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Prize Pig


Prize Pigby Cobalt Jade 8/97*August, 1991*"Jesus, Dad! What are you trying to do?"Ohhh, shit. Why the hell did he have to say that? Brent squirmed as his father turned around in the driver's seat and gave him an icy glare. "We're stuck in traffic, young man, as you can plainly see. If you can get this truck into the next lane more smoothly by yelling from the back seat, you have my permission to try.""Now, David..." his mother began warningly."I have to go to the bathroom," Anna complained.Great, Brent thought sarcastically. His little sister had to pee in the middle of highway construction on I-5. She was eleven years old. You'd think she would have learned some sense by now, especially as they had stopped earlier at a McDonald's. Actually, he had to piss now too, but he'd never admit it. He was almost seventeen. Some forms of whining had to be foregone at his age.His brother Reed was lying in the rear of the Bronco with a book on his stomach, trying to cram some extra studying in. He was going away to Stanford in a month. He hadn't wanted to return to the Conservatory to pick up his music scholarship, preferring the more intellectually challenging and diverse environment of a four-year school. Brent remembered him having a terrible series of fights with their father about it. Luckily, Reed was talented enough to write his own ticket, and Stanford had been happy to have him for their music program. He looked like an albino cobra stretched over the sleeping bags: long-boned, pale, with a hood of curly yellow hair that reached halfway to his elbows. The swerve had nearly caused their mother's viola case to fall on his head, and he gave their father a dirty look. He flipped a page in his textbook."Are we going to be late, Dad?" Anna asked."No honey. The ferry for the islands leaves at 11:45. We have plenty of time."They were on their way to the Days of Chivalry Renaissance Fair on Orcas Island, where they would dress, feast, and dance in the manner of Medieval lords and ladies. They would be performing authentic Medieval music as well. His father played the recorder, his mother the viola. Brent supplied the deep notes on his cello, which filled in for the fifteenth-century bass viola de gamba. They called themselves the Turner Consort, a consort being a Medieval term for a group of musicians. Reed had never been a part of the group, as the piano--his strongest instrument--was too bulky to lug around. But he had brought along his guitar, and would find a singer to back at the fair like he usually did. Only their mother had what could be considered a good voice. "Aren't we at the exit yet?" Anna complained as they inched along."Cross your legs," Brent suggested."I'm only trying to study here," Reed said crossly.Anna held her nose in the obnoxious way only an eleven-year-old could. "Brent farted.""It wasn't me, it was the dog." Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, the family's Cane Corso mastiff, lifted his head from the seat and thumped his tail across Brent's thigh, wondering what he'd done wrong. Only an authentic Medieval dog would do for his father."It was Reed!"Reed threw his book down. "Will you guys shut up!"It was a long way to the exit.#They reached the ferry dock in Anacortes in plenty of time for another long wait, then the boat came and they were allowed to drive on board. It was a clear, sunny day and the Sound shone like blue glass, cut with the waves the big boat left in its wake.They went to the upper passenger decks to take in the view. Brent walked along the railing and eyed the girls, Anna trailing him in her baggy-assed jeans and tie-dye shirt. She was in junior high now and well aware of the imbibed aura of coolness her older brothers gave her. "Will you leave me alone?" Brent complained."Bite me!"Reed grabbed his book and went back to the car. He couldn't help feeling he should have stayed at home that year, even though he knew it was the last fair he would be attending with his family for a long time. The thought made him sad. They'd always gone to the fairs, ever since he was six and Brent was four. Their mother had paraded them around in Medieval costumes she'd sewn herself, a dark blue velvet tunic for him, a burgundy one for Brent, trimmed with metallic braid and paste gems pried out of flea market costume jewelry. Everyone had gushed. "Oh, look at the little princes!" It was the kind of family outing only a father with a Ph.D. in pre-Renaissance music would plan his vacation around. He was no longer a little prince. He and Brent had shared an adventure with an older woman, an artist in Seattle, at the beginning of that summer. He had left her garret with a ring through his nose, and Brent with one through his eyebrow...screwed, blew'd, and tattooed. Or as Brent had put it, "thrilled, spilled, and drilled."Their father had been livid. Brent let his piercing heal because it irritated him when he slept, but Reed had keep his. "Very grunge," his friends said. Grunge was on everybody's minds that summer: Nirvana and Kurt Cobain, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam...a sludgy tide of coarse, exciting sound that was rising from Seattle and about to take over the world.He thumped downstairs to the vehicle deck. Two ramps for cars sloped up either side, leaving the center free for vans, RVs, and the flat-beds that brought timber and building supplies to the islands. The ferry's engine throbbed gently far below him. He took a sip of pissy-tasting snack bar coffee, scouting. Now where did they leave the truck? A series of footsteps distracted him: clip-clip-clip on the cross-hatched metal of the passenger walkway. He turned to see a firm, white-wrapped hour-glass ass disappearing around the curve of the deck. A female torso and limbs happened to have been attached, but all he'd seen was that ass.Like a bee to a flower, he started walking after. Nice to know his equipment was working! After the crazy artist, he'd been shy; besides, with his summer class schedule, he hadn't had the time. But for these five days, he was on was his caution and common sense.He rounded the curve, pretending to walk casually. Where did she go? The ramp sloped down to the main part of the deck, and there was nobody there. Maybe she was getting something out of car. He picked up his pace, glancing furtively through each windshield. A stupid horse trailer blocked his view of the rest of the cars. Shit!Then the trailer door slammed open and hit him in the head and chest, spattering the coffee across his shirt. The door's handle struck him squarely in the balls. *PAIN!*"God, I'm sorry! I wasn't looking!" He collapsed onto the metal grating, groaning and cupping his crotch, oblivious to the formless white shape that came to hover above him. He gasped and rocked for a few seconds more, trying to disperse the pain. "Are you all right? Can you stand up? Here, let me get you some water."He raised his head as a tanned arm carrying a bottle of Eviar passed in front of his face. He caught a whiff of Girl: sweet musk tainted with sweat, cross-pollinated by the powdery smell of Secret dry solid deodorant that wafted from her armpit. Her face was at once angelic and concerned, with short dark hair, a square jaw, and a few freckles around her nose. "Oh, look at your shirt!" She daubed the fabric with some paper towels.Nice, very nice, except for the ache in his balls and the stinging burn on his chest. He tried to talk and found his voice sticky with phlegm. He cleared his throat. "It's OK. I've got another shirt in the truck. We're on vacation.""So are we! We're going to the Renaissance fair on Orcas Island.""Really." Now that he wasn't writhing he got a good look at her clothes. Tight sleeveless blouse, tight white riding pants with suede patches where the insides of her knees met...and tall black riding boots polished to perfection. Perfect to goad the horse in the trailer hitched behind the truck. "Me too. Are you competing?""I'm showing, yes. We're from Burnaby.""Canadian, eh?" he couldn't resist the joke."Kristen?" An older male voice...a brother, a cousin, maybe a boyfriend. She looked to be about seventeen. Her family might be protective or her boyfriend the jealous type."I'm coming. I was just checking on the horse." She closed the trailer door and fetched his textbook, which had gotten knocked beneath the truck. He caught a glimpse of a pink satin bra under her shirt. Gravity made her breasts dangle so the fabric cup looked half-empty, then the fleshy gap refilled itself as she got to her feet. She handed him the book. "I'm sorry. It got a little banged up.""It doesn't matter." He tried to think of something witty to say, failed.She retucked her blouse into her pants. "Maybe I'll see you at the fair, okay?" She gave him a wave and went to rejoin her brother."All right. I'll be looking." He went to change into a fresh shirt. After a few minutes he started to smile. #They reached the fair site around mid-afternoon. The organizers had changed location this year; it was now on the southeast side of the island near Doe Bay. Knights in chainmail and languid ladies strolled under the trees, and troubadours sang and gypsies danced. Brent hung out the window yelling greetings to the people he knew. They only saw each other once a year, at these fairs. By the weekend, the field would be packed with locals, tourists, and participants from all over the Northwest. They claimed their camping spot and set up the tents: one for Anna, one for their parents, and one for themselves. Reed tore open his duffelbag and started unfolding his clothes. Brent noticed the dozen packages of condoms that nestled in the bag's side pocket, neatly stacked against each other like floppy disks. He scooped them up and let them fall through his fingers like poker chips. "Looking for these?""Hey!"Reed quickly scooped them up, but not before Brent had wet one with his tongue and stuck it on his forehead. "Hey, look! The third eye!"Reed snatched it off. "God, you're idiotic.""It was just a joke."Reed only snarled at him. Touchy. He wondered if Reed wasn't backsliding a bit. They used to bicker constantly, but the car accident changed all that. Brent had been halfway through his junior year in high school when he'd been forced to take care of an older brother who'd had a mangled foot and severe head injuries, and his attitude had quickly changed from exasperation to protectiveness. The quiet time of recovery gave them a chance to become friends again and make up for the friction of the year before. "Did Dad give you any shit about your nose ring?" Brent asked.Reed grabbed an elastic tie and pulled his long blonde hair into a ponytail. "He started on it again before we left. 'They won't let you in with that. It's not authentic.' I told him that it was. Elizabethan men pierced themselves all the time, and so did members of Queen Victoria's court.""You're making that up."Reed cracked a rare smile. "Yeah, I'm making that up."Brent threw a bottle of suntan lotion at him. He was happy Reed had returned to his old self, but he still could be a pain in the ass sometimes. His own ring had been through his eyebrow, but he'd had to remove it after a few days because it irritated him too much when he slept. His father's anger had a lot to do with it as well.He pulled off his t-shirt and jeans and started to dress in his fair clothes like all the other participants. His non-Days of Chivalry friends called it the FagRomantic look: blousy white shirt, dark pants, boots, a belt with a dagger stuck in it. It was all as fake as the polyester tents and flags that passed for silk and the molded fiberglass panels that passed for armor. If they were real Medieval lords, they would have been wearing baggy hose, pudding-bowl haircuts and codpieces stuffed to bursting with wads of wool. But why dress like a dork in the name of authenticity?He grabbed his collection of amulets and looped the leather thongs around his neck. He looked in the mirror to judge his transformation. He hated to admit it, but Reed looked more like a Medieval Lord than he did. His brother had the pale, wasted ascetic look of 13th-century German altarpieces, while he looked like a surfer from Laguna Beach. No one in Medieval paintings had a tan. No one had freckles, either.Reed nudged him when he was through dressing. "Let's go for a walk."Brent cocked an eye through the entrance to the tent. His mother was tuning her viola under the trees. He knew his parents expected him to practice with them, as they were performing tonight. "You're not dressed.""I'm not ready to make believe yet. Don't you want to check things out?""What about mom and dad?""Tell them we're taking the dog for a walk." Reed quickly snapped Sir Tristram's leash on. The mastiff looked up, his tongue dangling. "Come on, boy! Let's go have a piss."Brent wondered at Reed's sudden restlessness, but threw the excuse to their parents and followed him out of camp.They walked out of the trees and onto the field. It was only the first day of the fair but already things were in full swing. Ex-hippy vendors in hobbit capes sold pewter tankards and Celtic crosses made in Hong Kong. Mono-titted earth mamas in voluminous peasant dress were spinning raw wool into thread, and two fighters in dented helmets clashed swords. Brent noticed their visors had been fashioned from aluminum spaghetti strainers. He also noticed that many of the men selling the maces, flails, and broadswords were missing teeth.Reed acted like he was looking for something; his eyes swept from side to side, and his neck made constant adjustments of height and angle. "What are you looking for?" Brent finally asked."Oh, nothing," Reed said, and continued to look.Weird. They paused as Sir Tristram lifted his leg against a tree and piddled. A passing wench in a low-cut blouse blew them a kiss. The top halves of her nipples were little prunes above the white flounces. Brent jerked his eyes away and blushed. The atmosphere at the fair was casual; backrubs, friendly flirtations, and sexual teasing went on all the time. Up to now they had been excluded from the games of the adults. But something had happened over that summer and now they were marked as fair game. Brent didn't like it. That pretend-wench was old enough to be his mother. Like Reed, he felt cautious around older women these days.The dog's leash suddenly jerked out of Reed's hand. "Brent! The dog!"Sir Tristram ran over to a large pen in the middle of the village square and began to bark ferociously. Brent caught up to him and grabbed his collar, pulling him away. "Quiet!" The dog woofed a final time, then looked up at him with sad baggy eyes, as if saying, I didn't mean to do that, really I didn't. The squealing piglet he'd frightened ran back and forth across the far side of the pen, now and then pirouetting up on its hind legs. Its eyes rolled in terror. "I'm sorry, little guy," Brent said in a baby-talk tone of voice. "Come here. Sooey, ew-ew-ew."Reed came up to take the dog's leash. "What's the deal with the pig?""We're having a raffle." Brent looked up to see a girl in tight pants and a sleeveless leather vest, spiral-permed cinnamon hair curling over her tanned shoulders. Tracey Amphlett; she was in his class at school. He was surprised she was here at the fair. It wasn't the sort of leisure activity rich-bitch cheerleaders went in for. She sat on top of the pen, her long legs dangling, a pair of fleshy scissors which had done some serious acrobatic stunts on the field...and maybe while clamped around a football player's torso, too. "My fief is sponsoring it. You buy a ticket and you might win the prize." She kicked the pen, making the piglet squeal again. "We'll butcher him for you and turn him into a feast."Brent nearly gagged. He'd been a vegan for the past year: no meat, no eggs, no milk. He'd told his family, over and over again, how healthier it was and how much better it was for the earth, but they wouldn't listen. "Nice," Reed said with indifference, looking away again across the village green. Tracey's eyes shifted, grew sly. It never failed to happen. Whenever Brent brought a girl home, she'd always say, "That's your brother?"Though he knew who Tracey was, she didn't know him. She wouldn't, anyway, as he spent his extracurricular time in music and drama instead of sports. "You go to Bellingham High, don't you?" he said, trying to sound casual. "I think I've seen you around.""Yeah. I know you too. You're Reed's brother." Jesus, it never failed!"Yeah. Right." Her dark eyes regarded him like a mink's. She was amusing herself very much. "What's your persona name? You know, your Medieval identity?"She touched her tongue to the inside of her cheek and rolled her eyes up. "Guinevere." What a lack of imagination. His family used 13th century Welsh names when they went to the fairs: he was Blethin ap David de Llandwelyn. "Is this your first time here?""No, I've been here before." He wondered how he'd missed her, but the fairs were very big, and it was easy to overlook people. "I usually go with friends. It's a great place to party." She grinned at him. "Well, gotta go. I have to count up the raffle receipts for Dr. Frank N. Furter here." She jumped off the pen and sauntered back to her booth. A fire pit and spit waited there, with a painted sign of a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth."Don't stare so much," Reed said.Brent jerked the dog's leash around. "I wasn't staring." He couldn't say he hadn't lusted after Tracey, but she existed more as an ideal than a flesh-and-blood girl. His attraction was based on the same principle that guys his age liked Mazda RX-7s. They just did, even if there was no way they'd ever actually own one."Let me tell you something about perfect cheerleader types," Reed said. "Remember my old girlfriend Kayley? Well, would you want to stick your dick in some girl's mouth two minutes after she's vomited?"Why did Reed have to be so blunt? Granted, he was speaking from experience with bulimia, but he didn't have to be such a spoilsport. Brent decided he didn't like Tracey anyway. Too much of a carnivore, and sadistic to that poor little pig. He wondered if there was some way he could help Dr. Frank N. Furter "escape" before he met his doom. He heard there was a holistic vegetarian resort by the bay run by aging Age of Aquarius types...maybe they could adopt that pig. He knew some people in Bellingham who kept pot-bellied pigs as pets. Why not a domestic one?They came to the edge of the fair and went down the road that led to the shore, emerging from the trees into a sheltered cove. Damselflies skimmed the surface, sunlight flashing off their wings. The water glistened like inky glass, and a cold, clear stream creamed over a jumble of boulders to meet the surface in a noisy kiss. "This is a nice place," Brent thought out loud. "I wonder if..."A series of feminine shrieks made them turn around. Down the slippery boulders of the waterfall came five young women of disparate coloring and sizes, all nude and steaming from a trip to the hot tubs above. They maneuvered their way down like a gaggle of nymphs, then flew into the cool water, laughing, and began to paddle out to sea."Ha HAH! Look out!" They whirled around again as three young men ran down a different path and splashed noisily into the bay. They had been just as nude as the girls, though they had held folded towels in front of themselves for protection from the brush. "Did you see that?" Brent said at last, his eyes still fixed on the girls' wet, bobbing flesh. But his brother was rapidly stripping off his shirt and shorts. He kicked his sneakers off. "What are you doing?" Brent demanded."What does it look like I'm doing?""You can't go out there! Who's going to watch the dog?""You will," Reed said, tossing him his watch. Nude, he entered the water like a rock star walking onto stage for a home town concert. The wavelets lapped his knees, then buttocks and waist. He began to swim out towards the others.Brent kicked the nearest driftwood log and threw a stone. There was no way he could join them. There was nothing strong enough to tie the dog to, and no one to watch over their clothing, either. He was stuck, and alone.Not for long. "Oh, how cute!" Two more nymphs emerged from the trees, towels slung around their necks. Like the others, they were guests from the resort above. They stepped gingerly over the pebbly beach to pat Sir Tristram on the head. He grinned up at them in his I'm-so-ugly-I'm-adorable look, tongue dangling. "What kind of dog is he?"Hell, this wasn't so bad at all. "He's a Cane Corso mastiff. They raised them in Medieval Italy.""Is he yours?"He couldn't keep his eyes off her nodding little breasts, each tipped with a puckered caramel-colored nipple. He felt himself break out into a shit-eating grin. "Yes," he said.#Reed cut through the waters of the bay like a shark. This was how he'd kept in shape over the summer: swimming laps at the gym. His physical therapist said swimming was the best exercise there was. He stopped briefly to orient himself. Where did she go? He swore that was Kristen climbing down over the waterfall with the others. He couldn't let this opportunity pass him by, even if it meant swimming out naked into a seaweed-choked bay with a bunch of strangers. His father might have shed his clothes as a member of the mystic California hot spring generation, but his mother hadn't, and she made sure the family didn't either. Reed had always been modest in that regard. Not prudish...just conservative.Kristen had swum further from the others and was now floating beneath the overhanging branches of a tree. Reed swam slowly but deliberately toward her. He liked the play of water over his body and the tensile play of his muscles; it proved he was alive. A near-fatal collision with a drunk driver had nearly cost him his life. After eight months of convalescence he needed a reminder sometimes.He enjoyed showing off, too; he doubted if any of those guys were as good as he was after a summer regimen of daily laps. He felt a little self-conscious about his scars, but there was no way she'd see them if he remained under water. there was an interesting thought.He dove under the bay and swam underneath for a few seconds before popping up three feet away from her. "Hi."The look on her face chased through surprise to annoyance to interest, a closed-circuit attraction that eventually fed around to him, making him feel like he'd been momentarily dipped in warm oil. In the brief second that followed anything could happen, from a brush-off to a yell for help. But the door had opened, and the danger slipped past. "Oh, hi," she said, a smile forming. He swam in a slow half-circle around her as she tread water. Her hair was plastered to her head and she was squinting, but she was still very pretty. Her breasts bobbed on the water like flowers, slightly distorted by refraction. "I'm sorry, I didn't know who you were at first. I don't have my contacts in.""Well, I don't exactly have my clothes on, either." He flipped over on his back, letting the sun warm his chest and belly, then quickly slipped under again. He hadn't thought it was possible to get a hard-on in water this cold. She was still smiling at him like she hadn't seen it. She must be very nearsighted. "Do you always go skinny-dipping at the fairs?""Do you?"They shared a laugh. "We're staying at the Doe Bay resort. My parents thought it would be more comfortable than staying at the fair. I went to the hot tub with some friends, and we decided to cool off in the bay. That's how the Finns do it. They sit in a hot sauna till they can't stand it anymore, then they jump outside in the snow and hit each other with birch branches." She chuckled. "You never told me your name," she said."Reed. Reed Turner.""What's your fair one?""Rhys Pengrych. Most people just call me Reed though. What's yours?""Herald Mage Krista."He had heard of many obscure Gaelic, Celt, and Scandinavian names, but he'd never heard of a title like that. "What period is that from?"She crinkled up her face in a good natured tease, twitting his obvious ignorance. "It's not from real life, it's from a book."He couldn't resist coming closer. She blushed and back-paddled a bit, but didn't move out of range. A quick glance to his left and right told him everyone else was swimming back to shore. "Are you busy tomorrow?"She moistened her lips, suddenly nervous. "I'm in the Queen's Own riding event at 11. I can meet you in the stable when it's over. You know, we, or go out and do something."Her speech had been stumbling, but she was staring right at him like an eager dog begging for a treat. At close quarters like this it was magic. He leaned forward and quickly kissed her, his half-erection bumping her belly. Oh, god, what did I do....but her look of alarm quickly bloomed into delight. "I'll be there," he promised.She went off to rejoin her friends, who were climbing onto a pier on the other side of the cove. He could see a path that led back to the tubs, a smoother trail than the one they had come down. He swam back to where he'd left his clothes.The tide had drawn out noticeably since he left and clots of seaweed were thick around the sheltered inlet. He hauled himself out of the water, shivering, then began shivering even more when he realized he didn't have a towel. Brent was waiting on a log and handed him his shorts. He glanced down, then up, not knowing what to say.Reed looked down too. A piece of seaweed was hanging off his dick, making it look like a dark green standard half-raised for battle.#Brent lugged his cello through the trees, careful not to bump it. The Turner Consort was playing the Ye Merry Olde Inn in the village square from 9 to 11 pm. They would play dance tunes mainly, with a few ballads. Anna skipped in front of him in a long satin dress, her braided hair crowned with a flower wreath. She was going to accompany them on the tambourine. Even Brent had to admit she looked very cute. They passed Dr. Frank. N. Furter in his pen. He was sleeping on a pile of straw, a piggy smile of hopeless contentment on his snout. He had no idea of what was going to happen to him. "Don't worry, I'll get you out of there," Brent promised. "No way are you going to be someone's dinner.The Inn was an open-sided tent packed with rows of long tables with an empty space in front of the stage for dancing. There were more tables, and more dancing spots, outside. The tent was packed tonight; there were more early arrivals than he'd thought. It would be three and four times more crowded Sunday night, when the King and Queen of New Pacificum held their feast in the Royal Pavilion. They took their places on the stage platform and began to tune their instruments. Brent ran through a series of scales, limbering up his wrist and fingers. He enjoyed playing with his family. He wasn't as versatile a musician as Reed or as talented, but he knew he was the superior player when it came to small ensemble pieces. Though Reed was the star of the family, he shone brighter when they went to the fairs. His parents caught his eye. His mother tucked her viola under her chin; his father raised his recorder to his lips. They counted out the rhythm together, silently: One, Two...They began with "Upon a Summer's Day," a traditional English dance tune. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tracey Amphlett enter the tent with a group of her friends. She was dressed like a gypsy in a long, ruffled skirt and one of those ubiquitous low-necked peasant blouses. Her wild curls cascaded out from under a well-knotted head scarf. She joined in the dance, ignorant he was the one who was playing. He couldn't help feeling ticked off, even though he'd decided he didn't like her. They finished one song and began another. Tracey whirled in and out of the dancers, her face flushed and laughing. She looked like she was enjoying herself. The bright colors of her skirt fluttered like a flag, exposing perfect calves and thighs every time she made a spin. Brent tried to concentrate on his fingering and bow, but he couldn't help tracking her through the crowds. They segued into a series of line dances. "All in a Garden Green." "Strip the Willow." "La Spagna." He kept the playlist scotch-taped to the back of his cello so he wouldn't miss a beat. Each couple moved up the line, then spun apart and danced to the rear, switching partners on the way as they passed in front of the stage. He began to lose himself in the color and motion; the dancers became streaks of revelry, the candles tinsel glows. For span of time he felt the same way a traveling minstrel must have felt in the long nights of a 14th century winter when music and ale were the only cheers that kept the dark and cold at bay.He jerked back into himself with a start when Tracey spun down the line, her skirt rippling like the fins of a manta ray. Light winked from her bracelets as she passed by his left. He glanced up and their eyes locked. She smiled tightly at him, then grabbed the low neckline of her blouse in mid-whirl and pulled it down. Her breasts flew out in an impressive trajectory that was nearly as graceful as the twirl her skirt made. Then she turned and danced off, hiking her blouse back onto her shoulders, to join her next partner. He was so surprised he stumbled through the next passage, earning a severe look from his father. His parents hadn't seen her, and neither had the audience. Holy shit! Why had she done that? Was she teasing him, or giving him an invitation, or what? Anna had seen the flash too. "Did you see that?" she whispered."Oh yes I saw it," he hissed back."Why'd she do that?" she asked in total puzzlement."I don't know." His tone became stern. "Don't you go around doing that!""Why would I?" Anna said with a snotty exasperation. "Besides, she's ugly."Well, he could argue that, but their parents didn't like them talking on stage. They finished the song and started another."Jenny Pluck Pears." The dancers regrouped and formed themselves into circles, each circle holding three couples. Tracey appeared and disappeared, seeming to smirk at him every time she glanced toward the stage. Her breasts bounced beneath the fabric of her blouse. Jenny Pluck Pears. Pluck Jenny's pears. A pair of pears, dangling in arm's reach behind crisp white fabric, nipples little bumps behind the starched cloth. Tracey's pears, the sweet little nipples begging for a gentle mauling. He began to hear lyrics in the music. "Caress thy wanton tits, ye slut, to maketh thy cunte flow with..."Anne kicked his chair. "Stop messing up!"There she was again. Tracey came dancing around the corner of the stage, and this time her smile was slightly more sadistic as she flashed him not once, but twice, an act that escaped detection from the audience by a miracle. It took all his concentration to finish the song. He felt like his cock was going to start pumping against the back of the cello, adding a rhythm section to their group. Everything about the performance began to turn agonizingly sexual...the shape of his instrument, the back-and-forth sawing of the bow. Even his posture, which was perfect to slurp at the flesh-colored pears dangled before him in two willing hands. "Why does she keep doing that?" Anna complained. "I'm going to tell Dad.""What's he going to do?" He heard the strain in his voice. It was only nine thirty! Did he have to go through another hour and a half of this? "She's only embarrassing herself. Someone's going to catch her sooner or later."But no one did, and for the next six songs it was a breast here, a nipple there. She extended her tongue in mock fellatio. She stroked her ass. At the end of the last song before their break she paused in the shadows by the stage and whirled herself around a tent support pole. Her skirt flipped up, and she wasn't wearing any underwear. Her bush was shaved back so there was only the thinnest cinnamon-stick of fuzz between her legs, and her ass was as taut and smooth as two dinner buns warming in a basket. When is this night going to be over, he thought. He was very grateful the cello hid his lap.They took a short break. Brent glanced toward the bar. He desperately wanted a beer, but the fair organizers were strict about underage drinking, even though the kids always managed to sneak in drugs and liquor under their noses. He didn't dare get out from under the cello anyway. It felt like he had a brick painfully poking out of his pants.Reed came up in his Medieval clothes and took Anna's hand. "Would you care to dance, o fair noble lady?"Anna giggled. Reed was always able to charm her better than he could. Then again, Reed wasn't the middle child. "Sure.""What about the next song?" Brent said."You don't need her," Reed said. "Mom's going to sing the one about the nun who wore her lover's underpants on her head."Great. "La Badessa." A bawdy Italian ballate from the 14th century. She was probably going to sing it in English, too.He sighed and picked up his bow. Tracey grinned from across the room as if the song were already giving her ideas.#Reed spent the rest of the night at the song circles; it felt good to be back in this microcosmic, protected world of the fair. Lovers were courted, backrubs exchanged, and ridiculous boasts challenged and topped as the bonfire burned low and the night turned cool. The circles were the main social activity of the fair. Reed and his guitar were always welcome, to bring song and music to the night.When he came back to his tent Brent was already there in his sleeping bag reading. He looked like he had just jumped into it seconds ago, and Reed could imagine why. "You're in bed early.""I was tired." Brent pushed a strand of sandy-blonde hair behind his ear. His hair was at the cute-ponytail stage, the same length as Eddie Vedder's. He seemed more restless than tired, however. After a few minutes he walked out of the tent in his sweatpants. He said he wanted to for a walk, but Reed heard him stop in the brush outside, making the muted grunting noises he was very familiar with. They continued for a while, then there was the happy gasp of release. Reed rolled his eyes. His brother was the horniest person he knew.Their first full day at the fair was a busy one. Anna wanted to take some 15th century Burgundian dance lessons, and his parents wanted to catch up on gossip with their friends. Brent disappeared without telling anyone where he was going. Reed had his archery contest to think about.He hadn't practiced much that year, and it showed. Still, it was fun to be out on the field in a leather jerkin with bracers on his wrists. He wore his hair free, the front part of it hanging in two long braids like a marauding Viking. The grasses in the field rippled slightly in the breeze, and the sky was as sapphire-blue as only a summer day in the islands could be. His friends politely applauded his efforts, but he stunk, and he knew it. "What've you been up to, man?" Geoff asked.Reed sighed and brought them up to date. He'd told the drunk driver story so many times before he felt distanced from it, like it had happened to a stranger. Even worse, everyone seemed to treat him differently after he told it. The change was subtle, but it was there. It was a slight personal withdrawal, like his bad luck was catching.Annoyed, he made up an excuse to avoid his friends' lunch invitations. He had something else on his mind that was more important, anyway: Kristen.His own contest had run over so he caught only the last fifteen minutes of the riding competition. Luckily, she was one of the last entrants. She was dressed completely in white except for her boots, and her horse had been buffed, combed and shined to perfection, his mane braided in series of thin, coiled plaits. On the judges' signal she began to ride. She was a picture of form and grace, her face a mask of fierce, determined joy. She looked as if she truly rode to serve the mythical country of New Pacificum, a female knight, a warrioress.The course consisted of a series of low obstacles, a few gates, and some tall posts. She didn't stumble once. After the course she cantered to the end of the field and snatched a colored scarf off a pole, then galloped back to the stands. She must have made good time, because everybody started talking. "Three-thirty," said one of the judges, looking amazed. A few quick questions took him to where she stabled her horse. He stopped at the village square to buy them some lunch first: roast lamb, cabbage, and new potatoes in a styrofoam take-out dish. Well, some concessions had to be made to convenience. He spent the last of his cash on two mugs of cider and some eccles cakes.She was alone in the stable rubbing down her horse when he came in. A sunny smile lit up her face. "Hi!""I brought you some food." He held out the styrofoam containers."Thanks." They sat down on a bench together to eat after she washed her hands. They talked. Reed watched her eat like one entranced, noting how daintily she nibbled on the small red potatoes she speared on her fork...and how her lips stretched over along the wrinkled, rosy skins as she took a fresh bite. She smelled of fresh sweat with a faint whiff of horse, overlaid with the stronger, sweeter aroma of fresh-mown hay."I saw you riding on the course. You were pretty good."She shrugged, modest but pleased. "I practice a lot. We have a place in the country with a couple of other horses and some sheep and pigs. I've been doing Canadian 4H all my life." He noticed a paperback on the bench beside her, its spine deeply creased from months or years of frequent handling. Magic's Pawn, by Mercedes Lackey. Book One in The Last Herald Mage Trilogy. One of those sword and sorcery books his brother liked to read. A dewy-eyed woman with long, black hair embraced an opalescent white horse on the cover. He glanced at Kristen and her mount. White clothes, white horse. They were the same. "What's this?" he said."Oh," she said, wiping her lips. "That's mine. I've had it since I was fourteen. I've got all her books. They're about a mythical country called Valdemar and the Heralds who protect it. They have magical powers and ride white horses.""Like yours?""Well, kind of, though Naseen's more of a roan. All the gray speckles in his hide. There's a fan club you can join called the Queen's Own, and we all get together at the fairs to go riding."Kristen's dress made sense now. He'd been wondering what equestrienne would wear white on a dusty, muddy field. He began flipping through the pages, skimming. "Who's the girl on the cover?""That's a guy, not a girl." He had never liked this kind of fiction--it was too corny for his taste--but he found himself being drawn into the story anyway. It was about a prince who met nothing but abuse and rejection. The bullying weaponsmaster broke his arm. He was sent away from his family. He was mocked for being different. He reached the Herald school where they taught the chosen ones special powers, and things were worse: they told him he had no musical talent. Reed could sympathize. He flipped ahead some more. The prince began his magical training and found a lover...another guy!!? Why had Kristen been so interested in reading about a gay prince?"I can't eat my cake." Kristen's arm snaked slowly in front of his face, knuckles brushing against his chin. She pushed the tart against his lips. He felt the warmth from her fingers against his mouth. "Do you want it?"He forgot about the stupid book, opening his mouth to accept the sweet, chewy crust on his tongue. Kristen fed him slowly, her warm breath in his ear as she cooed, "You looked like you were hungry."He was, but not for a scrap of dough. He took her thumb and fingers into his mouth, sliding his tongue around them to pick up the last of the crumbs. Her eyes widened as he sucked. He felt his heart pick up a beat, the familiar sensation of tightness in his balls as his cock grew stiff. She took her fingers out of his mouth and replaced them with her lips. She was the aggressor, but oddly virginal. He probed her mouth, cupped her small, soft breasts with his fingers.There was a loft above the stable stalls, and they climbed the ladder to continue their explorations.There were mounds of scattered hay up there and a few bales. No one would see them from below. Kristen undid her blouse and slipped it off. Her breasts were as gorgeous as he remembered from the bay...upturned, firm, the tips pointy as young shoots. It took her a few more seconds of struggle to get out of her boots and tight pants. She shimmied her hips, the motion sending a silent thrill through him. Her belly bulged slightly, a little shelf, and her pubic hair was lush and thick. His own clothes didn't take as long. His cock lengthened, as sleek and hard as the curved hilt of a sword. He hadn't had a real relationship since December. He missed the warm presence of a girl, feeling her, smelling her, tasting her. That emotional and sexual education, just barely begun last fall, had been badly derailed. It was a lonely void in his life he'd suddenly become aware of, now that his recovery was complete.He couldn't wait for Kristen to position herself on the hay. He pushed her back against the bales. He sucked her breasts as she whimpered, her hands digging in his hair, winding it around her hand and wrist. She hissed like Medusa, her thighs pinioning his hips. The sensation of her smooth, firm legs rubbing against his own drove him into a further state of frenzy. He sucked her neck, giving the flesh a hard snapping with his teeth and tongue, as his other hand worked between her legs. She was wet as a sponge. He smeared her honey over his cock, the sharp, musky odor drawing pictures in his head. Her hand in his hair became quite painful. Condom. Condom. He knew he forgot something."Hurry up," she whispered. "Oh, come on, please!"He fumbled the wrapper in his hands, then pulled it on like a sock. He drove into her; he gave a cry of pain. She wasn't quite ready yet; she wouldn't let him in.One way to fix that. He parted her legs. the orchid petals of her pussy twitching with their own excitement, emitting a steamy musk. Her clit extended itself slightly like a rod of lipstick from its tube. The sight made him salivate suddenly. It looked so helpless, just pleading for a workout. If his brother could do it, he could too. He teased the impertinent nub with his tongue, sucking at it, dragging it over his teeth. She went into new paroxysms of delight, squirming like a fly trapped in a spider's web. Her hands knotted in his hair. Ouch. Double ouch. But that didn't stop the strength of his sucking. He grew bolder and darted his tongue inside her, and her feet drummed a soft tattoo on his lower back. "That feels so good..." she groaned."You like it?""I like it!" He liked it too; the more helplessly she squirmed, the harder he got. He remembered how she had ridden the horse, controlling it, moving in perfect harmony on its back...and he wanted to do the same to her, ride her, feel her moving beneath him and wrapped around him. "Kristen?" A man's voice came up from below.Fuck!"I could have sworn she was in here.""Her bag is here." The brother or cousin was back. Kristen continued to writhe and whimper. She hadn't heard the men below, or didn't care; discovery meant nothing to her. The hay crackled beneath her hips. "Shh!" He covered her mouth with his hands, his fingers slick and greasy with her juices. She began to suck them, her mouth moving aggressively. Her tongue scraped his palm, darted in the crevices between his fingers. Her knees poked his ribcage, and one foot began suggestively stroking his penis. He parted her legs and guided his cock inside her. She was deliciously tight, but flexible. "She might have gone to get something to eat.""OK, we'd better look in the village green." They were gone. Good. He began pumping in and out, his entry shallow at first, then deepening as he heard her groan. She clung to his neck, moaning in his ear, giving him tiny nips. Her legs, so perfect to control the one-ton horse, controlled him now, by turns bucking, then giving him pressure, then reigning him in like a nervous yearling. In. Out. Flashes came to him of Tyler pinned on the bed with his cock in her mouth, Yumi moaning as he pumped his meat into her tender, virgin pussy, Kayley in the back seat of the old Civic that had been wrecked in the accident, her legs spread like a Tijuana whore. They were all the same, but none of them were. It was all part of a grander dance, one far older than the pale historical version recreated at the fair in the atmosphere of chivalry and courtesy, backrubs and winks. The same dance he'd once followed to fuck another man in a tawdry San Francisco bar, Mark's cock in his mouth, filling him, using him, becoming the universe for a few seconds of his being.He came just then, the spasms emptying him, and the tight pressure in his balls decreased. Kristen collapsed into gooey pliability beneath him. "Ohhh" she moaned. She kissed him. "That was great."They stretched out on the straw, talking idly, waiting for the desire to grow strong again. She'd taken her pack up with her along with that fantasy book. Reed picked up at the place he left off. He couldn't say why the book fascinated him so. The prince, out of his mind with fear, lust and loneliness, was having sex with his lover. Another man.He felt a soft warmth on his back as Kristen plucked the book out of his hands and set it aside. "Hey," she said with mock severity. "You're supposed to be paying attention to *me.*"She rolled over him and kissed his chest. Sadly, he knew he could never tell her that he was thinking not of sex with her, but with a man.#Brent left the song circle early that night and went back to his tent. He changed into a black hooded sweatshirt and a pair of dark jeans, then scooped up the dog's leash. He snuck off to the village green.The square was deserted. As he hoped, most of the people were at the song circles in the trees. The empty tents watched him like silent accusers as he went to the pen. No one had bothered to lock the gate; good. Who, after all, would think of stealing a pig? What the hell would they do with it?Brent still didn't know what he was going to do with it. He had a vague idea of leaving it at the vegan resort. But that wasn't important now; what was important was getting the kidnapping over with quickly, as he was in plain view here in the middle of the square. He unlatched the gate as quietly as he could. The piglet gave a *uuunnf* and a series of snorts, which grew rapidly in volume and frequency. "It's only me," Brent whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you. Come here, little guy." He remembered pigs couldn't see too well. He edged over to the hay where the pig had been sleeping. The pig darted away, making a low, guttural noise that was nothing at all like the squealing Brent imagined he would hear. It looked like he was going to have to chase it down. Shit!He hadn't counted on it being so quick. He chased it from one end of the pen from to the other, and it managed to dodge him every time. He finally trapped it between his shins and squatted down to slip the leash on. It thrashed between his thighs like an oversized prick. He kicked the gate open and ran off into the trees, tugging the animal behind him. The pig balked, squealing like a worn-out brake pad. He finally scooped it up and carried it. It wasn't that heavy...about the size of his grandmother's Pekinese.He knew there was a path around here that led to the Doe Bay resort; all he had to do was find it. Luck was with him when he found a clear trail. In the distance, he saw the bay and the lights of the cabins."Good," he whispered to the pig. "We're nearly home." It gave him a doubtful grunt.He spoke too soon. He tripped on a root and the pig went flying, seemingly launched out of his grip by unseen forces. It high-tailed it down the path and darted into the brush."God damn it!" He crashed in after it. Twigs snapped, branches lashed his face. It wasn't too hard to keep track of; he heard it snuffling, then dry leaves cracking as it found its path. "Come here, boy," he said in a low voice. "Sooey, ew-ew-ew." But whenever he got close it only dashed off again. He saw a light through the trees, the warm glow of a fire. He knew he was far from the song circles by now. Was this a private camp? He crept slowly through the bushes, smelling wood smoke and something that might have been either marijuana or incense. As he came closer he heard female voices and the beat of a drum: "....Minerva, the font of wisdom...Diana, huntress of the moon...Hecate, mother of night, we pray to thee...."A ritual. Many Days of Chivalry members were pagans, or what passed for such these days. On the other hand, some were Satanists. He didn't think anyone who came all the way out here to practice a religious rite would be happy at having it interrupted. He heard the pig snort from over to his left. It was closer to him now, apparently as uninclined to enter that camp as he was."...lady, I submit to thee....I bow down to drink the sweetness that lies between thy legs..."His curiosity was sparked. He went down on his belly and crept forward to take a look. Something poked his stomach: his camera. He'd left it zipped in his sweatshirt pocket. Well, nothing he could do about that now.He squatted behind a log and looked up. Four white-robed girls stood around the fire, facing the flames with their arms held out in front of them, palm-down. They wore wilting garlands of flowers on their heads, the weedy Queen Anne's Lace and goldenrod they'd probably gathered from the tournament field. They formed five points of a star, the fifth being vacant. They were chanting softly in a strange language. Five more girls watched the proceedings on the sidelines, and it was from them that the marijuana smell came. They were dressed normally and looked very bored, in the manner of students waiting for the bell so they could go home and slack off. None of that was particularly shocking; he seen it in countless horror movies countless times before. What was shocking was the fact a very naked Tracey Amphlett stood at the head of the group facing the moon, her arms stretched above her shoulders as if supplicating the sky. Her head was thrown back and an expression of ecstasy filled her face. And causing that ecstasy was the missing handmaiden, who knelt at her feet with her face buried in her pussy, her mouth making moist sounds like she was slurping an ice cream sundae.It was one of those sights so surprising it acted like a reverse cold-water shower; Brent felt a rush as all his blood suddenly poured into his cock, leaving his brain cells gasping for oxygen. Holy FUCK!A log snapped in the fire, the noise loud enough to flush the pig out of hiding. "Ew-eeeek! Ew-eeeeek!" It ran out into the clearing, scaring the shit out of the assembled girls. "What the hell...?" "It's a bobcat! Get away from it!" Robes flapped, legs pumped as they ran like frightened chickens. Tracey fell back on her ass as the pig ran by her left. "It's our pig!" she hollered. "He must've gotten loose. Get him!"Brent couldn't afford to hide anymore. He ran out into the clearing, adding to the confusion. No one could see very well and neither could the pig. With any luck, he'd grab the leash and get away before they figured out what was going on. Tracey would see his escape, but that was too bad. animal rights took priority over lust.He banged into her as she was pulling her robe on. "What the fuck are you doin' here?" she snarled.This was too funny for words. "What about you?""We were doing a ritual! men aren't supposed to see!" A scream as one of the handmaidens burnt her buns in the fire. She stumbled on the burning log and the light level fell by half. The pig darted in and out of the forest of female legs, snorting like an engine. The handmaiden's flimsy robes burst open as they scrambled, giving eye-goggling views of tits and ass."I got him, Tracey!" A handmaiden came up dragging the pig by the leash."No!" Brent pushed her down; she fell with a surprised grunt. He grabbed the lash and ran for the woods."Stop right there." He backed off from the two foot sword leveled at his balls. The girl who held it looked like she knew how to use it. It wasn't just men who went to tourney anymore. They were divisions for both sexes now. He had his knife, but it wasn't much use against a sword. The Dungeons and Dragons escapades of his junior high years had intruded dangerously into real life. He dropped the leash as she went to grab it and gave the pig a kick. It found an opening in the trees and ran off squealing into the night."What did you do that for?" Tracey demanded."He's got a right to live," Brent snapped back. "So that's it." Her eyes narrowed maliciously. Her hair was mussed, tangled with twigs and decaying leaves. She still smelled like sex, the odor made stronger by the pig-chase and panic. "You're one of those animal-activist types aren't you? I saw that leash. You were stealing him, weren't you?"It was pointless to deny it. The handmaidens surrounded him now, looking grim. "You'll never find him in the woods," he said. "He's gone. You'd better get used to it.""Fucking shit!" one handmaiden swore. "It cost us two hundred dollars for that pig! What about the raffle tickets? We'll have to give everyone a refund. We'll look like total idiots.""Report him to security," another yelled.Brent knew he'd done wrong, but he'd acted out of higher principles. In order that he continue to act on them, he had to save his ass now. He looked Tracey in the eye. "You do that, and everyone at school is going to know you're all a bunch of dykes. Everyone! I'll tell them exactly what I saw here and who was in charge of it."Tracey screeched with outrage. "Oh yeah? Why would they believe you?"She had a point; it was the denial of six against the accusation of one. "Because I've got this." He whipped out his camera and snapped off a shot. He made a break while they were all blinded from the flash.He didn't get far. One of the girls tackled him and he fell on his face, and two more handmaidens climbed on top of him. He looked up to see the point of a sword leveled at his eyes. "Get up," Tracey said. "You're not going to tell anybody anything. And after all this is over with, you're going to go back in the woods and find us that pig, or else."Their combined weight was crushing the air out of his lungs so he could hardly reply. "Or else what?"Tracey whispered something to her friends that he couldn't catch. They dragged him to his feet, the swords pointing at his stomach. He looked over at the other girls for help, but they seemed as uncommitted as they were at the beginning. A few giggled; that was it. This wasn't their show. They could have been either aspiring recruits to the witch-cult ranks or curious onlookers. Either way, he wasn't going to get any sympathy. "Take him over to that tree."A poke with the sword convinced him to move. That hurt. The swords were required to be safety-bonded or blunted before they were allowed onto the fair, but that was for display or tournament only. These swords were the real thing, probably kept concealed from the authorities for use in this ritual. They dragged him over to a fallen tree that pointed up at the sky at a twenty-degree angle. The other girls had been using it to sit on and they quickly scooted off. Tracey pushed him down so he straddled the log, his head and shoulders higher than his legs. It was just thick enough for him to clasp his arms around. "Don't move," she ordered. Well, how could he move with three swords pointing at him? She ripped off the amulets from his neck and knotted the thongs together, then tied his wrists on the other side of the trunk. The other handmaidens unknotted the laces of his hiking boots and tied them together as well. He was pressed against the bark, embracing the log as if it was a giant teddy bear."Now listen." She gave him another poke. "You lost us our pig, and now you're going to BE our pig." He jumped when he felt her hands burrow beneath him to unbuckle his belt. She slid it off. "Nice strong leather. Flexible." She cracked the belt against the tree near his face. "Guess what we're gonna do with it, huh?"He squirmed his hips again as she undid his fly. She hooked her fingers around the waistband of his jeans and his underwear and pulled them down in one swift jerk. His ass was on display for all to see. The handmaidens snickered, but the audience was looking definitely uncomfortable. "Give me the camera.""No!" But they snapped off a shot anyway, one of the handmaidens holding him by the hair so he couldn't move his head. The flash made him see spots. "We'll be taking more, too, and if you don't get us that pig back and keep your mouth shut about tonight, those copies are going to be all over the school in September. Got it?" He was screwed. Get the pig back, or be publicly humiliated. Now he knew what his father meant by sacrificing oneself for one's principles. Fuck the principles. "I got it. Will you let me go now?""No. That would be too easy." She snapped his belt through the air; he heard it whistle. Then it connected with his ass.It hurt more than he thought it would. It was an itching, burning pain, very intense, and it drove the breath out of him in a gasp. For one second his whole being was the pain; its arrival, dispersal, its aftereffects. He'd had the same feeling when he'd dropped a cement block on his foot once. It was a sensation so swift and total it hardly even registered as pain; it was more like some sort of mental shock.Tracey noted his reaction. "Feeling sorry now?""Fuck you," he muttered, his chin against the bark. Another smack, and another, each worse the last. Then she turned the belt around and hit him with the buckle.That was worse. He hadn't intended to give them the satisfaction of moaning and groaning, but a squashed, stifled sound seeped out anyway. She'd drawn blood. He pulled his wrists at the thongs but his muscles didn't work right in the position his arms were in. She'd tied him too tight and his hands were going numb. She gave him a couple more smacks, and he would have lost the contents of his stomach if there'd been anything in there to bring up."Will you stop that!" He opened his eyes to see one of the onlookers go over to Tracey and start arguing with her. "You have your stupid picture. Why don't you let him go.""He stole the pig!""How can you prove he stole something that isn't here? And you're committing assault and battery, by the way.""Will you calm down, Jessie?" one of the stoner girls said. "Jeez! It's the Chivalry fair. Wierd shit goes on all the time. No one's gonna report anything. Do you want Tracey to throw us out of the fief?""I don't give a shit. She's your friend, not mine."Thank God, it was just what he needed, internecine strife. Anything to keep that belt away from his ass. Jessie's voice was higher and more feminine than Tracy's. He tried to get a closer look at her and was surprised to find tears distorting his vision. Tracey raised her arm again."No!" Jessie blocked her swing, catching her by the wrist. Tracey snarled at her, trying to jerk her arm free. "Let me go, bitch."Jessie was dressed in jeans and a heavy flannel shirt, while Tracey was barefoot and seminude: Jessie had the advantage. But Tracey had the weight of her coven behind her. She raised her left arm to slug the other girl in the mouth.A bad mistake, as Jessie knew kung fu, too. For a split second Brent got a glorious slow-motion rotation of Tracey as she flew up and over, her white robe flying open like a kleenex, tits, ass, and neatly shaved pussy as monumentally displayed as the markings on the flying thigh bone at the beginning of "2001." She fell, mouth roaring incoherently, and crumbled on the grass. She lay there, stunned, a Barbie doll tossed by its owner.Jessie glared at the others. "Anyone else disagree with me?"With horror-flick suddenness Tracy jumped to her feet and grabbed a stick. He should have guessed her cheerleader reflexes would make her quick on the rebound. Jessie turned and casually kicked her in the crotch with her heavy Doc Marten boot. She went down again, moaning, hands shielding her violated bush. He was amazed to see a crotch-kick was just as affective on females as it was on males.Jessie quickly crouched next to him. "Do you have a knife?"He couldn't her face too clearly because of the dark and her bulky clothes hid her figure. "It's in my pocket."She grabbed the knife and quickly cut his shoelaces, then the thongs around his wrists. He pulled his pants back on, Jessie guarding his back like a faithful sidekick. Tracey still writhed, her handmaidens attempting to administer some aid. He knew as much could be done for her as could be done for any man who'd been kicked in the balls. "Let's go before they get their clothes on," Jessie whispered.He was too happy to follow her advice. She grabbed the camera and they crashed through the brush. The moonlight made crazy patterns in the trees. It was a good thing it was full tonight, or else they never would have been able to find their way around. They stumbled down the side of a ravine and followed the creek, then met a path that led up the other side. After ten more minutes they were on a cliff overlooking the bay. The resort was to their right. The moon sat like a swollen breast above the water, the reflection a phallic stripe that looked solid enough to walk on."There's a path that leads down to the camp," Jessie said, pointing. "We can backtrack to the road, and it'll take us back to the fair site. They won't be chasing us--they'll be looking for the pig." She looked at him critically. "That was a real stupid stunt you pulled. Why did you bring him to the ceremony?""I was taking him to the resort. I thought they'd adopt him. He got away from me in the woods and I was trying to find him.""Well, he'll probably find his way there himself, I guess." She sat on a log, her legs spread out before her. He had to kneel. His ass felt like it had been sanded raw. "Tracey was real pissed about it. The fief needed the raffle money for a new tent.""How do you know her?" From what he'd seen, Jessie didn't look like the kind of person given to conducting erotic rituals in the woods."I don't, not really. I know her from school, that's all.""What school?""Bellingham High." She looked at him in a mixture of hurt and surprise. "Don't you know me? I was in your ecological sciences class last year. And we worked together on the play, too. You were in the orchestra and I was working on the sets." She flicked her flashlight on and pointed it at her head. She had a bland, round face, thick eyebrows, and a sensuous mouth, but nothing else that caught the eye and made you go wow. Her hair was short and thick, cut in a nondescript style, and her body, though athletic, was chunky and thickset. She was the type of girl he had passed in the hallway a hundred times without looking.He felt a deep shame overcome him. The Traceys of world got all the attention, and they didn't deserve it. He'd been sucked into her glamour as much as anyone else, even though he'd tried to convince himself he wasn't...while Jessie, whom he hadn't remembered in even the vaguest way, had the guts to save his ass. "Why were you hanging around Tracey, anyway?" he asked."My cousin's friends with her. She wanted to see the ritual, and I went along in case things got out of hand. Tracey's got weird ideas. I thought she'd get dangerous."He wished he'd gotten a photograph. Jessie was very nice and all, but that didn't compare to the thrill of surprising two beautiful naked girls having oral sex by the fire. Now that they were out of danger he began to get hard again just thinking about it. Or maybe it was the moonlight and being alone with the trees with a calm, self-assured girl who was reassuringly sane...sitting so close to him he felt the soft nap of her shirt brush against his throat. "I think she made that ritual up, anyway. I wrote a paper last year on witchcraft and she was following no ritual I've ever heard of. She thinks she's a feminist. She's always talking about how women have "special powers" they can activate only in the moonlight. The power comes from sex, but men spoil it because they're not pure. That's why they were going down on each other. It's all bullshit. I think she's really a lez.""You don't sound like a feminist to me."She grinned at him so broadly he could make it out in the moonlight. "Hmm. She's a cheerleader, and I'm banging together stage sets and practicing martial arts. So who's the feminist here?" She looked at him curiously as he squirmed around to accommodate the bulge growing in his jeans. "Hey, are you all right?"How little she knew. For twenty-four hours he'd been surrounded by sexual opportunities he never seemed quick enough to catch, and he had to do something, now, or else he was going to explode.The moon called to him, a bland Madonna face, egging him on with her wise, accepting gaze. He jerked his jeans down and his erection rose under his briefs like an expedition-sized K2 tent. He tugged his underwear down over the shaft, setting it free, and it pointed at the moon like a stiff finger."Uh, Brent--" Jessie began."Sorry," he muttered, already beginning to rub his shaft. God, did that feel good. Relief buzzed into closer perspective. "I HAVE to do this. It's a guy thing...I can't help it. You don't have to look if you don't want to."Jessie didn't look away. She looked fascinated. "Can I touch it?""What?" He opened his eyes, hands still pumping and pulling. It was the last thing he'd thought she would say. "Well, uh, sure. Go ahead. Not too hard. Not too...ah!"Her strokes were tentative at first, but grew bolder, tracing the shape of his shaft up and down, teasing the tip. Her hands were surprisingly warm and skilled. He was forced to hold himself back, intuiting it wouldn't be good etiquette to come in her hand. She switched on her flashlight to get a better look. Part of the light fell in her face and she looked utterly absorbed in what she was doing. Not by his cock so much but at the effect it had on him. He started breathing like a racehorse, gritting his teeth to keep his moaning whimpers locked in his throat. He was going to come any second. His cock was caught in the beam as if spotlit, Jessie's hands pumping up and down, diddling the head, as if it was a reverse of a titty bar show where the patrons were on stage masturbating instead of in the audience."Kiss me." His cock was pumping like an amphetamine reptileShe left off her rubbing and closed her mouth on his. She tasted sweet and hot, her tongue an excited snake. Her shirt had fallen open to the third button and he thrust his hands into the gap, giving her breasts a healthy squeeze. They were much bigger than Tracey's. Her nipples stiffened against his fingers, and the sensation sent an electric jolt of pure lust through him. "Pull your pants down," he whispered. "Use a condom!" she whispered frantically.You couldn't get away from safe sex these days. Luckily, he had one of Reed's in his pocket. He'd been using them for two years. They were a pain in the ass, but responsibility had been drilled too firmly into him to slack off. Jessie laid back on the grass, her pants down, her shirt pulled up invitingly. She spread her legs, her bush a pie-slice of black fur. He tugged the condom on, the sensation sending new arrows of pleasure up his cock, but didn't want to leave her breasts alone. He sucked one nipple, than the other, becoming more excited when he felt her breathing quicken. One of her hands strayed down between her legs, rubbing herself, and the subtle yet sharp tang of sex began to fill the air. He abandoned his efforts with the condom; it hung half-on, half-off his swollen penis. Fuck the condom. Fuck Tracy, fuck Jessie, fuck those tits, that ass, that tender hot wet waiting pussy...He spurted all over her before he knew what was happening, the stream of cum arcing gracefully to spatter on her shirtsleeve. She squealed in surprise, staring at it like she'd never seen a man's cum before. She probably hadn't. She dipped a finger into it and took a taste.He felt the strain on his face replaced by a goofy grin. "Sorry. I really needed that.""I didn't mind." She moved closer to him and guided his arm around her shoulders. "Do you want to try again?"Did he! "So Tracey's ritual turned you on, huh?""A little." She started giving the underside of his jaw little butterfly kisses, moving down his neck, where her tongue traced squiggles of hot delight. He rolled around on top of her.#They had sex a second time, less rushed and more passionate then the first. Then they chased each other through the trees, striking silly poses for the camera until the film was used up. It was very late when he got back to camp. The song circles were splitting up, the fires reduced to glowing coals.Reed raised his head when he climbed in the tent, roused from a sound sleep. "It's two o'clock in the morning," he muttered. "Where were you?""With a girl." Brent turned on the camp light to its lowest level of intensity so he could undress. His shoelaces were ruined. He still had his camera. He wondered if he would ever have the courage to develop that film."Sh..." Reed swore. "What happened to your butt?""I fell in the woods," Brent lied. "I slid down a ravine."Reed fumbled for the first-aid kit. "Did you wash that? You might get an infection.""Yes, I washed it," Brent parroted. At least Reed wasn't making wisecracks about fucking in the woods. They wouldn't have been so far off the mark anyway. He squeezed some antiseptic creme into his palm and smoothed it into his skin. The bruises and cuts still hurt, but it was a nice sort of pain because it reminded him of the sex he'd just had. He would be reminded every time he sat down. Not a bad prospect, actually. He knew would be seeing more of Jessie before the fair was over. Reed tucked himself back inside his sleeping bag. "Are you going to tell me about this girl?""No."#Gwen Turner unpinned her hair, letting her braids fall around her shoulders. She ran her fingers through the plaits, undoing them, then unhooked the tight velvet bodice of her gown. She felt a relief, a deep satisfaction that their vacation was going so well. They'd had such a stressful time over the past year, with Reed's leaving for college and then his accident, followed by Anna's noisy entry into puberty. It had caused a few lines around her eyes that hadn't been there before, some gray in her pale wheat-colored hair. But her faith in her husband, and his faith in her, had carried them through. The boys were asleep in their tent, Anna in hers. They'd been at the song circles until 2 o'clock this morning playing all the old ballads, the ones they'd been doing for years...the ones they would continue to do for years more. She felt the weight of accumulated time and memory...not as an unwanted pressure, but as a catalog of all the joys and satisfactions they'd experienced.Her husband dipped through the tent opening. She felt a deep rush of love as she faced him in her linen shift. There was a lot in him yet of the young man who'd wooed her with Medieval ballads in the Redwoods of California. He was still a very sexy man.Mischief glittered in his eyes. With an ostentatious gesture he untied the fly of his authentic 17th-century Russian peasant's pants. His erection bobbed free, flushed a dark wine color. It was huge.Grinning like a horny 19-year-old, he said, "Service me, wench."#Anna slipped out of the campsite to look at the stars. She glanced back over her shoulder. The light went out in her parents' tent, and she heard soft laughter and the rustle of the nylon sleeping bag.She felt different. Strangely excited, yet apprehensive. She hugged her arms across her chest. Her breasts had not yet sprouted, but she'd noticed her nipples were growing larger. One day, she might look like that crazy girl who'd kept flashing Brent. Not that *she* would expose herself, but it sure would be fun to have a body like that. She looked up at the moon. It hung low in the sky, the color of old bone. From the distance, outside the boundaries of the fair, came the menacing guitar intro to Nirvana's "Come as You Are." The fluid chords slithered like a reptile through the Days of Chivalry tents, a snake in the garden of Eden. It seemed like an omen.She was only eleven, but she knew the world was changing. From even further away came a mocking echo, the rapid beat of a drum machine and synthesizer, the frantic digital sampling of an acid house CD. The fallow time was over; things would never be the same again, for herself or her family.ENDThis work is copyrighted 1997 by Cobalt Jade ( This work may be be freely distributed over electronic media provided no fee is charged for its use. Charging a fee for this story, or publishing without author credit or this notice violates my copyright.


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