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Author's notes: 

     I am indebted to Teresa, whose comments inspired the 
     title and the core of this story. 

     I do not think this story should offend or harm the
     typical mature reader, but for those of you who prefer
     to know the contents of a story before reading it,
     please see the notice which follows the story.


Pump Song
by Mat Twassel

Evening settled over the southern Indiana countryside.  
Laura and I sat on our back porch watching our almost three 
year old granddaughter chase fireflies.  Laura and I had 
been fighting over some little thing--I don't remember what, 
but now we were sitting close on the porch swing watching 
little Amy stumble after the glowing bugs.  She'd see the 
blink of one and go after it, but she'd never get there 
before the bug dimmed, or got too high, drifting above her 
little arms just out of reach; or she'd get distracted by a 
fresh light and spin in a new direction, only to topple in 
the soft high grass, only to get up again immediately, all 
giggly, her blonde head of curly hair bobbing in the last of 
the twilight.

"She's tenacious, isn't she?" Laura asked.  "Do you think 
her arms are too short?"

"They're just right," I said.

"If she catches one and squishes it, do you think she'll be 
sad?" Laura asked.

"Were you?"

"I don't remember," Laura said.  "I remember being gentle, 
and having them crawl on my hand.  I remember the tickle of 
them as I'd coax them into the mason jar with the holes ice-
picked into the lid."  She squeezed my thigh.

"I guess I squished a few in my fingers," she said a moment 
later.  "Just to see."

"Just to see what?" I asked, but Laura didn't answer.

"Amy, time to come here now," Laura called.  Hurriedly and 
happily Amy came.  She nestled in Laura's lap. Laura put her 
bare heels on the porch and began to rock us.  Inside of a 
minute Amy was asleep.

"Should I take her up?" I asked.

"Not just yet," Laura said.  She slowed the slow rocking of 
our swing. Over the distant chirp of crickets, we could 
hear, faint but clear, the squeak and sigh of bedsprings. 
That was our daughter Annie upstairs with her husband Tom. 
Their little bedroom was above our porch.

I knew what Laura was thinking. I ought to oil that bed, but 
I didn't mind the sound; I found it comforting, the rhythms 
now slow and easy, now fast and urgent, then irregular, or 
rushed, or silent.  At one point we heard a sharp giggle, 
Annie's, and it made my throat catch.  Any other sounds were 
too muffled to come through the walls and window.

Tom was working at the quarry now, long hours, hard work--
it'd been six months since he'd been laid off by the tractor 
place. At least Annie was happy for the moment--she was 
painting again.

Now that it was quiet, just the distant crickets, I said, 
"Suppose I ought to oil those bedsprings...."

"No," Laura said, "It's a good sound, good to hear."  I took 
her hand.

We sat for a few more minutes, Amy shifting once easily in 
her sleep, and then Annie came out onto the porch.  She wore 
a man's white dress shirt, hardly buttoned, maybe nothing 
else.  I wondered if it was one of my old ones.

"I just put Tom to bed," she said.  "He's a tired boy."

"And here's a tired girl," I said, meaning Amy.  I got up 
from the glider and lifted Amy from Laura's arms and 
presented her to Annie.  "She's such a honey bunny," I said.  
"So sweet."  I kissed Amy's head.  I kissed Annie's nose.

"You're sweet, too," I said.  She did smell sweet.  Slightly 
of turpentine, slightly of something else. 

"Night, Dad.  Night, Mom," she said.

"Love you," Laura said.  "You coming back?"

"I don't think so," Annie whispered.  "Pretty tired."  Annie 
carried Amy in.

I sat back down next to Laura.  We held hands for awhile.

"Why'd you ask that about whether she was coming back?" I 
said after a few minutes had passed.

"Oh, I don't know," Laura said.  "It's a nice night, isn't 

"Yes," I answered.

We watched the night, the lawn and sky, the quiet glow 
almost gone.

"It might be a nice night to suck your cock out here, 
mightn't it?"

"Yes," I said again.

"But tell me a story first.  Tell me a story while I do it."

"Marcy-Ann'll whoop the tar offen your boy Charles."  The 
old man spoke low but that's the way the boy heard it.  The 
other old man spat, and sipped his beer, and the first old man 
flicked the blade of his knife against a chubby spindle of 
soft pine, sending the curl of wood somersaulting through 
the air. It landed on the bare earth a few feet from the 
boy's tattered sneakers.

The boy knew Marcy-Ann.  He was afraid of her, and he was 
sure she could whoop the tar off of somebody.  But why would 
they have tar on them?  Tar, that's the stuff they put on 
roads, made out of bugs all squeezed to juice in a big black 
bucket.  And who was this old man's boy, Charles? Looking 
over the picnic grounds, the boy didn't spot any kids named 
Charles.  He saw Marcy-Ann.  She was eleven, two and a half 
years older than the boy.  Her daddy had died in the war.  
Buried at sea, back when Marcy was a newborn, and the boy 
wasn't anything.  It didn't quite make sense not to be 
anything.  Marcy said it was like clouds after the rain.  
And her daddy was up in heaven.  Only his body was at the 
bottom of the sea, like Grampa said frogs were in winter, 
only with no hope of ever coming up again.  The clouds sat 
up there, big snow-white ones floating slow.  The boy's 
daddy had died, too, and his mother, too, but not in a war, 
and Grampa hadn't said anything about heaven.

The boy decided Charles might not be a kid at all.  Maybe he 
was a grown-up if his dad was that old man.  The boy 
wondered if Charles might be the new guy, the one who'd hit 
the softball so far, all the way to the weedy place at the 
far end of the meadow. Marcy-Ann's mother and the other 
women had clapped, and one of the older boys, thin as a reed 
and dark as a cattail, yelled "Dang-nabbit, that's the third 
and last time--now you all go find it."  Right away Marcy 
and another girl a few years younger, maybe the boy's own 
age, rushed across the field towards the weedy place.  
"Watch out for snakes," Marcy's mother had called, but the 
girls just kept running, their short skirts fluttering in 
the sun like butterflies.

The boy had been hoping he'd have a chance at bat, but with 
the ball gone, the game had petered out, and so he'd 
wandered over to the picnic table where these two old men 
were whittling and spitting and drinking beer from tall 
brown bottles.

"What'cha makin, Mister Brock?" the boy dared ask after 
watching for awhile.

"Why this here is a lioness, a lioness lying stretched out 
and licking her little cub."

"Lioness, hah!" exclaimed the other man, the one whose boy 
might be Charlie.  "Looks more like a tent peg to me.  
Either that or a stiff pecker."

Mr. Brock held up the stick.  "Right here's going to be the 
ears," he said. "Everything starts with the ears. Feel these 
little points? See how they perk up just a little?"  The man 
pushed the pad of his thumb firmly across the tiny bump atop 
the freshly cut wood. The boy touched the smooth surface. It 
was slightly warm.  He moved his fingertip over the nub.  It 
tickled a bit, made him shiver. "Everything starts with the 
ears," Mr. Brock repeated.

"Still looks like a stiff pecker to me," the other man said.

"Now you hush, Joe," Mr. Brock said.  "You wouldn't  know a 
stiff pecker if'n it bit you on the nose."  

The other man laughed and took a sip of his beer, and the 
two men got up. Mr. Brock stuffed the lioness-stick in his side 
pocket and they walked over to the horseshoes.  The boy 
wanted to follow, but he'd been warned about getting too 
close to horseshoes.

"What'cha doing?" Marcy-Ann asked the boy.  She'd surprised 
him and he jerked a little. She had the softball in both 
hands.  It was big.  Bigger than the head of a broken doll.

"Nothing much," he said.  "I'd been watchin Mister Brock 
makin a lion."

"What do you mean 'makin a lion'?" the girl who was with 
Marcy asked.  She was definitely younger than Marcy, almost 
a head shorter, and the boy thought she had pretty eyes, big 
and brown and interested in him, or at least in the lion.

"Want to play catch?" Marcy interrupted.  No sooner were the 
words out of her mouth than the ball was flying at him--
Marcy had pushed it two-handed from two feet away.  He 
wasn't ready for it, and it bopped him hard on the nose, 
bounced off, rolled under the picnic table, and came to rest 
in a puddle of something.

"He's too baby," Marcy-Ann said to her friend.  "Watch, I 
bet he's going to bawl." The other girl was crawling under 
the table after the softball.  Her little butt was in the 
air and the boy could see her underwear.  He looked away, 
trying hard not to tear.

"Shame on you!" Marcy-Ann whispered. "It's not polite to 
look when that happens."  

"I know," he said.  The first droplet of blood landed on his 
canvas shoe.

"Then why'd you look?"

The boy tilted his head back.  White clouds flowed thick and 
slow. "If she didn't want anyone to see her undiewear, then 
she shouldn't have worn any."

"That's the dumbest thing I ever heard," Marcy scoffed.  
"And only babies say undiewear.  It's underwear.  UNDER.  Or 

The blood was coming faster.  It felt like floating.

"The ball's all wet," the other girl said, climbing out from 
under the table.  "Root beer or something .... It smells 
like I don't know... like sea."  She held the ball in front 
of the boy's nose.  "Ooh, you're bleeding!"

"He was lookin at your underpants," Marcy-Ann said.  "When 
you crawled under."

"I wasn't," the boy said.  "I was just looking at the ball."

"You'd better go put a cold rag on your nose," Marcy-Ann 
said.  "Otherwise you'll bleed to death in six minutes.  It 
happens all the time."

"Does it hurt?" the other girl asked.  She put her finger 
gently under the boy's nostril.

"Oh, yuck," said Marcy-Ann.  "I'm going to get help.  You 
comin, Laura?"

The boy felt Laura's eyes watching the blood.  But then they 
moved, they moved into his own. 

"I didn't mean to look at your... at your underwear," the 
boy said.

"That's okay," Laura answered.  Then she did a strange 
thing. She tasted her finger, tasted the finger with his 
blood on it. And then she said something equally strange. 
"It's good," she said. "Now we're even. Wait here."  She 
turned and ran off.

The boy hurried into the woods, and there as the bleeding 
slowed, the tears began to come.

The boy listened to the clank and clink of horseshoes, iron 
ringing against iron, or sometimes the chuff of a missed 
toss landing on nothing but soft earth. He heard the men's 
shouts as he sat in the shade of a large tree, huddled into 
the shadow, wiping his eyes, wondering what he'd been crying 
about.  A small ant was crawling up a stem of grass.  The 
boy's nose felt thick, choked with dried blood.  He knew if 
he picked it out, the blood would come again.  That was 
knowledge.  Ants never got bloody noses.

By now, the boy figured, Marcy and her mom and Laura would 
have given up looking for him.  Maybe they never looked at 
all.  Maybe they'd left him high and dry.  High and dry, he 
repeated to himself as he looked up along the tree trunk, 
all the way up through the quiet leaves to the very top and 
beyond. He thought: if only I'd caught Marcy's throw... but 
then what would I do?  Toss it back to her?  Throw it so 
hard it'd boink her nose and make her bleed?  Then 
everybody'd be looking for him, looking to give him a good 
hard whooping.  Marcy'd probably say, "He's just a baby--he 
didn't know any better," but she'd smile as he got spanked.  
And Marcy's friend, Laura... what would she think, seeing 
Grampa pull down his shorts and underwear and paddle him on 
his bare bottom right in front of everyone?  The boy picked 
the grass that the ant, gone now, had been climbing, and 
idly he touched it to his nose.  As he touched himself he 
thought about Laura, about the way her finger felt there, 
and about her eyes as she looked into his. Without thinking 
about it, he tasted the sprig of grass.  Slightly sweet, 
mostly  bitter.  How could cows and ants stand to eat this 

A few minutes later the boy got up and walked slowly back to 
the picnic grounds.  He might get spanked for running away; 
he might get spanked for getting a bloody nose, or for 
splotching blood on his shirt and shoe, or he might not get 
spanked at all.  You never know about these things.

At the edge of the picnic ground, centered in a slab of 
cement stood an old iron pump with a long curved handle. 
Earlier the boy had been warned not to touch it because it 
could be dangerous, although exactly what danger there might 
be was not explained.

Some women and kids and a few old men were sitting on the 
grass in the sun, and the man, the one who'd hit the 
softball so far, was working the handle, pushing it hard and 
letting it ease back and pushing it again. The big muscles 
in his arm bulged and rippled and someone yelled "maybe it 
ain't primed" and the man just grinned and pumped down 
again, and then again, each time drawing a squeally creak 
from the mysterious core of the iron mechanism. Suddenly a 
slim sound gurgled from somewhere deep inside, a throaty, 
juicy, croaky sort of sound, and someone said, "Ah, it's 
comin, I can hear it," and then a trickle of wet seeped out 
the pipe end, just a drip, and a sputter of air, and then 
suddenly, magically, a full deep gush of liquid, red as 
dried blood, splattering against the cement, splattering the 
shoes and socks of Marcy-Ann and Laura, who were watching 
and giggling, and they jumped back squealing, and the man 
smiled big as he continued to work the pump, leaning into 
it, an easy rhythm, and the water, fresher now, throbs and 
bolts of it, lifted upon itself and fell back and flowed 
forward, shooting out now in a nearly steady stream. The man 
finally stopped pumping and stood there, along with everyone 
else, watching the water come.

Then the man stepped around to the spigot, cupped his hands 
as he bent forward, gathered the sweet water into his palms, 
and brought it up to his face.  "Ah," he said, "Good, it's 
good."  And then he returned to the pump handle, pumped some 
more, and the pair of girls timidly stepped forward.  They 
bent from the waist to take turns tasting the water with 
their tongues.  "Leave some for the rest of us," one of the 
old men called out.

"It's so cold," Laura answered. "Come and try it.  Come on, 
Mommy. It's good."  One of the women got up off the grass 
where she'd been sitting Indian style, strode to the pump, 
cupped her hands, and took a sip of water.  "Not like that," 
her daughter said.  "Right from the hole place."  The woman 
leaned in, but the man hadn't pumped while this was going on 
and the flow had abated to a trickle.  Laura's mother had to 
get really close, but just then the man began pumping again, 
trying to bring the water up, and it surged against her nose 
and her eyes, caught her in the face flush and full.  She 
lurched back as if slapped.  "Oh," she said.

"I'm sorry," the man said.  He rushed to her.  He held his 
hands out, helplessly.  

"You did that on purpose John Paul," she said, and then, 
almost as if unaware of her actions, she took his hands and 
brought them to her lips.  Maybe she meant to use his 
fingers as a towel, to wipe the droplets of icy water from 
her face, but instead she put her lips against his knuckle.  
Realizing it was a kiss, she backed away.  Everyone was 
watching, and no one said anything. The man and woman turned 
bright red.  The water dribbled to a stop.

"Let's have some of that watermelon," Mr. Brock said, after 
a long moment.  The pump was abandoned.  But a while later, 
long enough for the afternoon sun to have evaporated much of 
the water from the cement block, the boy stepped up to the 
pump handle.  He had to reach up to get a good grip on the 
iron.  He tried to pull it down.  It wouldn't budge.  He 
pulled harder, hard enough to lift his shirt out of his 
pants, to expose his belly button.  He pulled as hard as he 
could.  He pulled and pulled.  And finally the pump handle 
moved.  Only an inch, but it moved.  It moved!

I stopped for awhile, listening to the gentle slippery 
sounds of Laura's sucking.  She knew how to make it last 
almost forever.

"That was a good story," she said.  "Would you like me to 
finish it... your pump song?"

"Maybe we could finish it together," I suggested.

Laura smiled and stepped quietly off the glider and in an 
instant was out of her shorts.  Her panties were 
simple and white and I could see the dark place in front.

"Do you like my undiewear?" Laura asked, a grin to her 

"Very much," I said, moving my hand on the outer front, the 
dark place, and then down, all the way to the damp.  I 
worked the elusive bump gently through the cloth. "Listen," 
I said. We listened to the shy squeak of wet skin.

A moment later Laura stepped back, freed herself, and then 
hurried forward into my arms.  The swing swung wildly for a 
crazy moment, chains pulling at the ceiling, and then we 
settled down as Laura arranged herself over me.  She lowered 
herself slowly, hissing at the succulent give of sweet 
friction.  "Sssh," she said.  "Let me... let me hunt you.  
Let me... catch your cock with my ...."  Her eyes were 
inches from mine.  Her lips, inches from mine.  I was 
paralyzed.  She smelled of something... of sweat, of sea, of 
sweetness just out of reach.  The swing swayed, but we 
stayed steady.  "Sweet," she said, "Your tip is so sweet.  
But I won't stop until I have your whole head.  All of it. 
In me.  All of you. In me."  She touched my lower lip with 
her tongue.  Just the tip.  A tease. "A little more," she 
said.  "A little more.  The long lovely length of it.  Of 
you. Of it.  My sweet long lovely man-cock, all big and hard 
and fuck-spitty, right to the base of those tawny snug, 
seed-heavy pods."  Next thing I knew she was all the way 
down.  I could feel her little bottom lightly on my upper 
legs.  She rested there a moment, her small supple weight 
somehow slightly out of reach, suspended in the grip of her 
grace. "Gonna fuck him, now," she said.  "Gonna fuck him 
sweet and slow and full."

She moved up and down on me.  Slowly.  Steadily.  I had my 
feet flat on the porch to keep the swing firm. After a minute or
two I realized something: she was matching the rhythms of the 
bedsprings upstairs, that sly insistent song which had 
sprung up as if out of nowhere.  Up and down she went, 
unhurried as the clouds drifting across the moon, but 
synchronizing our fuck to Tom and Annie's upstairs.  The 
last of the fireflies turned softly on and off, a show of 
slow serene progress. She stopped talking.  She just fucked.  
Fucked to the squeak of the bed upstairs.  It grew more 
insistent.  She matched it. She seemed to sense each small 
shift of tempo, each extra notch of need. My hands stroked 
steady circles upon Laura's back. The firm gentleness of her 
fucking, the sweet slippy up and down of it, gave way 
eventually to feast, fast, full and furious, drawing me 
towards the inevitable oblivion.

I was on the edge when she stopped. "Is this incest?" she 
asked, an impish smile playing across her face.

"No," I whispered, "No. It's love."

The glider swung silently.  Laura pushed deep.  Not moving 
anymore, just opening, opening deep and full. We heard Annie 
cry out, and then the upstairs sounds stopped. Just clouds 
scraping the night sky.  I could feel Laura's hot snug hold--
the love of it.

Abruptly Laura kissed me.  She bit my nose, a bite soft but 
gruff, not at all in play, more another way of breathing: 
she sucked, sucked me with all the lusciousness of her mouth 
and of her cunt, sucked as if to catch my breath in both 
places, the breath of my cock, my core, my being.  I was so 
close.  She was so close. We were in each other. Not parents 
or grandparents.  Not children.  Not people.  Only us. 
Delicious us. Us us us. And then she released me. Expulsing 
the sweetest sigh, she threw back her head giving me her 

Her coming was like strong hic-cups, sudden and sharp.

Later, we padded through the dark kitchen.  "Want some 
water?" I asked.

"Mm," she said.

I turned the tap, filled the plain glass half full, handed 
it to her.

She looked out at the dark lawn as she drank.  "It's good," 
she said. She drank some more, holding the glass in both 
hands, just like a little girl.

Pump Song
copyright 1998 by Mat Twassel

Author's notes: 

"Pump Song" is a story about sex and love and family.  I am
tempted to make a joke: It is about parents having sex with
their child.  But there is no incest in "Pump Song" and 
there is no kiddie sex.  The parents have sex with each
other on the porch swing of their country home while 
listening to the bedsqueaks of their daughter (twenty-
something) while she is making love to her husband in their 
bedroom above the porch. If this idea offends you, please do 
not read "Pump Song."

The story also contains a number of younger characters: 
children whose ages range from under three to about eleven. 
The activities and behaviors of these children (in my 
estimation and experience) are typical of typical children--
this is not a kiddie sex story.  However, to those of you 
who are squeamish about sex stories in which children 
appear, I'd rather you pass up this story than risk feeling 

I think this is a happy story.  It makes me feel good.  I 
also think it's a sexy story, but I'd be surprised if many 
readers will find it a sexually arousing story.  So if 
you're only looking for something like that, save this one 
for another time.

Finally, for anyone who is interested, many of the events in 
this story are based on actual occurrences.  For example 
Rocky Marciano did whoop Ezzard Charles in or around the 
summer of 1954, twice retaining his heavyweight boxing 
championship.  As of the time of this writing, however, our 
daughter is not married nor does she have a child.  But 
those days may not be so very far away.  Who knows?  
Regardless, I enjoy thinking about them.

If you would like to see a photograph of Annie and gain 
entrance to my webpage where a number of other stories and 
photos may be found, try:

Please feel free to write with comments of any kind:


(Thanks again, Teresa, for the songs.)

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