Message-ID: <2338eli$9707281257@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: JohnnyD@cryogen.com (Johnny D.) Subject: Daughters (mast voy unfinished really-stupid-title) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19970727.132607.54@cryogen.com> This is the first chapter of an unfinished story; I got really inspired by some Spanish film about a year ago, and started writing this, but now I've just dried up. I thought I might as well post what I'd written as not. I wish to issue the disclaimer that the portayal of a Roman Catholic Boy's School in this story is in no way based on anything in real life. I know absolutely nothing about such institutions, and thus the portrayal in this story is doubtless stereotypical or incorrect or just downright wrong. Sorry. It was just a good premise for the story. Daughters ========= by Johnny D. Extract from the diary of Tom Woodson, dated 19th July "You must go on your school's camping week this summer." said my parents. "You have never gone and this will be your last chance. You are seventeen, Tom; it's time you spent some time away from home." Well, cheers Mom, cheers Dad. I'd got a job lined up for this summer, and now that's gone. And a month in the rainy British countryside is just the way I want to spend my last summer holiday. Not. The sign said "Saint Peter's Roman Catholic School For Boys: No Women or Dogs, please" and rainwater ran off it. Beyond, through the torrents of water, an imaginary observer might just have been able to make out twenty drooping tents scattered about a rainsoaked field. In one of the tents, a boy was building a model airplane. It was his hobby, you see; in his spare time young Kelvin Smollit glued, painted and created model flying machines. This was his sixty-ninth, and he was almost finished. His tent-mate wasn't so enthralled. "Kelv," said Tom, "Isn't there something more fun we can do?" "What more fun could you have?" said Kelvin. Tom was struggling to answer when Father Robert poked his head round the tent- flap. "And how are you boys getting on?" he said, his gentle Irish accent lilting the words. "I'm bored, Father." said Tom. "Can't we have some fun?" Father Robert shook his head disapprovingly. "You boys are surrounding by God's works, His green grass, His buzzing insects, all being tended by His loving showers. There is no more fun a good Christian boy could want." Extract from the diary of Tom Woodson, dated 23rd July Well, I'd have loved to tell him what I thought, dear Diary, but I'm not that stupid. Might next year, though. Fortunately, no rainstorm lasts forever. Come next morning the fields were muddy and wet, but the sky was dry, and Father Robert led the boys on a nature ramble, pointing out interesting plants and trees. The ramble led the boys many miles from the campsite. When lunchtime approached, it transpired that they had gone too far, and could not return to the campsite in time. Therefore, reluctantly, Father Robert had to take the boys to an idyllic country cafe, the kind of place that has remained unchanged for fifty years, complete with an ample woman behind the counter and ample supplies of pies and pasties. And thus the boys sat at tables and munched at their pies. There were so many boys, in fact, that only one table remained free; this last bastion of empty chairs held out until an old man walked in. And the man was old. His face was lined, his walk stuttered, he leant on a stick. In this slow, methodical way he made for that one free table and, reaching it, lowered himself ponderously into a chair. Father Robert leant over one of the tables. "I recognise that man. He is Henry Klepper, the famous author, who wrote 'The Cancer of Sin'." Blank looks. "You remember, boys, you read it in March." Ah, yes. Suddenly every boy remembered it. "I believe he lives hereabout." Through the door then walked four women. They were all vaguely similar yet very different; their ages ranged from about fifteen to over thirty. Oh yes, and they were very attractive. "And they," said the ample woman, placing a glass of lemonade before each boy. "They are his four granddaughters : Lucy, Charlotte, Jennifer and Sarah. He had to bring them all up when his children died in a car crash. The effort has nearly killed him." Father Robert nodded, noted a fair number of the boys staring at the women, and clipped them round the ears. Hard. Extract from the diary of Tom Woodson, dated 24th July And, dear Diary, I have never seen girls like those. They were so beautiful. I know it is a sin, but I found myself wanting to see those girls again, to talk with them, maybe to... and, if you are reading this Father Roberts, I have prayed to God to take these feelings away, but they just won't go. Tom paused in his writing, licking pencil as he sought to translate into words the feelings that sparkled in his mind. He just didn't possess the vocabulary. After pondering on this quandry for a while, he became aware of an increasingly insistant pressure on his bladder. It was becoming too much for him to ignore. He paused, weighing up the options. If Father Roberts caught him out of his sleeping bag after dark he would be punished. And yet... Eventually, after much deliberation, he eased out of his sleeping bag, peering through the tent flap. The full moon cast a bright silver light over the campsite; it seemed all clear. He tensed then sprang, dashing across the campsite half bent over, making for the edge of a wood. He ran through it, his bare feet jumping over branches and skipping through undergrowth. Eventually, when he judged that he was out of earshot of the camp, he found a likely tree and relieved himself. When the sound of his urine hitting the trunk had subsided, he became aware of another sound. An irregular splashing. A shriek of high-pitched laughter reached his ears. Intrigued, he carefully made his way through the trees towards the source of the sound. Suddenly he found himself on a river bank. Ah yes, Father Roberts had pointed the river out on the ramble. But in the silver light of the moon, the river took on new qualities, at once mysterious and sacred. And there was a woman swimming in it. Tom quickly hid in the bushes. The woman was swimming gently and unconcernedly, making very little noise as her arms broke the silvery water. The sight, as you would have known had you been there, was transfixing in the way that only few sights truly are. Tom shrank back into the bushes as the woman swam over to the bank and pulled herself out of the water. He gulped when she saw that she was naked. Her wet skin had taken on some of the colour of the moonlight, her body was lithe and snakelike, her breasts pleasent globes atop it. Tom felt his cock growing as he watched her; almost unconciously his hand reached down and began to stroke... One distant part of him recognised that it was a sin, but the more dominant part couldn't really care less. The cock within his hand was reaching proportions which he would never have believed; over five inches long and very thick. Tom kept up that slow, steady masturbation as he watched the woman drying her body, systematically rubbing herself with a large towel, paying especial attention to her groin. The woman picked up a nightdress from the bank and pulled it over her head, then walked - straight for where Tom was hiding! He froze and tried to shrink even farther into the bushes. The woman was coming towards him, she was going to catch him, she was going to... she walked straight past him and off into the wood. Tom remained there, slowing his breathing. Strangely, he felt disappointed that the woman hadn't caught him. What would she have done if she had? He knew what he'd have wanted her to do... Tom closed his eyes and imagined that the woman had given herself to him. In his mind's eye he was sucking at her breast while she moaned and tossed about, he was mounting her, he was entering her... His hand movements restarted, but faster. The woman was begging him to FUCK her. Such a little word - should he beg forgiveness for swearing? No. Faster. She wanted him to FUCK her. Faster. He was FUCKING her. Faster. Faster. He was going to.... And for the first time in his life Tom Woodson ejaculated, his sperm splattering onto the bushes, his seed shooting into the green foliage. After recovering, he redressed and returned to his tent. He had something more to write in his diary. Extract from the diary of Charlotte Horlock, dated 24th July I felt strange at my swim last night. I felt the usual feelings of freedom, of being at one with nature, of not being Charlie Horlock any more but myself, an amazing feeling of SENSUALITY, etc. (see previous entries), but I also felt something strange. Almost as if someone was... watching me? Extract from the diary of Tom Woodson, dated 24th July And now I can't even close my eyes without seeing her, and when I see her my dick gets big and I want to rub it. More than that, I want her to rub it. More than that, I want to put it in her... in her. I prayed again, telling God that I didn't want to think perverted thoughts like this, but I couldn't help it. I'm not evil, God, you must believe that. Next day Father Roberts took the boys on another ramble. Over field and hill they walked (this time with packed lunches), the priest in front and the boys in single file behind. At one point they passed through the grounds of a large house which Father Roberts said was the residence of Henry Klepper. It was a big, old house with a massive garden. Tom stood looking at it for so long that the other boys had disappeared from view before he even noticed that they had moved. Thinking "Oh no! Father Roberts will KILL me!", Tom started to run. And ran straight into a girl. She was a young girl, a couple of years younger than Tom was himself. She had a lovely trusting face, big eyes, masses of dark hair. There was something about her that made Tom think of the woman from last night... He bent over to help her up off the floor and managed to hide his developing erection. "Well, that's nice isn't it! I'm just walking through my Grandad's garden and some yob tries to run me down!" said the girl, though a big smile covered her face. God, doesn't she have lovely eyes, thought Tom, then mentally chastised himself for blaspheming. "Err, sorry, I was in a hurry." he said aloud. The girl laughed; a lovely, flighty sound that reminded Tom of the dawn chorus. "Well, obviously, otherwise you wouldn't be running." she said. "Hello, anyway. My name's Sarah; Sarah Horlock." Tom shook her hand. "Errrrmmm, nice to meat-errr, meet you." There was a pause while Tom stared into her eyes. Sarah giggled and said "Well, do you have a name?" "Me? Oh, yes, it's, erm... Tom Woodson." "Nice to meet you, too, Tom Woodson." She clasped his hand; Tom's dick was starting to wake up in a major way. "Why don't you come over here and meet my sisters." Tom felt light-headed as Sarah led him round the side of the house to a garden table, at which sat two other girls. They were similar to Sarah and also to each other, yet all three were also very different. Sarah sat down and introduced him as "Tom, who tried to flatten me." "Hello Tom, I'm Jennifer." said the woman on the right. She seemed to be in her early twenties, with the hair that was almost as long as Sarah's but blonde instead of brown. Her face shared the pleasant shape of her sister's though her eyes were not quite as big and rounded. "And I'm Lucy. Aren't you going to sit down?" said the other. Lucy Horlock was about ten years older than Jennifer, but was very attractive, with an honest face and dark brown hair cut short. Tom wasn't sure which one to stare at now, so he sat down. "So, Tom, what are you doing here?" asked Jennifer, leaning forwards. "I'm, err, with my school camp." answered Tom, aware of how infantile it sounded. "Oh, yes, those boys we saw in the cafe. I remember now; I thought your face looked familiar." said Lucy. "You look too old to be at a school camp." said Jennifer. "I'm seventeen; I'd never been to one before so I thought I'd try it just once before I leave." said Tom nervously. Jennifer and Lucy nodded with identical expressions of polite interest on their faces. Sarah chose this moment to say something. "It's lunch time, Tom, and you must be hungry. We're just about to eat; why don't you come and have some lunch?" Why not, indeed. Well, he should really try to catch up with Father Roberts and the rest of the boys, but... well, they could be anywhere by now. Father Roberts would be angry at him for going truant - wait a mo, he was seventeen for God's sake! (sorry, God. Didn't mean to blaspheme again - it just slipped out) And thus after a brief internal struggle, Tom allowed Sarah to lead him into the house. Lunch turned out to be a selection of jam and cheese sandwiches that Lucy created in no time. Sitting at a solid wooden table in the kitchen, Tom and the three sisters all tucked in, talking while they ate. Tom told the sisters about the miseries and injustices of a Roman Catholic boy's school and camp, whilst the girls told him how lucky they were, how lovely the countryside was, and how they were preparing for their sister Charlotte's wedding in a few week's time. From the conversation, Tom gathered that their grandfather had gone to London for a while to try to sell some new book of his. Tom was munching at a particularly tasty sandwich when another woman walked into the kitchen. She looked very like Jennifer, except that her hair was brown and tied back in a pony tail. "Hey, Charlotte." called Sarah. "Come and meet our new friend Tom." "Hi." said Charlotte with no interest, grabbed a sandwich and exited. Lucy slapped Tom on the back as he choked on his mouthful of bread - he had recognised Charlotte immediately. She was the woman from the river... -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /