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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: ourtown4.txt (Mm/f, rom, ped)
Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
Story title : Our Town - 4
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please
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Our Town Part Four (Mff, rom, ped)
by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
***
The concluding part of a story of coming of age in Small
Town America.
***
It is truly amazing, in small-town America, as in no
other place on earth, how completely wrong you can be so
about things you thought you could trust implicitly.
Shirley Verne's imbecility turning out to be something
entirely different was the most emphatic case in point
in my life. And that it was treatable was a surprise to
us all. That she turned out to be a really sexually
appealing teenager was a bonus as far as I was
concerned.
But it is, perhaps, the less dramatic, common, everyday
kind of surprise that best typifies life in the small
town in the United States and makes it one of the most
exciting places on earth to be. I know for a fact that I
personally would live nowhere else. I had various tastes
of city life, and had the pleasure and privilege of
living in foreign countries for holidays and business
trips, but there is always relief when I get back to
small town America. And its regular dosage of surprise.
Most folk in our town regarded Jed as a self-centred,
devil-may-care tough guy who spared not a dud cent of
consideration for anyone but himself. I knew him to be
different; I knew how he felt about my kid sister for a
start, but I had also seen him in tears about the girl
he left behind in Saigon.
He remained at his father's bedside in hospital for
weeks before the old man finally passed away. Jed was
more shattered by the death than anyone in town,
including myself, could have predicted. He was torn by
remorse and tormented with guilt. Instantly he became a
reformed character, for now he had new responsibilities,
and with them, a new purpose in life. He took over the
running of the pet food plant, and went through the
place like the proverbial purgative. Admittedly he had
old scores to settle with some of the employees, but
there was also a no-nonsense approach to his new venture
in life.
For the first time in years the business began to show
more than just a simple living wage for the owner. In
less than a year, he was involved in a multi-million
dollar sell-out to an international conglomerate. And I
think it was a measure of the man that he insisted on
some sort of guaranteed tenure of employment or generous
financial recompense for his reconstituted workforce. It
was also some recognition of his business acumen that he
was given an executive role in the new company and the
headquarters were shifted from Chicago to Kansas City
and Topeka.
His visits to our place, as a result of his new
commitments, until the take-over was completed, became
less frequent. He still called to take Deri out for
weekend drives, meals and theater shows. He bought her
new clothes and jewelry. He fully intended to marry her,
he insisted, as soon as she was old enough. But I
suspected a mutual coolness in their relationship; I
think both of them became sensitively conscious of the
problems involved in the difference in their ages. It
was a mere flea bite when theirs was a sordid little
back-garden affair with a sex-crazy ten year old and a
loose and uncommitted guy feeling her up.
Eleven years, however, can be a lifetime to an eleven
year old girl, and an eleven year old girl can be
embarrassingly conspicuous in public with a man in his
mid-twenties and can raise a few eyebrows. Give Jed his
due, however; one of the first things he did with his
new found wealth was help pay for Shirley Verne's
operation. I think he also felt some shame at having
fingered what everyone assumed to be a totally mentally
handicapped kid. The incidents at the Verne's garden
gate were never mentioned again.
I finally managed to get the Vernes to sign a form of
consent for the operation. It meant a trip to California
and the help of the glamorous corporate lawyer, and a
truly embarrassing twelve hours in the company of
parents waiting for a jury to return a verdict of guilty
for their son. It was understandable, of course, but
Shirley slipped completely from their thinking, as did
the fact that her operation had to be paid for in cash,
with a substantial deposit produced before the actual
event.
The lawyer waived her fees, but rubbed thighs with me on
the plane, and did everything but drag me to bed with
her in San Diego. She let up only when she realized just
how green I really was. She confessed that it was the
first time ever she had been on a business trip with a
male and had not been laid! She seemed highly amused
when I appeared shocked at her revelation. I had always
supposed lawyers to be stiff, unemotional and, above all
else, unsexed.
In a way, it was Deri who, in her own subtle way,
provided me with the biggest surprise. When she moved
from elementary school into junior high, in accordance
with some new law, she had to undergo a complete
physical and psychological check-up. As responsible
adult, in loco parentis, I had to sign the consent form,
and received, months later, the results. There were more
than a dozen sheets of closely typed reports on her
state of health from her teeth and hair to the
composition of her urine and the frequency of her visits
to the toilet to evacuate her bowels.
Her plasma group was given a detailed description -
almost a page on its own - as was her blood pressure,
even the quality of her breathing and, of course, her
intelligence quotient. In all the details, however, the
thing that leapt from the type on the page was the
statement that 'her hymen was found to be intact and
that there were no signs of physical or sexual abuse'.
And I had been absolutely convinced that she was having
it regularly with Jed.
What the hell, I wondered, had the pair been up to all
this time? The mind boggled at the prospects! Apart from
that, however, her grades improved by leaps and bounds
to quite incredible levels, until she was seriously
classed as 'a gifted child and university material' by
her teachers. And I thought, who? My kid sister? This is
Deri they are talking about? Deri the dumb-head? Jed
once beat up a clown in Mrs. Chessip's diner for
referring to my kid sister as a dripping hot vagina
surrounded by a mindless body.
Back to Shirley Verne. Everyone in town, without
exception, regarded her as incurably and irreparably
brain damaged. In actual fact she was nothing of the
kind; all that was wrong with her was that everything
had been trapped inside her head in a kind of one-way
log-jam, and for a person with the right knowledge and
skill, it was a comparatively simple task, albeit a
quite ridiculously expensive one, to correct the defect,
to pull out the plug and bring it all out into the open.
But she had to struggle, with lots of frustration and
tears, to catch up on the lost years of her education.
And Deri helped a lot here. There was no way I could
have coped without the services of my kid sister.
There was no longer any need for me to supervise
Shirley's ablutions or visits to the bathroom, but she
still insisted that my presence at these activities
helped to give her confidence. I shared a shower with
her, soaped her body and rinsed her off every morning
and bathed her every night. She jacked me off daily and
I fingered her to a sort of climax. And she slept in my
bed most weekends. Deri had long complicated discussions
with her about make-up and hair styles and the monthly
cycle from which I was pointedly excluded.
Deri also escorted her to and from school where they had
set up a special remedial department designed with
Shirley Verne in mind. Some kind of researcher had
discovered another eight possible cases like Shirley's
in Kansas, and something like a hundred throughout the
United States and education authorities had been warned
that some provision would have to be made for them. As
one Republican senator put it: "What happens if every
nut in America is found to be educable?"
After about a year of normalcy everything in our town
settled down to get on with its tepid routine. We ate
once or twice a week at old Mrs. Chessip's diner, and
Jed started joining us again and sleeping with Deri from
Friday night until Monday morning when he was off on
business again to Topeka where he had an office. On
weekdays, when Jed was pointedly absent, Deri brought
friends home, some times to sleep over, mostly girls,
but occasionally some eligible boys. And she had taken
to sitting with them on the swinging garden lounger.
A couple of times I interrupted when I spotted a male
hand creeping inside her shirt or up her skirt, and
once, when there were two boys staying overnight, I
conveniently had to use the bathroom when I heard them
making their way towards Deri's bedroom. Ever since Deri
was a baby in a cot in my bedroom, when mom and dad were
having it away in theirs, I have felt personally
responsible for her. Deri took it in good part and
tended to laugh it off, but I really believe that she
came to rely on me at that stage in her life.
I once overheard her telling a much older boy from the
final grade in senior high that he could lay her 'but
only on her home ground and only if he managed to get
past her big brother!" I was pretty sure that she had
lost her virginity, and not necessarily to Jed, by her
second year in junior high.
And then the wheel of events got itself stuck in a rut
again. And our rural idyll was shattered. It seemed to
be made worse by being so unexpected. Nor was it any
kind of joke.
I had never met Jake Verne, I had never seen a
photograph of him; news of his arrest and trial had not
been given space on network television and only in
California did it appear in the newspapers. Our corner
of Kansas seems to be immune from the outside world.
Consequently, when this guy in a dark grey, misfitting
business suit burst into out sitting room and pointed a
revolver at my face, the last thing I had in mind was
Shirley Verne's brother.
The two girls were sitting at a table sharing school
secrets and pretending to do some home assignments. This
ugly, unshaven intruder, stared at them. He ordered each
in turn to stand beside me while he groped their tits
and under their skirts and suggested that either or both
would be sharing a bed with him that night. The gun
wavered in front of my face.
"Which one is Shirley?" The question was growled in my
direction. He seem surprised when she identified
herself. However, he indicated our vast studio couch and
snarled, "Sit there!" He pointed at Deri. "You! Make me
something to eat!" He prodded the gun into my cheek.
"And any funny business and I blow his fucking head
off!"
We had a program on state television at the time called
'Kansas Worst Cooks'. I used to joke that the
contestants on the show had nothing on Deri. Toast made
by Deri still comes out like floppy fried pancakes, and
her poached eggs could be used as golf balls or flying
saucers in a home movie. She once made a tapioca pudding
that blocked our drains and her porridge has to eaten
with a fork. The nobler instincts inside me were
prodding me towards a belief that I would not wish her
cooking on my worst enemy, but impulses tend to become
confused with a gun in your face.
I said, "I write the daily agony column for Interpress!"
when I meant to say, "I wouldn't eat anything Deri
prepared unless I had a death wish!"
The gun-slinger was confused. He watched Deri disappear
in the direction of our kitchen. He pointed an accusing
finger at Shirley. "I thought you were the one who was
wrong in the head." I was given a look of stupefying
contempt. "Not him!" He frowned, and pointed again. "You
are my kid sister!" He wriggled a finger in her
direction. "Pull back your skirt and spread your legs!"
Shirley gawked disbelief. The nickel dropped into the
slot and the little wheels turned: this was Jake Verne.
The gun sticking into my head suggested that the jury
had found him guilty of murder in the first and that
somehow he had escaped death row and was not in any way
pleased about the direction his life had taken in the
past year or two.
"You were a retard when I left home." He stated the fact
bluntly. His eyes drifted up and down Shirley's
shapeliness and settled on her exposed crotch. "You were
five when I last saw you. The doctors said you were an
incurable idiot! What happened?"
"They were wrong," replied Shirley simply. "You must be
Jake! I remember you! You turned away from me when mom
asked you to give me a kiss." She twisted her face to
one side. "I hated you for that. It was from that moment
I knew I was a freak." Tears ran down her face.
I had seen a situation in a television film like the
predicament we were in. There was nothing exciting or
dramatic about it in real life. Suddenly, I felt that I
needed the bathroom urgently, but Jake Verne was having
none of it.
"Crap in your pants!" He seemed totally incapable of
making any normal utterance without some accompanying
animal noises. There was every indication that he was
away beyond the tiredness stage of irresponsibility; the
man was obviously exhausted on the point of entire
physical and mental collapse. He also, understandably if
he were on the run, seemed extremely nervous.
This is not good for the person he happens to be
pointing a gun at, and I was acutely aware of the
danger. He flourished his free hand again in Shirley's
direction and grumbled, "See what she's up to in there!
And remember: any funny business and I blow his brains
out!"
Shirley did not move. "You can fuck off!" It was the
first time I had heard anything from her that was not
sugar and spice, playful, pleading or childishly
tearful. The effect was devastating. Jake pointed the
weapon and fired. The bullet blew a ripping, blustering
hole in the couch. The bang was horrendous. Shirley
screamed and crumpled into a tight ball with her face in
her trembling hands. The scream was echoed from the
kitchen.
The man crossed the room and kicked his sister in the
shins. "Now get the fuck in there and see what she is
doing. I want food tonight!" He spat simulated venom as
she sped away.
The worry I had was that Shirley Verne would experience
some sort of regression into abnormality. I had stopped
worrying about the potentially poisonous effects of
Deri's cooking. She appeared, however, a few minutes
later with a steaming tureen of soup on a tray beside
four bowls.
"I opened a family size Baxter's scotch soup," she said
without enthusiasm as she laid the tray on a table and
began to pour straight from the tureen into the bowls.
Jake Verne glared. "What the fuck do you think you are
doing?" He voiced my thoughts.
"I though we may as well all eat," she said innocently.
Jake poured the broth from the plates back into the
tureen, tested it for heat, then laid his revolver on
the table lifted the vessel to his mouth. I have never
known hunger, real hunger of the kind this escaped con
must have felt. Nor could I have imagined any kind of
food vanish as rapidly. Especially food prepared by my
kid sister. I glanced at her. There was an odd smirk of
satisfaction on her face. I merely assumed that it was
because, for once in her life, she had prepared some
food that was actually edible.
"You ate that far too quickly," declared Deri with
feeling. The smile still flickered on her lips. "You'll
get stomach cramps"
The man stared at her as if she had accused him of
raping a minor, of which I readily believed he was
capable and fully intended to do. A look of disbelief
and horror then swept across his face. His mouth
twitched for some seconds before twisting into a
grotesque scowl. He clutched his midriff.
"You fucking little sow!" He made a lunge for his gun.
"You fuck."
Deri was there before him. She swiped the weapon away
from the table. But it was needless. Jake Verne was on
his knees, his arms folded across his abdomen. He
whimpered. He keeled over taking the table, tureen and
bowls with him. I gawked in terror at the colorless
face. I really thought he was dead. I really believed
that my kid sister had poisoned him.
"It's just Paradone," she insisted when she saw how I
was affected. "We'll call the police and an ambulance."
She glanced at the body. "He'll be all right if they
wash out his stomach in the next couple of hours." She
went to the telephone and dialled.
Paradone was one of those imported disinfectants that
had been thrust on unsuspecting American households as a
result of some trade agreement in the seventies or
eighties. It was quite effective in clearing blocked
drains. It had also been the cause of a number of deaths
when little children had consumed the attractively
orange-colored liquid.
"They lectured us on how Paradone worked in the science
class," Deri explained when she had finished her
telephoning. "A dozen drops will knock a horse cold in
ten minutes."
I continued to stare at Jake. "How much did you give
him?" I asked.
Deri smirked. "A teaspoonful!"
The thought struck me: we could all have been killed if
Verne had insisted that we taste the broth before he ate
it. I voiced my thoughts.
"That's why I brought the extra plates!" She beamed her
brilliance. "He thought we were all going to have some."
She giggled. "Elementary psychology, my dear big
brother! The fact that I was dishing it out was enough
for him." She glanced again at the prone body. "Greedy
bastard! Deserves all he got!"
An ambulance and a couple of police cars arrived at the
house half an hour later. The paramedics revived Jake;
he was sick on our living room carpet, but everyone
considered that a mere detail. The policemen
congratulated Deri on the subtlety of her thought and
her incisive action and flirted with both girls. One of
them actually asked Shirley for a date. She told him
that she was as good as engaged to be married, and he
suggested that it would be like a last fling and her
fianc‚ need not know.
She laughed. "Oh, he'd know all right!" She pointed to
me. "He's standing right there!"
I breathed a sigh of relief. Shirley had not suffered a
relapse; if anything the incident had sharpened her
awareness. She watched passively as her brother was
taken away in handcuffs. She told Deri to make her
excuses at school on the following day.
"Tell them I'm suffering from shock after what has
happened." They exchanged wicked glances. "I will be
sleeping with Greg tonight," she said. "Only, for once
in his life, he won't be sleeping at all! I need
something a bit more substantial than a companion."
Deri lifted the telephone receiver to call Jed. "I know
exactly how you feel. We'll give them one last chance.
If they don't come up trumps."
"Precisely!" Shirley completed the sentence for her.
"We'll look elsewhere." She took my hand. "I need an
early night! And I desperately need to be laid!"
END
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
anyway shape or form.
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