Message-ID: <24167asstr$958543843@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: kellis
X-Original-Message-ID:
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII
Subject: {ASSM} Timely Pool (mf mf VOY) {Kellis}
Date: Wed, 17 May 2000 02:10:43 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved:
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At:
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation
X-Story-Submission:
X-Moderator-ID: Lambchop, gill-bates
Timely Pool
a Short Story by Kellis
May, 2000
"Let's fuck."
Arguably the first invitation issued after language was invented!
Rimmer thought with amusement, his shock dulled by repetition,
cocking his ear to hear the girl's response. She only laughed, a
silvery gurgle that would shame bird song, leapt to her feet from
the hopeful lad's arms and dived into the dark water with a great
splash. The boy, naked and beautiful as she, and offering
evidence of readiness for the proposed sport, dived after her
instantly. Rimmer straightened in concern, but both were
obviously swimmers as accomplished as the other two, even if this
girl's dive had been only a "belly-flop." Perhaps she had
rushed.
While rambling a few days earlier, Rimmer had discovered this
spot on Jason's property and had loved it after a single glance.
It was an old-fashioned swimming hole, a wide place in the creek,
bordered on one side by the high rocky ledge from which the girl
had dived, on the other by tall weeping willows, their streamers
dangling almost to the water, forming a curtain through which the
sunny fields beyond were hazily apparent. He was an artist
currently fascinated by the problem of representing light
transmitted through translucent materials, such as sunset through
a breaking wave, the glow of a stained-glass window, the several
pinks of a woman's torso seen through a filmy peignoir and now
the multi-hued greens of the bright fields beyond the dark willow
streamers, all reflected in the shaded creek water.
He had come here yesterday with easel, canvas and paint and
filled in his backgrounds in fast-drying acrylics, deciding on a
high horizon despite the greater effort required, so that the
dark foreground brush and oak limb overhead would frame the
willows with their bright translucence. Because all was shaded,
the blue sky light was perfect for several hours, almost long
enough to finish the sizable painting. He had needed to return
this morning only for the finishing touches.
But this morning company had arrived! Rimmer had hardly set up
easel and canvas before he heard voices and looked up to espy two
couples pushing through the willow streamers and wading across
the shallows up the creek. His initial view of them was masked
by intervening foliage. From the amount of skin flashing through
the leaves he presumed them clothed for swimming and frowned with
annoyance, then sighed, grateful that the painting was
essentially complete. He could probably finish up from memory
back in Jason's garage. But where did they come from? Jason had
no other visitor just now, and this creek was half a mile deep
into his posted property. Rimmer had heard no engine and no hoof
beat. Bicycles?
He stood up to welcome them, but his jaw sagged when they rounded
the huge old tree to emerge onto the rock ledge -- and proved all
four to be totally naked! He stared at them, for a moment too
shocked to move: two men and two women -- no! Boys and girls,
recently pubescent: sharply conical breasts on the girls, faint
pubic hair on all four, but shapely young bodies. All four were
quite blonde and perhaps most incredible of all, remarkably pale
of skin. Never had he seen better candidates for sunburn in the
middle of July!
They were naked indeed: no jewelry or tattoo, no hair barrette
or pony-tail ring, no towel, blanket or picnic basket, not even a
wristwatch -- just perfect skin. Hair of the head curled to the
neck and over the ears on the boys but hung in waves half way
down the girls' backs, all the same shade of yellow. But they
were beautiful, breathtakingly so, all four. Rimmer's shock
changed to stunned admiration.
They sat on the ledge where it curved back to the narrow head of
the little pond, facing the quarter to Rimmer's left: boy, girl,
boy, girl, hips and upper arms in contact, located as a group
about 30 feet ahead of his easel. In this proximity he was able
to discern that the two girls were alike as peas in a pod,
indistinguishable of feature and body build, likewise the two
boys, though neither gender resembled the other. Identical twin
brothers with identical twin sisters?
The girl on the end closer to Rimmer smiled at him, but when he
smiled back she raised her head and shouted to the sky in a high
voice, "Son of a bitch!"
His shock deepened. He opened his mouth to respond with an
automatic retort, when he realized that the other three had burst
into laughter. At him?
They threw back their own heads. "God damn!" roared the boy on
the other end. His voice broke on the last word, which may have
accounted for the redoubled laughter among the others. Crossing
her arms, apparently to suppress her giggles, the middle girl
called in a contralto voice, "Piss and shit!"
More laughter. The second boy screamed, "Jesus Christ!"
The girl who had shouted first screamed, "Bastards!"
Again the boy on the far end: "Fuck you!"
The middle girl: "Asshole!"
The middle boy hesitated, mouth open to shout. The others turned
towards him, raising their hands as if about to pounce, eyes lit
with an unholy glee. But his face, drawn with effort, suddenly
cleared. "Cunt licker!"
Amidst a burst of laughter, the nearer girl yelled shrilly, "Cock
sucker!"
Far boy: "Corn holer!"
Now the middle girl hesitated, but her eyes twinkled. She
glanced right and left and screamed, "Fuck *me*!" -- and with
hands and heels propelled herself off the ledge into the water.
Eyes large, both boys scrambled to follow her, but the nearer
girl threw her arms around the adjacent boy and held him back.
In the instant before the far boy's splash, Rimmer heard her
contralto voice declare, "Chrissy did that on purpose!"
Her captive said something in response, unheard over the
splashing in the pool, but he settled back against the remaining
girl, his arm slipping around her, and nuzzled her neck.
The fleeing girl crossed the pool quickly and, as perceived by
the watching man, allowed herself to be caught on the narrow
shore under the willows. She was shortly flung onto her back,
legs and arms enclosing her attacker's body. Their genitals were
turned toward Rimmer. He could see the visibly lengthening penis
lying in the nest of her elevated labia. In a moment a hand
snaked momentarily between the bodies, the penis disappeared and
both sets of hips began to oscillate.
Rimmer was standing beside his easel, unable to credit his own
good sense. His mind cast about to find an explanation for such
behavior, especially the shouted obscenities. Was it perhaps a
game to select as a "victim" the first who failed to shout a
fresh one? Group sex was not so bizarre, he suspected, for
modern teenagers, not with girls safely "on the pill." But in
front of *him*, a fortyish stranger! How could they dare to
conduct themselves so?
Could they be escaped lunatics? He cleared his throat loudly.
The copulators ignored him, of course, but so did the two
remaining on the ledge, now earnestly kissing with their arms
around each other.
"Excuse me!" he shouted, again to no effect.
He felt a surge of anger and thought of bringing out the
revolver, hidden under his paint tray as a precaution when off in
the fields. Would they ignore a gunshot, too? He had a feeling
they would, unless the bullet whined nearby or splashed water
over the two under the willows.
With a wry chuckle he began to feel that he understood this
scene.
Jason had a certain reputation in regard to practical jokes,
especially of a sexual nature, along with the money to indulge
himself therein to whatever depth. He was famous for his
penis-shaped *hors-d'ouevres* and notorious for putting a whore
in every bed when he hosted the state commission on corruption
and vice.
Rimmer took up a paint tube from the tray and "accidentally"
dropped it behind him. He turned and stooped for the tube,
taking the opportunity to peer among the nearby trees and open
fields beyond. But if Jason Corvit was crouched nearby, avidly
studying Rimmer's reactions, or even farther away with
binoculars, Rimmer could see no evidence of it. He abandoned
pretense and straightened up, rotating through a full circle:
still no sign of Jason.
He turned back in time to hear the boy's unpolished invitation to
Chrissy, hear her delightful giggle and see her gather her legs
under her and dive inexpertly into the water. She swam directly
to the other two, now humping madly on the far shore. Together
she and her follower fell upon the lovers and forced them apart
despite their protests. Rimmer had to rub his eyes in disbelief.
Giggling and laughing, the four youths merged into a copulatory
tangle in the grass under the tallest willow -- after having
exchanged partners, as best he could determine.
The action did not long endure. First one pair grew still, the
girl's arms and legs relaxing onto the grass, then the other
pair.
With all four now quiet, Rimmer stepped to the edge of the pool
and applauded. "Good show!" he called across the 30-foot pond.
"How about an encore?"
The couple that had finished first reacted by rolling to their
knees and slipping into the water. They swam leisurely to a low
place in the rock and levered themselves up onto the ledge, the
boy assisting the girl, then taking his seat in the spot they had
first occupied. The girl wrung out her hair, giving Rimmer an
eye-popping view of her supple young body, and took her seat
beside the boy, snuggling under his arm. They smiled contentedly
at each other. Her hand fell first to his thigh, then to his
genitals. Neither of them seemed to notice Rimmer.
The boy asked, "Don't you ever get enough, Chrissy?"
She smirked. "I take after my mother."
"How many kids has your mother had?"
"13, but only eight lived."
"'13,'" the boy repeated, shaking his head. "Do you and Prissy
want that many, too?"
She shrugged. "You get what you get. But Prissy loves to fuck
as much as I do."
"I *know* that! I sure hope you're right about your father."
"We are, John."
"But suppose you don't both get caught at the same time?"
The boy across the pond called loudly, "Wait a minute! I want to
be part of that conversation, too."
He splashed into the water, followed immediately by his girl.
Shortly they were aligned beside the other two on the ledge,
leaning back against the rock behind them. Sunlight dappled them
through the trees, glittering in the water drops standing on
their skin. Suddenly Rimmer turned back to his canvas, taking up
palette and paint, squeezing out a long line of zinc white and a
much shorter one of burnt sienna, adding other tints to match the
pale flesh before him, with a touch of carbon black in the corner
to tip his outline brush. He began to paint furiously, glad for
the years he had spent in the traveling carnival, painting
15-minute portraits on demand.
The late-arriving girl, presumably Prissy, was speaking in her
contralto voice, "We've already discussed this, John. We shall
get caught together, if you and Jack keep your enthusiasm up."
"Ha!" snorted Jack, identical even in voice timbre to John. "I
know what you want us to keep up."
Prissy smirked. "You can do it, sweetie. We'll all help you."
Her hand slipped into his pubes.
John shook his head. "You can't be sure both will catch."
Chrissy's high voice: "With enough fucking, we can!"
But John was adamant. "No, you can't. You girls look like
twins, but you aren't really identical. Just listen to how
different you sound!"
"But you know the reason! It's because Prissy had scarlet fever
as a child and it settled in her throat."
"But you didn't catch it, did you?"
"No."
"Exactly my point."
"John, you're such a worrier! That's because Mother thought we
were too dependent on each other. She had sent me to visit Aunt
Agnes that spring. Then Prissy got sick."
Prissy's deeper voice: "You see, John? We're confident all it
takes is for everyone to do his part." At the conclusion of her
speech she moved around on the ledge to recline beside John and
bent her head to his midsection. Her long wet hair fell over his
hips, obscuring what exactly she was doing to him, though Rimmer
had little doubt. The boy gasped audibly and leaned back on the
rock.
But the other boy proved unwilling to let the subject die. He
asked, "Chrissy, do both of you really mean to say you don't know
which of us put it in you?"
She had relinquished John's equipment when the sister asserted
her own claim. Her hand had strayed to Jack and fondled him more
vigorously. She said impatiently, "Yes, Jack, but only if just
one of us catches. That way he has to let both of us get
married."
"Of has to shoot both of *us*," observed Jack. Prissy looked up
quickly. So did her sister. For the first time the watching man
saw the boy's penis with its head within her lips.
"You *better* be grinning!" declared Chrissy. Prissy's hair
again covered her face.
Chrissy sniffed, holding up an only slightly resurrected manhood.
"Jack, you'll do better licking *me*!"
The boy shrugged. "I'm willing." He scooted around on the ledge
and bent between Chrissy's drawn-up legs. It was her turn to
gasp, head thrown back on the rock.
One female and one male face were still visible. Rimmer
shrugged. As models the siblings were interchangeable. His
brush strokes continued, swift and precise, capturing perhaps the
best likenesses of his career. As he was squeezing more paint to
complete the splayed out limbs, the two couples changed positions
but not partners. The boys sat back against the rock while the
girls squatted over them face to face, sharp conical breasts
grinding into hairless but muscular chests. Rimmer smiled
enviously: obviously a superior way to fuck. It made no
difference to his painting; he already had proportion and colors.
He continued with the concluding touches, thinking that the only
difference their current activity made to him was in the size of
his own penis.
Not surprisingly they were longer engaged on this occasion.
Grunting and groaning, Jack and Chrissy at last finished first.
They sat in each other's arms, calling encouragement to the other
two until Prissy's contralto moans announced the second climax.
Jack proposed, "How about a quick dip before we leave?"
They dived almost simultaneously into the pool, swam across it
and back before re-emerging onto the ledge, where the boys waited
while the girls again wrung out their hair.
Rimmer stood up, leaned forward and called, "Ready to talk to me
yet?"
They continued to ignore him.
"I've painted you," he yelled, raising his voice to a shout and
adding the never-fail enticement, "Come and see how you look!"
Never-fail until now, that is. They turned away and rounded the
huge tree at the end of the ledge, wading across the shallow part
of the creek in a reversal of their earlier path.
"Hey! Wait a minute!" Rimmer called after them, but he could see
their pale skin flashing beyond the bushes as they continued into
the tree line.
Dropping palette and brush onto the ground, he charged after
them, but when he, too, had rounded the oak and splashed across
the creek, heedless of his soaked walking shoes, he found that
they had disappeared beyond the willows, which grew especially
dense at this point. Batting the streamers aside, he forced his
way through them and came out into the sunlight -- and a barbed
wire fence upon which he immediately snagged his shirt.
The two sets of twins were not visible anywhere along the tree
line or in the great open field beyond.
* * * *
"Where've you been today, Rimmer?" asked Martha, Jason's wife.
She was a large woman, probably in her fifties, whose love for
her husband was the absolute of both their lives, proof even
against the basic cruelty of an inveterate practical joker.
Though Jason had invited him to visit, she was the one who
admired Rimmer's art, which of course could not fail to endear
her to the artist.
Before Rimmer could reply, Jason looked up from his newspaper.
"He said he was painting Jack's swimming hole."
Rimmer perked up. "Why is it called 'Jack's?'"
Jason shrugged, tilting his head toward his wife. "You'll have
to ask her. This was her father's property."
The woman shrugged also. "I don't know who named it, but my
grandmother told me she swam in it as a girl. Her mother, too.
It's been there a very long time."
"It must to have such huge willow trees."
"I haven't seen it myself since I was a girl. I gather it must
still be as pretty as it used to be, else you wouldn't have
painted it."
"Oh, it's pretty, all right."
Jason's gaze dropped back to his paper. "You did paint it,
then?"
Rimmer laughed aloud. "Perfect! I wouldn't believe you could
say that with such studied disinterest."
Jason looked up with raised eyebrows. "'Studied disinterest?'"
He chuckled slightly. "Rimmer, you're a world-famous artist, but
we've had this argument before. You know I prefer photographs to
your brand of ultra-realism."
"Don't try it, Jason."
"Try what?"
"Pretending you don't know what happened at that pool today.
Your reputation precedes you much too far."
"My reputation? What reputation is that?"
"Your well-known love of the ... elaborate joke. I must say,
when you stage one, you do a bang-up job!"
Jason dropped his newspaper to the floor and gave the artist his
full attention. Slowly he shook his head. "This is interesting.
You may be giving me too much credit. My jokes are always meant
to be in aid of pompous windbags, which you are not, despite your
obsolescence. Why don't you tell us what happened out there
today?"
Rimmer smiled. "I'm sure you have a full report. I'll admit I
was surprised not to find you peering from behind a bush."
Jason's face settled into seriousness. "What happened, Rimmer?"
The artist shook his head. "They were beautiful, Jason, I'll
hand you that. I've never seen prettier teenagers of either sex.
I'm grateful to you for that. Of course I painted them in."
His host studied the artist's smiling face. "You were visited by
teenagers?"
"Very sporting ones, too -- naked as newborn babes! They put on
a nice show. I'm sure you got your money's worth. It's too bad
if you didn't see it yourself. Oh, I get it! They're old hat to
you, aren't they?"
The host frowned impatiently but Rimmer continued blithely, "Just
one criticism. They certainly didn't speak a teenager's argot.
They're English was as good, aside from the obscenities, as yours
or mine. You need to get them a writer with a better ear."
"'Writer?'" Jason shook himself. "Did you say you painted
them?"
"Yes. They were too pretty to pass up."
"How about showing us?"
He looked from host to the wife. She spoke up. "Please do,
Rimmer."
He bowed slightly to both and turned away to his room. When he
returned with easel and canvas, he found them awaiting him
expectantly. It was only a moment's work to snap the easel erect
and settle the painting upon it. Host and hostess gathered
before it.
Martha gasped audibly. "Rimmer! The light through the willow
streamers -- it's perfect! How did you ever do that?"
"Damn the *light*!" snapped Jason contemptuously. "Look at those
kids. God, they *are* pretty! Except aren't they a bit pale?"
"I thought so too," Rimmer admitted, "for July. But as you said,
'ultra-realism.'"
The host chuckled. "Maybe too much. That girl on the left ...
it looks like she's holding his dick."
"Prissy, they called her. That's the least she did to it."
"'Prissy,' eh? You talked to them?"
"I tried to. You primed them too well for me. I was never so
thoroughly ignored in my life."
"Rimmer," Jason declared solemnly, "I swear to you I've never
seen those kids before."
"Yes, you have, dear," said his wife softly.
The strange quality of her voice drew both men's attention.
Jason sputtered, "If so I don't remember them."
"I'll be right back," she promised, turning away without looking
up.
The men watched her leave the room. "What's got into her?" Jason
asked rhetorically. He turned back to regard the painting. "Did
you hear any other names?"
"First names. The boys are John and Jack, the girls Chrissy and
Prissy, though I'm no longer sure which is which."
"Hmm. As you might name twins. They do look alike."
"I gathered it was brothers and sisters, though not related
between the sexes. At least I hope not. They fucked like
minxes." Rimmer chuckled slightly, regarding his host
quizzically. "According to their script, the idea was to
impregnate both girls concurrently. They even traded partners."
"'Their script!'" Jason frowned deeply. "I tell you, Rimmer, I
don't know anything about them."
The artist laughed. "Hell, Jason, *I* don't mind! I'm grateful,
I tell you. I have no idea where I could find such beautiful and
free-spirited models. I'd appreciate it if you'd give me their
agent's card. I want to hire them myself."
Jason sighed. "You'd better believe me, Rimmer. I know nothing
about them."
Rimmer frowned. "You insist on that, do you?"
"Yes, I do. I had absolutely nothing to do with your little
fantasy."
"'Fantasy!'" The artist glared at his host. "Do you suggest I
painted them from memory?"
"Or a photograph in your paint box." Suddenly Jason grinned
knowingly. "What is this, Rimmer, an elaborate inverted double
joke of some kind?"
"But look at the shadows, the sun dappling, the shading on the
bodies. Those kids are a part of the scene, as indeed they
were!"
"Oh, I know you're a world-class artist, Rimmer. This proves the
point. Only you should've given them tanned faces at least."
"Dammit, Jason ..."
The hostess reentered the room bearing something in her hand. As
she drew near, Rimmer saw that they were photographic prints.
She set them against the painting on the easel ledge. They were
two five-by-sevens, the brown and white "sepia" tones popular in
the early days of photography. The two men bent close to study
them.
One displayed two females in elaborate "Gibson Girl" outfits,
bonnets and striped blouses with frilly necks. The pretty but
unsmiling faces were apparently identical to the larger ones in
the painting above. The other picture showed four people: girl,
boy, girl, boy, not so elaborately dressed, the girls hatless
with light hair up in chignons, wearing soft blouses with less
constricting collars, the boys in straw boaters with neckties but
no jacket. All four faces again matched the painting.
"My god!" breathed Rimmer. "Where did you get these pictures?"
"Look on the back," advised the woman.
Rimmer turned the girls' picture over and read the handwritten
inscription aloud: "Chrysilla and Priscilla, July, 1901, sweet
16." On the back of the picture of four he read, "Chrysilla and
Priscilla with their beaux at the livestock fair, 1901."
Jason asked, "Your relatives, honey?"
"Not the men. Those girls were my grandmother's aunts. That's
my great grandmother's handwriting."
Rimmer grunted. "Obviously at least one of them succeeded."
"At what?" asked Jason.
"At getting pregnant. Twins do run in families, don't they?"
Martha shook her head. She looked up at him with an intense
expression. "Not in that family."
"What do you mean."
"Grandmother told me. Chrissy and Prissy and those same two boys
were riding to church one Sunday morning that August. A tornado
struck their surrey. Neighbors saw them lifted into the air.
Nobody ever saw them or the surrey again, though one of the
horses was found dead across the river."
"Good god!" murmured Rimmer, chin sagging.
"Aha!" whooped Jason. "We get to claim 'First in Flight' instead
of North Carolina."
"Jason, you beast!" cried his wife, grinning.
Rimmer's voice was strained. "Did your grandmother say where the
tornado struck them?"
"You mean, on what road? Yes, but it's a super highway now."
Jason eyed the artist. "Don't be silly. You're not that
irrational."
But Rimmer didn't smile. "Can you recommend a good telephoto
camera?"
END
Copyright (C) 2000, Kellis
kellis@dhp.com
Stories at http://www.dhp.com/files/Authors/kellis/www
--
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: |
| FAQ: Moderator: |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+