on a kitchen 
cabinet while our younger daughter watched television in the den.

I forced the thought out of my mind and Pauly Junior back to his normal 
size, then began spreading the goop on her left butt cheek. The thought 
forced its way back in long before I finished. Something strange was 
going on. I found it more intimate to rub slippery cream over her 
smooth, firm butt cheek than to kiss it. Well, almost smooth. The 
prickles had caused a rash at the points of entry.

And that is what temporarily distracted me from realizing that the last 
three descriptive terms she'd used for her box, as Abby calls it, were 
Calvin the Phoenix's terms. Maybe I needed to have a talk with Isabella. 
Rainbow. His wife.

While the anti-itch goo was a relief for Caysi, it was a problem for me. 
Even after wiping my left hand thoroughly with environmentally 
unfriendly disposable wipes and paper towels--I'd had better sense than 
to spread it with the fingers that hold the tweezers--what remained on 
her butt cheek made it too slippery to serve as a brace for my left 
hand's little finger. That hand would have to hover until I could clear 
a spot out of the slippery zone. I had enough trouble finding a place to 
put the tip of my right little finger for stability, and even then I had 
to remove two prickles.

"What are you doing?" From the tone I knew she thought I'd chickened out 
and decided to move on to the other butt cheek.

"Your ... uh ... you aren't as firm there as your butt is. I need a 
place to brace my hand, but I have to clear one."

"Oh."

Two minutes later I had a place to brace my right little finger. For the 
left I decided I could use the little finger and thumb above and below 
the fold of the lip and use the index finger to provide some tension for 
the loose flesh.

Okay, it wasn't as loose as I'd expected. Hers were firmer than Abby's. 
Abby's outer lips only got like that when ... when ... No!

But I was pulling just right. The two lips suddenly parted, showing me 
the smaller, thinner inner lips hidden in the wet pink interior. The 
very wet pink interior. I drew my head back and took a good look at 
'everything.' I finally noticed the tautness of the skin over the 
swelling. It wasn't swelling caused by a reaction to the little devil 
prickles. Now what?

Maybe she thought the patrolman was cute. Maybe she deliberately exposed 
herself to him and got excited knowing that she'd turned him on. Maybe 
she wasn't really into pain--hadn't been turned on to S&M by Calvin and 
some ... some ... Whips-and-Chainster.

Discretion being the better part of valor, and it's incredibly hard to 
be discreet when you're looking into your daughter's Hole-of-Holys, I 
didn't ask. Besides, it was making my job easier. And, if she was lucky, 
it was keeping her from noticing some of the discomfort.

"Uh oh."

"Like, what?" She sounded suspicious.

"There's one stuck in you, just inside," I said without thinking. I was 
opening myself up to comments about checking her out all pervy-like, or 
whatever the phrase would be. At least I didn't note that it was right 
beside her vaginal tunnel. Or Abby's phrase, her "gold mine."

But instead she muttered, "That must be the damned thing that burns like 
hell."

"We've had some changes in our vocabulary," I mumbled while looking for 
the best way to attack that problem.

Her voice turned snippy as she glared over her shoulder. "Well, do you 
want to, like, trade places and see if you have a nicer description of 
how it feels?"

"Honey, I would if it would make you feel better."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Thanks, Dad. I'm sorry. Just be glad that it's not you."

"I wish it weren't either of us. I'm not sure how to get it without 
clearing a path first."

"Just get it as soon as you can. The others hurt, too, so, like, 
everything helps." She turned her upper body to the front and rested her 
head on her forearms. I heard the sniff she tried to muffle.

When I got to it I discovered I had a problem. It was short, and it was 
slippery. I had to be damned careful not to catch her in the tweezers. 
And her right butt cheek had prickles inside where the tan lines should 
have been, too. "Honey, this one's a problem. I'm trying my best, but it 
may take longer. I just wanted you to know that I'm honestly trying and 
not being ... you know. I'm really, uh ... not stalling so I can, uh..."

"I know. Just do what you have to and don't worry, okay?" Her voice was 
quiet and soft, but still it had a little-girl-whine quality that 
revealed her discomfort. The officer had said that they got worse with 
time. And I was wasting time.

A fingertip brace for my tweezer hand wasn't enough for this one. I 
needed to brace the side of my hand, and there was only one place that 
was clear enough for that. And it was slippery from anus to clitoris. It 
was as slippery as Abby's, and hers sometimes made me think Little Pauly 
was wearing silicone spray and ball bearings.

Little Pauly interpreted the signals as being from Abby and prepared 
himself to go prospecting in the gold mine. He ignored my attempts to 
tell him otherwise. And that distracted me from my task.

"OW!"

"Sorry, honey. There's barely enough to grab with the tweezers. I'm 
trying not to pinch you, too."

She whimpered something.

Having no magnifying glass meant that I had to work close to see what I 
was doing. That was all Little Pauly needed. I wondered how I was going 
to surreptitiously arrange him into a more comfortable position when I 
was finished with this prickle. That was assuming he didn't explode and 
solve that particular problem while creating a new one.

The fragment slid out of the tweezer tips twice. On the third attempt it 
pulled away as if it had been lying on the surface. "Got it," I sighed, 
relaxing slightly.

My hand slid a little. I felt the throbbing erupt, realized where it 
still rested, and pulled it away. The faint grunts and the continuing 
throbbing were obvious indicators even to someone as clueless as me.

Well, somebody once told me that orgasms were effective ways to reduce 
pain because they released something into the bloodstream that acted on 
pain centers in the brain. I hoped that whoever told me wasn't Calvin.

Little Pauly! I used the distraction to adjust him and almost released 
those chemicals into my own bloodstream. Then I held the tweezers up and 
looked closely at the tip, as if the fragment were still in it. "Hard to 
believe something this tiny could be such a major pain," I said, 
pretending I hadn't realized what had happened. Her fragrance on my hand 
caused my head to spin.

"Honey, I'm thirsty. Let's take a quick break while I get some feeling 
back in my tweezer fingers." I'd give her a few moments to regain her 
composure while I fetched a Dr. Pepper from the cooler in the seat 
behind Caysi's. This might be her first orgasm, and she'd need time to 
get her emotions or body functions or whatever under control. I waited 
as long as I could before I asked if she wanted anything, expecting her 
to ask for the hand-squeezed naturally-organic salt-free mango-blended 
non-polluting feng-shui-correct coconut juice, or whatever she called 
that greenish crap in those environmentally-correct reusable glass 
containers.

"Yeah," she said, lifting a glowing face to peer at me over the 
seatback. "I'll take one of those, too, please."

I was momentarily startled. 'Please'? That was even more of a shock. Was 
this Caysi or Casey? "You got it." As I fished it out I realized that I 
needed to get back to work immediately because the pain and discomfort 
would soon settle in again.

I chugged half the can and placed it on the floor of the luggage 
compartment, next to the side. "Ready?"

"Yeah. As soon as you make it better."

Oops. I'd never expected her to ask that, especially since she'd just 
climaxed.

"Honey, you know I can't."

She frowned at me over her shoulder. Ever notice how a frown can't erase 
afterglow completely? "Daaaaaaaad! You've made it better all afternoon. 
It's not something you haven't done before."

"But that was off to the side. This is right in the middle of ... I 
mean, well, it would be like ... well, like, uh ... cunnilingus."

She gave me the 'How stupid can you get?' look again. "So? It's not like 
it's sex or anything. And that one hurts as much as all the others 
together."

'It's not like it's sex'? Cunnilingus is 'not like it's sex'? Calvin the 
Phoenix at work again? What had he done with my daughter? "Honey..."

Almost five minutes later I gave up. She was whining and complaining 
about the pain. We could be there until midnight, if necessary, and I'd 
still lose the argument.

I'd have done better afterward if I hadn't reflexively licked my lips 
before I thought about it. All I could do was hope that she didn't 
notice Little Pauly's renewed struggle against my zipper.

"Better?"

"Muuuuuuuuch better," she sighed. "But the others aren't. Hurry?"

I hurried, worried about what I'd done. What would Abby say? That is, if 
Caysi told her. I didn't think she would, but I suddenly realized she 
now had a blackmail hold over me. Nothing I could do now would change 
that. Casey wouldn't blackmail me. Would Caysi, who had been exposed to 
the influence of Phoenix? Calvin wouldn't hesitate to stoop to 
blackmail. I half-suspected that was how he'd managed to convince 
Isabella ... Rainbow ... to take that second job to support him, though 
I had no idea what form that blackmail would take.

I'd removed so many prickles by this point that it was easy to let my 
fingers operate on automatic and disengage my brain from what I was 
doing. Little Pauly shrank back to his usual size as I worried about 
Abby and fantasized castrating Calvin slowly with piano wire, a thought 
I'd first had back in high school when he ... well, that's not important 
now.

It was the soft moan that alerted me. I thought maybe I'd pinched her 
again, but no, I was flicking the tweezers to dislodge the removed fragment.

I opened my mouth to speak, but then I saw it. I had relaxed my right 
hand, letting it curl into the middle of the long, wet, pink slash of 
her box. The base of my little finger was pressed against the small, 
hard knob. No, the finger was wiggling against it as I shook the 
tweezers to dislodge the fragment.

For some reason, I didn't jerk my hand away. I suppose the reason was 
that I didn't want to. In fact, I know it was, because I really didn't 
want to, even though I knew I should. She was hot and wet and slippery 
and oh-so-pleasant to touch. It was easy to rationalize that she'd have 
asked me to move my hand if she'd wanted me to.

But would she, really? Did she want me to touch her, accept that I was 
touching her, or think that it was necessary that I touch her?

I took my hand away in as natural a manner as I could fake and reached 
for the drink can.

Everything was again swollen and very wet.

"Two more on this side," I said in what I hoped was a normal voice.

Her voice was anything but. "Make it better?"

I didn't even pretend to argue. I pulled the long fold toward the left 
side, so that I wouldn't contact the stickers in the right cheek, and 
slowly, gently, kissed its length until I came to the two remaining spines.

"And the other one again. It was a bad one. It burns."

I released the right lip and pulled the left one to the side so that I 
could reach the inner surface. I kissed where I'd removed the sticker. 
That was the worst one. I made it better twice.

"Better?"

"Uh huh. Muuuuuuuuch better."

I had to repeat the process when the final two were removed. I again 
made the bad one better twice. "Hand me the goop."

"Not yet," she said. Her voice was husky, and she seemed to be panting 
as she spoke. I looked at her sides, between her ribs and hips. She was 
panting. "Like, get the others out of my butt."

How do you interpret that one? Seemed pretty obvious to me, but I could 
be wrong. I might only be layering my fantasies onto the situation.

My fantasies?

Well, yeah. I was having trouble remembering that this was Casey ... 
Caysi ... displayed in front of me. My mind was quietly arguing that it 
was my daughter, but my senses were screaming that it was an aroused 
female. And my body was telling me that it had been a long time. I was 
now old enough that 'a long time' no longer meant 'five minutes, ' but I 
was still young enough that a week was close to an eternity.

A shred of common sense told me to get back to pulling prickles. I again 
braced my left hand between the outer lip and her thigh and removed six 
more.

"Make it better?" she panted.

"Sure." I bent forward and halted. My left hand was in the hot, wet, 
slippery trough. How did it get in there? With great reluctance I 
removed it and then kissed the area of the recently removed prickles. 
Without waiting for her to ask, I also made the others better, too, 
again making the last one better twice. It looked worse. I made it 
better two more times.

Caysi shuddered and moaned softly.

"Back to work," I said. My cheery voice wasn't nearly as steady as I 
pretended it was as I surveyed the right butt cheek. It had at least 
half again more prickles as the left had before I cleared it.

My hesitation could have been measured in microseconds, and then I 
lowered the edge of my left hand into the glistening pink slit. I had 
been working generally from bottom to top in a long, narrow strip, 
clearing a place to brace my hand. I moved to my right, rested my right 
hand above the thicket of tiny spikes, and began clearing from left to 
right, working my way downward across the entire cheek.

The side of my hand was pressed against a small hot spot. It was her 
brown rosebud. Without thinking I wiggled my hand slightly, putting 
pressure on it the way Abby liked for me to do. Caysi tensed and moaned 
again, still softly, but this time not really as quietly as before. I 
thought about cursing myself, but I didn't have time.

The skin didn't need much tightening. I quickly discovered that I could 
create enough tension by pulling anywhere with the fingertips of my left 
hand and moving my resting right hand away in the opposite direction. 
Which meant I didn't need my left hand where it rested. I argued with 
myself for a good tenth of a second, maybe even two-tenths, before 
letting my arm relax, pulling my hand downward. I continued the gentle 
pressure as I slid across her rosebud, across the entrance to the gold 
mine, and stopped when the lower end of my palm edge rested on her erect 
little clitoris.

With two tiny movements I almost missed, she humped her clit against my 
hand, groaned deep in her throat, and came again.

I stopped pulling prickles until she finished. Although I again said 
nothing, I left my hand on her box and felt the throbbing. Bad move. 
Pauly Junior almost throbbed in sympathetic harmony. When she came down 
from it, I made the cleared areas better, working my way from where I 
currently extracted to the central canyon. I again made the bad one 
better four times, the last two gently massaging the injury with the tip 
of my tongue.

It was infinitely better tasting her directly from her lips instead of 
by proxy from my own. It was also enough to cause a faint moan from 
Caysi and a major tremor in Pauly Junior.

I was down to the final dozen when I made it better for the ... who 
knew? I had long since lost count of which time this was. I didn't care. 
By this time each of the injuries between her cheeks was getting a 
tongue-tip massage. Well, that was the most sensitive area, and the 
state patrolman did say that the pain grew worse with time. It was, I 
kept reminding myself, for her own good.

I don't think I believed me.

"Twelve left," I said. I replaced my hands and went to work again. At 
this point in the clearing process the base of my little finger was atop 
her clit. Without thinking about what I was doing, probably because 
there was barely enough blood for my big head to remind me to keep 
breathing, I rotated my hand more palm downward. The tip of my curled 
little finger came to rest at the entrance to the gold mine. Or, in 
Caysi's case, the copper mine. It was open. Because of the late 
afternoon sun and the shadows, I couldn't see more than a half-inch 
inside her, but I had the overwhelming feeling that if she opened her 
mouth, I'd see light at the end of the tunnel.

My fingertip rested against the opening of the vagina itself. It swirled 
around it once and then slid in to the first knuckle. Caysi, her 
forearms flat on the floor of the luggage compartment and her forehead 
resting atop them, humped her clit against the edge of my hand and came 
again.

There was no pretense of not knowing what she was doing. I held the 
tweezers away from her butt cheek and rubbed the cleared area gently 
with the remaining three fingers, enjoying the thrill from the spasms 
around the end of my finger. When it was over and she gasped for air, I 
kissed the cheek.

I paused when I realized that her body convulsions, which she also no 
longer felt the need to hide, had caused her shirt to slide down her 
torso toward her lowered head, exposing the tanned mounds of her 
breasts. The view in San Diego through the torn-off sleeve didn't really 
allow me to appreciate just how exquisite they were in form, firmness, 
and appeal.

Caysi wiggled her butt and grunted softly.

"Sorry," I said. "I just discovered that you'd forgotten your bra again."

She giggled and wiggled as I placed my tweezer hand on her butt and 
returned to work.

I removed six and made it better. I had to do something with my left 
hand so that my lips could reach the bad one. When I removed my little 
finger, she grunted, "Unh uh!" I put it back in. She moaned softly once, 
and then again when I pivoted my hand around and used my tongue as I 
kissed the bad one.

"Last six," I said, feeling a bit of disappointment as she grunted happily.

I had done it again. I was concentrating on what I wanted instead of 
what was best for her. I wanted her to have more painful sticklers 
remaining in her butt so I could have the thrill of playing with her 
butt and cunt for a while longer. What kind of a father was I?

I was playing with my daughter's butt and cunt. Maybe that, in and of 
itself, was my answer.

I removed the last six prickles. Before I could make it better she 
lifted her upper body to the level position, with only her hands on the 
floor of the luggage compartment.

"Make it all better?" she asked. I was startled twice. First, because 
those were her first words in over an hour, and again because of the 
sound of distress in her voice. She looked at me over her shoulder. Her 
eyes were red from crying. The state patrolman had been right about the 
pain increasing. "Please? Make it all better everywhere?"

"Of course, honey," I said, placing the tweezers beside the pillow 
cushioning her right knee and pushing the rest of my little finger into 
her copper mine. I started with the most recently cleared area and 
worked my way back and forth and upward. At the top I started to switch 
to the other cheek, then halted. "Caysi, there's goop all over this side."

"You don't have to make those better," she said with a whimper. "Just 
the rest."

I kissed between the lips and thighs and then worked my way down the 
injured labia, shifting back and forth as necessary as my head moved 
downward. I rotated my hand away and gave special treatment to the bad 
injury, bathing it with my tongue, then, without breaking contact, slid 
my mouth across the slick interior until it was wrapped around her clit. 
I rolled it between my lips before applying suction and attacking it 
with my tongue.

The ring finger joined the little finger inside her molten chamber when 
she began cumming. It took all my willpower to keep Pauly Junior from 
cumming, too. When she finished, I moved to the last cleared patch on 
her right cheek and quickly kissed each individual bump, massaging each 
very briefly with my tongue. When I got the ones on her labia and in her 
box, I again kissed each individually, caressing the injuries for a 
longer period with my tongue and causing Caysi to jump. I withdrew my 
fingers before kissing the worst one, causing her to moan and wriggle 
her butt in frustration.

I massaged the puncture wound vigorously with my tongue before sliding 
it sideways and plunging it into her, withdrawing and ramming it again 
and again into the hot, tasty fountain. I squirmed my face against her, 
trying to shove it in to join my tongue. I felt her clit hump against my 
chin and wiggled my jaw to help. She began simultaneously panting and 
grunting with a slowly rising pitch and a rapidly increasing rate.

I pulled back for a second and put my tongue on the front side of her 
clit, then shook it from side to side as I slowly moved it up the hot, 
wet, aromatic gash. Her clit swelled even more, and then I was beyond 
it, teasing the small flaps of her inner lips, moving on to the gaping 
depth. I circled its rim with my tongue and then plunged it back inside, 
circling as if licking the frosting out of a can. My head continued to 
rise, pulling the tongue out of her and across the thick section that 
divided her pussy from her butt, and then my tongue felt the rough 
texture of the crinkled opening.

Caysi shuddered and gasped. "Oh, my God!" she moaned with only her 
breath, her vocal cords pausing for their second wind. She resumed 
panting, mixed with occasional puffing, as my intruder danced around the 
opening and occasionally forced its tip into the tightness for a quarter 
of an inch.

I suddenly dropped my head, causing her vocal cords to return to work 
with a long, low, frustrated moan that was replaced with a gasp when my 
tongue reached under and scratched its surface against the coppery 
postage stamp. My tongue wiggled and slid backward, from the rough, 
grassy plain into the smooth, wet valley of her box.

Again I encircled her clit with my lips and pummeled it with my tongue, 
driving her over the edge. She became rigid, moaning tightly through her 
nose until the massive release overwhelmed her. She shuddered and gasped 
in what I was certain was the most massive orgasm yet. When she was done 
I pulled my face back. This time it was the index and middle fingers 
that sank into the slippery wet cauldron.

"Better?"

She looked over her shoulder in that dreamy, satiated look that I love 
so much on Abby's face. "Muuuuuuuuch better," she gasped, wiggling her 
butt and squeezing my fingers.

"Then hand me the goop when you're ready."

"No!" she gasped. "You've ... you've had ... that boner ... for over ... 
three hours." She wiggled her butt and panted for a few breaths. "It's 
... your turn ... to feel better."

"Caysi..."

"Daaaaaaaad! We both need it. And ... I know you've ... been fixed. Come 
on! You're, like ... going to anyway."

The realization that she was right felt like a cold bucket of water in 
my face.

"Daaaaaaaad! After all you've done ... it's my turn to make... you feel 
better!"

Pauly Junior sent me a clear warning that he was planning to 'feel 
better' with or without Caysi in the next few moments. 'What the hell, ' 
I thought, 'I can't get in any deeper trouble than I'm already in.' And 
that was all the argument I needed as I fumbled my shorts down with one 
hand.

Caysi looked over her shoulder, then moved her upper body slightly to 
the side and looked under her armpit. "That's a nice one, Dad."

I had no idea how she could make that comparison--look, maybe she learned 
from browsing the internet--and I didn't care. I slid my fingers out of her.

She spread her knees apart, yelping when the right knee moved off the 
pillow and landed on the tweezers. I tossed them against the side wall 
of the compartment while she lowered her butt until she was at the right 
height. I curled around her, my head and shoulders pressed against the 
ceiling of the SUV. She reached between her legs and positioned Pauly 
Junior's nose at the entrance to the copper mine. "Hurry!"

I hurried, plunging him into her hot, liquid depth in one smooth move. 
I'd like to tell you how long I spent plunging and re-plunging into her 
tender body, bringing her to more climaxes before I had my own, but the 
truth is that I had just enough time to saw into her three times, 
realize that she'd beat Abby if I had to judge both tastiness and 
tightness, and cup each hand around one of the firm spheres affixed to 
her chest. I vaguely recall thinking about how they fit my hands 
perfectly just before the world became reduced to Pauly Junior and the 
slippery heat surrounding him.

A week's celibacy can help trigger an emotionally massive release, but I 
don't think that had anything to do with it. I gave total credit to the 
eager sexiness of the fifteen-year-old impaled around my spewing dick. 
It was so intense I didn't know whether to hope that it went on forever 
or that it would end before I died. Fortunately--I think--the second one 
happened first.

It was my turn to gasp for air, the need intensified by the fact that I 
was still standing and curled around her. I did not want to release her 
happy handfuls so that I could support part of my weight on my arms.

I opened my eyes to see where the sweat dripping off my chin was 
landing. I forgot about the sweat when I saw her bright eyes smiling up 
at me over her shoulder. "Better?" she asked.

"Muuuuuuuuch better," I said. I made a note to feel guilty after we were 
back on the road. I planned to enjoy this moment for all it was worth.

"Me, too, Dad." She sighed. "Me, too."

I have no idea how long I stood there before I slid out of her copper 
mine. "Dad?" she asked after moaning disappointment at her loss.

"Yeah?"

"Unless you can do that again, you'd better spread the goop soon, both 
sides. Sorry." From the sound of the last word, I wasn't sure if she was 
sorry that I had to re-treat the left cheek, sorry for herself, or sorry 
for me. It took me until the end of the goo-smearing that I realized she 
was sorry for both of us.

She handed me another paper towel. She'd already handed me a couple as 
my load trickled out of her. I checked to see if any more was trickling 
out before I wiped my hands.

"Now what?" I asked.

She backed out of the SUV and stood before me, making no effort to hide 
the tattoo or anything else. I know that I shouldn't have expected her 
to cover herself after all that, but Caysi was far more weird than 
Casey. She wasn't exactly the same daughter I'd left behind. I began to 
reflect on what we'd just done and knew that she most certainly wasn't 
the same daughter.

"I'll get a skirt out and wear it, with a towel wrapped around me 
underneath so that the medicine-goop doesn't stain the cloth. We can 
stop at the bathrooms," she pointed vaguely in their direction, "and 
I'll clean up. With a skirt on, it'll be easier for you to make it 
better if it starts bothering me again before we get to the motel." The 
last was delivered with a lecherous grin that made my knees quiver.

She looked around as I began to try again. "What I meant..."

"And it's getting late, you know. Maybe we should find a motel, like, 
really soon? That will be a lot more comfortable for making it better. 
For both of us." She flashed a charming smile with just a hint of sassy 
tease in it. She scrambled back into the luggage compartment, looked 
over her shoulder, and wiggled her butt at me. "Fortunately, what I need 
is right on top of the pile."

I still didn't have my answer, but I had learned that another hernia 
wasn't in the offering while I dug out the bottom-most suitcase. That 
was something.

She found what she wanted and backed out. It was a white skirt that 
looked short enough to let the Jolly Green Giant see that tattoo if they 
stood facing each other at a foot's distance...

As she stepped into the skirt, I tried yet again. "Honey, what I want to 
know is what's going to happen when we get home?"

She paused with the skirt almost to the top of her smooth, tanned 
thighs. The lawnmower and the postage stamp peered at me over the edge 
of the material, and I could just see the beginning of the valley below 
the copper curls. "Well, I think we can, like, get all our answers 
ourselves, without having to get Mom involved, you know. I think we can, 
like, work out anything."

"Are you sure?"

She left the skirt at half-mast and gently cupped my face in her hands. 
She pulled me down to her level and gave me a soft kiss. "I'm sure."

I couldn't speak until she'd wrapped a motel towel, obviously one she'd 
accidentally packed two days earlier, around her and tugged the skirt 
into place. I'd busied myself repacking the first aid kit after the view 
vanished. "Well," I said, suddenly at a loss for words that had been 
there moments earlier, "let's go get you cleaned up."

"Okay," she giggled in a bright voice. If not for the red eyes, you'd 
never know she'd been crying. She carried the first aid kit with her 
while I closed the back doors and climbed into my seat.

She turned toward me and opened her legs, giving me a wonderful view of 
the tattoo and everything else. "This is a more comfortable way to sit," 
she said with a grin. "And you aren't going to see anything you haven't 
seen before."

"Caysi..."

"Dad? It's just Casey."

I nodded. Still sounded the same to me. "Casey, I'm sorry you got hurt."

She shrugged. "Maybe I am too, a little. But mostly, I think it was so 
worth it." She blew me a kiss, something else from the age of 'make it 
better.'

I started the engine and headed for the restroom building.

I came out of the men's side while she was still cleaning up. I 
connected the laptop to my cell phone and checked for motels. The 
closest one with a vacancy was five miles back the way we'd come. One 
mile to the next exit, where we could flip over to the other side and 
backtrack.

That was okay. We were in no hurry. I called Abby and informed her that 
we would be a few days late returning because Casey was getting her own 
vacation to make up for the one she'd missed during the move. I 
reassured her that we were having a good time.

One that we would make better when we reached the motel.


Copyright(C) 2006 by Russell Hoisington

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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