+---------------------------------------------------------------+
|                    *** DISCLAIMER ***                         |
|                                                               |
| This is a story of pure fiction.  Any resemblance to persons  |
| living or dead, incidents real or imagined, places real or    |
| imagined, is purely coincidental.                             |
|                                                               |
|         IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, DO NOT READ FURTHER.             |
|                                                               |
| No part of this story may be reproduced on any media of any   |
| kind without the written permission of the author.            |
|                                                               |
+---------------------------------------------------------------+


                             - 6 -


   Steven was certainly not a five-star chef.  Maybe three.
Definitely two.  But the roast chicken was tender and moist and the
vegetables were...  Well, it was a delicious meal.  We all sat around
the same table, but we were all in our separate, protected worlds.  It
was hard for me to reconcile my feelings of dislike for the demure
little 12-year-old boy who kept trying to force himself on Zoe.

   Zoe.  She scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes and held it in
front of her face.  She studied the billowy white mound the same way
we used to look at clouds and find the shapes of things in them.  She
parted her lips and allowed her tongue to worm its way out.  It
caressed the top of the potatoes.  She looked at me.  Why was she
always so curious to know if I was watching her?

   "I'm done," proclaimed Peter.  "I'm going to my room."

   "Peter.  Wait 'til..."  But Steven's words were lost as Peter
jumped up and raced out.  Zoe didn't even glance in his direction.
Still locked on to my eyes, she let her tongue scoop up a tiny glob of
potato.  She drew it part way into her mouth.  Her tongue pressed the
little white bump against the bottom of her upper lip.  She rubbed the
potatoes back and forth until they became creamy and wet.  She pulled
her tongue all the way in and now rubbed her lips together.  The
potatoes became wetter and creamier and they started to drip from her
mouth.

   Suddenly, she came to and scooped the wet mess around her lips into
her mouth.  She smacked her lips loudly.

   "Zoe," exclaimed Steven.  "Manners."

   Her eyes darted to Steven for an instant, then back to me.  She
swept the remaining potatoes from the fork with her lips.

   "Eat the lima beans."

   "I hate them."

   "They're good for you."

   "They taste... weird."

   "I'll get more milk," said Steven.  He tossed his napkin on the
table and headed for the kitchen.

   I looked at Zoe.  She stared at her plate.  She poked at the lima
beans with her fork.  She started to arrange them in little rows.  I
felt sorry for her.  Sorry in so many ways.  I reached out my hand
toward her.

   "Give me your plate," I urged.  She looked at me like I had two
asparagus stalks sticking out of my nostrils.  "C'mon.  I'll help."
So she passed me her plate, still not certain what I intended.  I
heard the refrigerator door slam in the kitchen.  Zoe looked quickly
in that direction.  I scraped all but two beans onto my plate then
handed back her plate.  She adjusted its position and stabbed one of
the limas with her fork just as Steven returned with a glass of cold
milk.

   Steven set the glass in front of Zoe.  He looked at her plate and
smiled.  "See.  That wasn't so bad now.  Was it?"

   As Steven took his seat, Zoe held up her fork.  The little green
lima perched on the end of it.  Steven sighed.  "All right.  You don't
have to finish them.  You did fine."

   I started to eat Zoe's lima beans.  She watched me.  I held up each
forkful for her to appreciate and she smiled at every one.  She
giggled silently each time I slipped my fork into my mouth and
withdrew it clean.  Watching her reaction, the way she pulled her
shoulders up to her neck, the knowing twinkle in her eyes, made the
beans the best I'd ever eaten.

                              -+-

   
   Steven stirred the fire to life again.  The heat from the fireplace
radiated into the room making everything warm.  It was quite dark now
and I was beginning to wonder what was going to happen next.  Steven
turned my way and pointed the poker at me.

   "Zoe invited you, so you're welcome to stay."

   "Thank you," I managed.  I looked around.  "If it's not a bother.
Is there enough room?  I mean, bedrooms.  Are there enough bedrooms?"

   "We'll manage.  We always do."

   We always do.  What did that mean?  Steven hadn't smiled when he
confirmed Zoe's invitation.  Was I no longer welcome?  Had I somehow
behaved inappropriately?  Were they, was he, expecting me to be a
certain kind of person?  I wasn't sure what to say.  But just then it
didn't matter any more.  The slapping sound of tiny feet on wood grew
louder and louder.  Zoe breezed in.

   She wore frilly panties and a hip-length nightgown that was nicely
translucent.  She danced around the room, arms outstretched.  She
twirled around and around.

   "Someone catch me.  Hurry."  And she started to fall backwards.  I
got to my feet and was about to run to her, but Steven was there and
caught her just before she hit the floor.  How could she be that
confident, that trusting?  Steven hugged her and swung her around.
Her legs flew out.  She squealed with delight.  He set her down and
she walked like a drunken sailor over to the sofa where I was sitting.
She came around behind me and threw her arms around my neck.

   "Can I call you Uncle Alan?"

   I was surprised.  I looked at Steven.  He sat in what seemed to be
his chair and read a newspaper.  He smiled and didn't seem to mind.
   
   "That would be nice," I was able to choke out.  Zoe squeezed my
neck harder and kissed the back of my head.  Then she let go and
climbed onto the back of the sofa.  She rode it like a horse.

   "Is it time yet," Zoe asked Steven?

   Steven looked at his watch.  "Five minutes.  I'll turn it on."

   Steven walked to the TV set and brought it to life.  Zoe turned to
me.  "Wilson vs. Jones.  Featherweight.  I like featherweight the
best."

   "What?"

   "Featherweight.  Boxing.  Don't you like boxing?  I absolutely
adore boxing."

   So, did I tell her that violence was not particularly appealing to
me?  Especially after watching the way Peter treated her.  How could
this delicate, ethereal thing adore, she said adore, anything like
boxing.

   Zoe lay down along the top of the sofa, her head just touching my
shoulder.  She turned so her cheek rested on the fabric and she could
see the TV screen.

   "Where's Peter," asked Steven?

   "Upstairs.  Sulking.  As usual," answered Zoe.

   But now the TV screen flickered and the announcers and logos
confirmed what Zoe had said.  This was the fight.  A cable exclusive.
How exciting.  The introductions, the cheers and boos, the
instructions, and the fight was underway.  Zoe watched with a strange
fascination.  Her eyes widened each time a punch landed on somebody.
I kept shifting my gaze from her, to the fight, and back to her.
Steven could have cared less.  He was engrossed in his paper.

   "Three fifty.  How can they sell a lens like that for only three
fifty?  I paid sixteen hundred for the same thing."

   "What," I managed?

   "Three fifty.  Third-world manufacturing.  Nowhere near the quality
but a quarter of the price.  And no one knows any better.  'Til they
see the prints."  And he read on, flipping to a new page.

   On the TV, the fight continued.  It was getting brutal.  One
of the opponents was taking a real beating.  But now my attention was
drawn to Zoe again.  She was breathing hard.  Her little ass was
squirming around.  She had slipped her hand under her and down into
her panties.  She was fingering herself as she watched the fight.  The
fighting was turning her on.  Really turning her on.  She began to
moan lightly.

   A round ended.  She seemed disappointed.  She would have been happy
to see the fight go on and on until one or both contenders collapsed.
I felt a mixture of anger and disappointment.  Why was this beautiful
child so wrapped up in violence?  Where did it come from?  I wanted to
take her in my arms and kiss all the hate away.

   Then he came downstairs.  He wore only pajama bottoms.  Dinner and
a brief rest did nothing to change Peter.  He was still the same
arrogant little kid who first burst into the living room this
afternoon.  He strode right over to Zoe as another round started on
the TV.  He grabbed her legs and pulled her down the top of the sofa
toward him.

   "Quit it!"

   "Quit it.  Quit it.  Quit it," mimicked Peter.  He thrust his hand
up under one of Zoe's panty legs, pushing her hand out of the way.
He began to finger her.  She tried to pull away.

   "Stop it!"

   "Peter.  Don't bug your cousin."

   "You were waiting for me to come down.  I know it."

   "You don't know anything."

   I inhaled to speak, but I had no idea what I was going to say.
But then Peter swung his leg over Zoe and, in an instant, was on top
of her.  She squealed.  She tried to buck him off but it only served
to get him even more excited.  She tried to reach behind her and hit
him but couldn't turn far enough.  Every move she made turned him on.

   And once again I was powerless.  Steven just sat there and read his
paper.  I watched the fights.  The one on TV.  The one between Zoe
and Peter.  Even through his pajamas, I could see that Peter had quite
an erection.  He was rubbing himself along the tight crack in Zoe's
little ass, just like he did in the water.  This time he made no
attempt at subtlety.  Steven didn't seem to mind.  I was confused.

   I decided right then that I would somehow get her away from this
place.  No matter what.  I lived alone.  I wasn't responsible to
anyone.  I had nothing to lose, and Zoe had everything to gain.

   "Yes!" I yelled and pounded the sofa with my fist.  Peter,
startled, fell off Zoe and onto the sofa cushions.  Everyone stopped
and looked at me.  I was embarrassed.  Zoe propped herself up on her
elbows.  Her little nightgown had been pushed halfway up her back.
Her panties were damp from Peter's rubbing and clung to her ass.  Yes,
I would rescue Zoe.  I just had to pick my moment.

                            
                            *  *  *

------------------------- (End of Chapter 6) -------------------------
------------ (Comments, pro or con, are always welcome) --------------