by Peter Klein
(06/22/05)

My son's mother is not a Beaupree, and for that reason he is not immortal.

I haven't seen my son for six years. I finally get to his house after the long journey from my home in New Zealand in the wee hours of the morning. David takes me into his study, where the old mahogany bookcases are stacked with books that used to belong to me. We embrace. I can smell the faint remnant of cigar smoke on his shirt. We hold each other for a moment or two.

He gets two silver goblets and a fresh bottle of Napoleon brandy from the shelf behind his desk.

"Where's your wife?" I ask.

"She's gone to bed. You'll meet her in the morning."

"Let's wake her now. Why do I have to wait?"

"She needs the sleep. Besides, I've got a lot to tell you, about her and many other things. And I want to talk with you alone for a while."

"She's a child, you rascal. How come you married a child? "

"She was a child. She's grown up now. You forget how many years you've been gone, Dad."

He pours brandy into a goblet and passes it across the expanse of the glass-covered desk. And taking the other goblet by its round dome, he points it at me, gesturing, talking at length about my second wife, Rose, calling to mind events of nearly forty years ago.

Rose was a Beaupree. It was a big item on my agenda to get Rose pregnant. We had got her only at great cost to my family, from an orphanage in Philadelphia. And we had documented proof that she was the real McCoy. Rose was a Beaupree; her baby would live to a very old age.

"Rose was beautiful, wasn't she, Dad? She had a plum-colored pussy. Do you remember? And do you remember up in it... I mean, do you remember what it was like to get way up in her?"

How could I forget? His talking brought back a sweet flood of memories.

"We loved her well, don't you think, Dad? And her big nipples -- the front half of her tit was mostly nipple."

It was true. Fat aureoles are the signature trait of Beaupree women.

There are many interesting things about my family, the Dunbars. The first thing to point out is that the men in my family are direct and candid with each other. We don't skirt the issue when we talk about sex or intimacy. The second is that we carry on a practice of sharing women among ourselves. Wives, daughters, sisters -- we freely give. And we have cultivated these attitudes among our sons for over a hundred years. The Dunbar family has an inward life, separate from the world at large.

We loved Rose, my son and I. We were mad for her. From the time he was old enough to appreciate her, we spent most of our time chasing her around the property. It would be safe to say that a good portion of my life with my son was spent in bed with Rose.

We tried and tried to get Rose pregnant by one or the other of us, but we could not. Over the course of ten years we spilled our seed into her countless times. I remember one time holding Rose across my lap, tilting her pelvis up, with David buried inside her, him letting out his liquid with a rush and a shudder. And then cupping my hand over her pulsing vulva to keep it all trapped there.

All to no avail. A Beaupree that you couldn't get pregnant -- ridiculous, unheard of. Was I firing blanks? Was my son? Possibly. I doubted it.

David puts down his goblet and fills it with brandy. His hand on the bottle shows the slight tremor common among men of advancing age. He pours a second brandy for me.

"Remind me: what's your wife's name?" I ask.

"It's Marcia, but I don't want to talk about her just yet. I want you to look at a picture." He slips his fingertips under the edge of the plate-glass top on his desk, pulls out a picture and passes it to me. "Do you remember this, Dad? Is that me?"

I look carefully at the picture. "Yes," I say softly. It is a picture of me holding his hand when he was a little boy, doubtless taken by his mother. We were standing on the steps of our church. I was old and gray, looking very much like I do now.

A silence falls between us. He leans across the desk, crags and wrinkles showing in his face. "I know all about it, Dad. I found that picture in one of your books. I found papers. I know all about the Beauprees and the Dunbars."

His knowledge takes me by surprise. I had made a pact with Rose not to tell him. She knew the history of the Dunbars, some of it less than honorable. We had thought to spare him.

For over a thousand years the Dunbars have been hunting and stealing Beaupree women. We love them; we adore them; we will pay any price to get them. In the centuries before the Battle of Hastings they were serfs and vassals. In the colonies they were indentured servants. In the weaving mills of Lawrence, Massachusetts they were child laborers.

When we find one and breed her, the offspring sometimes live to a very old age. Hundreds of years. We give a very specific meaning to that quaint word sire. In my family "to sire" means to produce these particular offspring. That is, long-living, potentially immortal offspring.

There were a lot of Beauprees around Philadelphia. My grandfather endowed the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage in that city. Every girl child that came there, they would research to see if she came from the Beaupree line. Whenever they found one of these girls, they would contact my grandfather. He would find someone in our family who would adopt the girl, raise her, and eventually marry her.

I found the practice questionable. I had decided to give it up, which is why I never told David about it, never encouraged him.

Suddenly David comes around to my side of the desk. He looks into my eyes with intense passion.

"She's beautiful, Dad. Marcia -- she's beautiful. She's a Beaupree." His hands tremble. The words pour out of his mouth. "And you're going to do her -- get her pregnant. You're going to do it for me."

"I'm not going to..."

"You damn sure are."

"Why can't you get her pregnant?"

"I could, but I can't sire. You're the correct match for her. You're going do it -- for me, for her. She's sweet, Dad. You're gonna love her. I told her about you. She loves the tradition. She's been waiting to meet you. She wants you. She wants a baby. Dad, Dad, listen to me. She's luscious. She's sweet and generous and bright; she reads all the time. Don't worry, you're just as good looking as you ever were. I told her that."

I just sit, not saying a word. I don't feel good about these plans being made for me.

He gulps down the rest of his brandy and starts in again. "Dad, I found out a lot of stuff. Lynn Margaret from the University of Massachusetts did research on the Dunbars and the Beauprees. There is a reason why we couldn't get Rose pregnant. It's only every second or third generation Beaupree that has the compatible gene. Same with the Dunbars. Only certain males can sire. I can't: I've got the recessive gene. The study uncovered a bundle of information. The Beauprees have been doing the same thing that we do. The Beauprees have been collecting Dunbars. I'm not kidding. The Beauprees in Chicago -- it's a matriarchy. They have got cloistered males there for stud."

He takes my brandy away. He takes my arm and pulls me out of my chair. "We're going to go up and see her. We're going to wake her up."

He draws me out of the study and into a hallway that leads to a broad Victorian staircase, keeping a grip on my sleeve. He whispers to me like we were bad boys up to some kind of mischief. "She doesn't wear panties at night and she keeps her pussy mostly shaved. You can see it before we wake her. You're going to love her, Dad."

We go up the staircase and into her bedroom. Pale morning light streams through tall windows onto a very large bed -- but Marcia seems to be awake. Expecting us. She has on a bulky terrycloth robe, no pussy in sight.

She smiles.

David says, "Marcia, this is my dad."

She levels a steady gaze at me. She says, "I know who it is..." Then a long pause. Then, "Hi, Peter."

David says, "He wants to see..."

"I know what he wants to see," she says, still looking at me. And she draws open the terrycloth robe, showing her breasts, each fat aureole swelling out like a tit on top of a tit. I'm speechless. My mouth goes dry.

She sits quietly for a minute looking out the window, allowing us to drink her in. She's a striking woman. She's young, but I knew that. Why am I surprised? I start to speak. "Marcia, I know David has told you a lot about me, about our family..."

I hesitate. I came here wanting to see her but have no thought of bedding her, much less getting her pregnant. I need to make that clear. "Marcia, you're incredibly attractive; but there are good reasons why I don't want to continue my family's tradition."

She nods. Moments pass. I'm about to decide that she understands me when she lies back, letting her legs fall open. Panic comes over me. I feel a painful swelling inside my pants. I try to make my wishes known one more time.

"David, you have to listen to me. I've thought about this for a long time..."

And then Marcia says, "Kiss me, Peter. Just the taste of a kiss. What's wrong with that?" She pouts like a spoiled girl.

I lean across the bed to rest my mouth on hers, and I can smell her now. My penis is throbbing. Pulsing. I'm sure they see it. I cup my hand under her breast, wishing to take the weight of it. To take the weight, but not to obscure the view of the nipple. I rest on the bed beside her. David eases onto the bed and lies on the other side of her.

Marcia wants to know all about Rose. What we did. And they are both looking at the swelling in my pant leg, looking down while they talk. It throbs. I can't help it. I think about Rose, the wonderful memories. As we chat, Marcia uses the word fuck. Girls never used to use that word. "Did you fuck her together?" she asks. "Did you hold her down while David fucked her?" All her questions are like that. She says fuck over and over, soft and drawn-out, so that it begins to sound all right coming from her lips.

And all the time they are looking down at my prick.

In the very softest voice you can imagine, she says, "Take it out, Peter."

During the years since Rose, my prick has grown purple and twisted with age, and strangely bigger than it was. I am almost afraid for them to see it. I worry about getting it up a full-grown woman, never mind a budding girl like Marcia. And then I remember that she's not a budding girl; they've been married six years.

I hesitate.

She says, "You've been looking at me, haven't you? And it gives you pleasure. Why don't you think it would give us pleasure to see you? Look," she says, as she rolls over on the bed. "Look at my cunt. You can really see it this way. I don't mind you looking at it. And David doesn't mind. So why would you mind letting us look at your prick?"

I undo my belt and my pants. It comes out of my underpants like the gnarled stump of a tree, twisted and swollen, almost grotesque. It's something about the Dunbars. It came as a surprise to me that it grew that way. My grandfather never mentioned anything like this. And I'm sure it's one of the reasons I've turned away from sex.

A long string drips from its tip onto Marcia's thigh. The conversation comes to a halt.

David puts his fingers in her with a little squishing sound. "God, you're wet," he says. And her eyes, filled with fright and lust, never leave my penis. As in a trance she reaches to wipe the drip off her thigh.

David: "God, it's big, Dad. I don't remember it like that. I'm not sure it can fit."

She interrupts in a panic, "You can help, David. You can help him get it in..."

I interrupt. "I'm not going to..."

She rolls over suddenly and whispers into my ear, "You don't have to. But I want you to know it's beautiful. I'll do anything you want. Do you want me to suck it? What do you want? What would please you?" And then silence. Then in a soft whisper, "Do you want to see David fuck me?"

"Yes," I say. Oh, do I want to see.

She rolls away from me and muckles her mouth onto his, and a second later he's got his fatness pricked up inside her. He moves like a panther, back and shoulders motionless, pelvis curling a wicked fuck into her. It's thrilling. Hand on his butt, I feel the bunching muscles. In mere seconds he is ready. He pulls out and spills onto her belly with cries like a little boy.

They rest for a few minutes. Then she rolls away from him onto her side. And she presents again. She looks at me with a tender look. "Is my cunt wet, Peter? Can you see? Am I pink? Did he get me opened up?"

That does it for me. I mount the beautiful Marcia Beaupree and guide my distorted prick into her with gentle pushing and prodding. David gets behind me, but I don't really need his help. I go slow -- perhaps to give pleasure along with the taking. But it isn't long before mad lust sweeps over me. I feel my come drawing up, like water from a hand-pump. I start to back out in order to deposit onto her belly, but sitting behind me, David is pushing at my butt, holding me inside her. I can't back out, and a second later it's too late. I spill a hot flood into Marcia, into our sweetheart.

And the next day I cancel my return to New Zealand. Already I see the blush of fecundity rising in her cheeks.

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