Chapter 5: Damn it!

We were in my car, barreling down the Interstate on our way to my home in Burlington from camp. It was a balmy Thursday night and Genie was in the seat next to me, wearing a short sleeved button down shirt with the tails knotted under her breasts, tight shorts and a pair of moccasins.

She looked fantastic. Her hair was down, the heavy golden mop cascading over her shoulders and down her front, covering her breasts. The shorts fit her like they were painted on and they were short, riding low on her hips and covering only a little more than half of her ass. It was an outfit that showed a lot of her flat, smooth belly and displayed her long, silky smooth legs to perfection.

And no, before you ask, I wasn’t driving a Viper, a Maserati or a Bugatti, or any other super car. We were in my two thousand eleven Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor. I had asked Genie to spiff it up a little and she had taken 70,000 miles off the odometer, equipped it with every option Ford had offered for it and now it looked and ran like it had just rolled out of the showroom.

My only excuse is that at heart, I’m a man of simple tastes. I don’t need, nor do I want a two hundred mile an hour sports car, or a mansion, or a yacht, or any of the other trappings of the super-rich. Good food, good drink and the company of good friends and family make me a supremely happy man. Everything else is just window dressing.

We were talking about Terri and her nocturnal visit to my bed last night. “Terri came to me on her own last night, didn’t she?” I asked.

“You did not wish for her, Master,” she replied. “As I said before, I cannot fulfill a wish you do not make.”

“Well,” I said a little uncomfortably, “I only asked because I do remember thinking that I wished she would go to bed with me. I wasn’t sure if you’d ... heard me and made it happen.”

“I do not hear your thoughts all the time, Master,” Genie said. “You have to consciously address them to me before I can hear them, just as I have to consciously address my thoughts to you before you can hear me.” She patted my leg and smiled at me. “Don’t worry, Master, you thoughts are still your own.”

“That’s nice to know.” I thought about my next question carefully. I wanted an answer, if for no other reason than to avoid any possibility of straying into territory that Genie might consider ‘evil’.

“Genie, what do you think about a man my age taking those two girls to bed?”

She looked at me and shrugged. “What should I think?”

“Well, there’s a pretty big age difference.”

“So what?” Genie said. “They are women, full grown. Who they choose to bed is their business.”

“Yeah, but they’re only eighteen.”

“Calendar age is only a small part of reaching womanhood,” Genie said. “Other, more primitive cultures, even today, consider young teens to be adults. That’s something that your culture has forgotten. In the early eighteen hundreds, in your Wild West, girls as young as twelve and thirteen were married, and some of them were mothers.”

“Yeah, but...”

“On your frontier, children grew up faster.” Genie continued. “A twelve year old boy was expected to do a man’s job; tending to the livestock, working in the fields, keeping the homestead in good repair and hunting to put dinner on the table. Quite often, a family’s survival depended on a boy you would define as a child filling a man’s shoes. And the same was true for girls.”

“At eleven or twelve years old, a girl was expected to know how to cook and sew, how to raise vegetables in her own garden and look after chickens and pigs. She was supposed to know how to run a house and care for her younger brothers and sisters. More often than anyone will admit, these girls were usually married and raising their own kids before they were fourteen.”

She looked at me and smiled. “It’s a sign of a mature society when children are allowed to be children past puberty. But just because society considers them to be children doesn’t render them any less of an adult.”

“Does all that mean that you don’t have a problem with me taking an eighteen year old girl to bed?” I asked plaintively.

“Do you remember what I told you on the boat?” she asked. “About wishes of a sexual nature involving other people? I told you then that age is not a limiting factor. If she feels a woman’s hungers and is an adult in her heart and mind, and she lives up to those responsibilities willingly, then I don’t care if she’s ten years old. As far as I and she are concerned, she is a woman.”

“I’ll take that to mean that you don’t have a problem with it,” I grumbled.

“Now I have a question for you,” Genie said with an impish smile.

“Go ahead.”

“What are you going to do when Becky expects you to take her to bed?”

“Run like a rabbit!” I said immediately. “In fact, I’ll be leaving rabbits behind, panting their little lungs out, trying to keep up.”

Genie laughed and shook her head. While I drove, I wondered if I really would run if my niece hit on me. Becky is easily as sexy and attractive as her friends and I love her dearly, but when you come right down to it, she is also a prime piece of teenaged ass, ripe and ready for the picking. And quite frankly, I would not mind being the man to pick her cherry, if she still had it.

I put it out of my mind. If Becky wanted to romp with her old uncle in bed, I wouldn’t object. And with Genie around, I knew that there was no way that word of our affair would get out.

I got off the Interstate and five minutes later, I pulled up in front of my home. I shut the car off and looked at the house. It was an old, square, two story, three-bedroom Saltbox style house, and it was looking kind of shabby. It had been my Dad’s house and now it was mine. Except for a brief period in the nineteen thirties, it had been in my family since the mid-eighteen hundreds.