Editing magic performed by KJ24 and Shyqash, plus contributions by the regular gang of brigands and neer-do-wells

Mom ~ "As opposed to thinking the color, length and girth of a phallus makes any woman lose all sense of loyalty, morality and decorum so she can become a man's sex sleeve - whore - bitch - property? Yes, I do."

*****

(The Family)

Father - Nikolay 'Nik' Samsonov; Mother - Gayle Fonteneau Samsonov; the Triplets - Alexander 'Alex', Mikhail and Vladimir 'Vlad' (POV character)

{Prelude ~ historical stuff; feel free to ignore}

My tale begins as the Winter Man Saga 1300 years ago (~ 700 AD). One small clan of my Swedish ancestors lost a brutal feud with their neighbors. Their farms were burned, animals slaughtered and their women and children taken as slaves. Only three young brother-warriors survived, wounded but unconquered. The victors chased them high into the mountains when a terrible winter storm struck.

With her burning intellect and educational background, she eventually figured it out. She was also amoral enough to keep the knowledge to herself and vengeful enough to plan to use our curse as a weapon.

(Genesis)

The lives of my family took an unexpected detour in the spring of this year. My great-aunt Matilda (Mattie) died and willed her estate to Mom. I had never met the woman while she was alive yet in death she would have a profound effect on all our lives. Mom's family was a mess; a crowded dingy with a madhouse of odd characters.

Lionel was my eldest maternal uncle. He was a Big, Bulging Brain working as a Chief Technical Advisor for NASA; a solitary crusader for all Mankind. What was he a technical advisor for? If anything left terra firma for more than fifteen seconds, he knew every detail about it. That included volcanic eruptions too. When we were younger, he invited us to various volcanoes (both above and beneath the waves). Great guy.

Cassius, my second uncle, was serving time in Indonesia for piracy. Mom said he was meaner than every saltwater crocodile that ever lived. The two times I'd met him, he'd been a lean, happy laconic kind of guy with a love for military history. Mom said he was a charismatic rebel who was possessed by an obsession to defy authority in all its forms.

Dido was child number three; my Mom's older sister, married to an Evangelical Televangelist in Nebraska under an assumed name - Paula Richmond. She also had a MD in Psychiatry and a Master's in Public Communications (under her real name), which she kept secret from the fundamentalist congregation. The few times we met ... she was the perfect mother. Secretly, we three sons wished she'd been our mother instead of our real mother. Mom said Aunt Dido was a master manipulator and wielded a cruel whip ...

Then there was Mom's twin, Uncle Theo, who never lived in one place, traveled all around the globe and had every law enforcement agency in the civilized world looking for him. We always receiving presents from him during all the normal holidays ... like Michaelmas, Holy Week, the start of Lent, Martinmas (his favorite) and our birthdays ... which arrived at random, unrelated times of the year and never from the same location.

He was the only one we'd never met, but the one Mom loved the most. Dad suspected he was a narco-trafficker while Mom insisted he was too paranoid to be considered reliable for that line of work. Mom told us he'd spent his formative years killing people for Uncle Sam until one day he simply walked away from Fort Bragg and became an independent contractor.

The Defense Department sent some fine, brave men from JSOC to talk to Mom every few months. They made sure not to trip over the CIA and Homeland Security types who occasionally staked out our house. We boys guessed they came around every time Uncle Theo assassinated people. Mom taught us how to appreciate them in an elaborate ritual she called 'April Fool's, which became an 'any day of the year' activity.

My Mom's father (I never met the guy) was a leader of a cult in Nevada. He went down, guns blazing during a DEA raid. Apparently his interests included both harems and marijuana production.

Mom's mom? She left my Mother outside a dive bar in San Diego and was never seen again. She had doctorates in Biology and Physics as well as the reputation for being a certifiable Space Cadet. Mom insisted her mom hadn't abandoned her - she'd simply forgotten where she left her youngest daughter who was 15 at the time.

After five days, Mom decided to join an Alternative Rock band instead of looking for the lady yet again. Seven years later, she was declared legally dead ... though all her offspring believed she was still alive ... somewhere ... doing something.

Then you had Dad's family. We had some characters on that side of the family, just not like Mom's. For starters, Samsonovs were bred for law enforcement. We'd been arresting bad guys since the 1500's. We'd been doing that in Alaska since the time of the tsars. When the Alaskan Territory was sold to the United States...well, my ancestors simply started writing their reports in English instead of Russian.

Over the centuries, we had bagged serial killers, smugglers, poachers, drug dealers, domestic abusers and thieves. Mostly they arrested drunks and wackos. My Great Grandfather Petrov was a law enforcement legend in Alaska. Alone, he ran down a pack of murderous robbers in the dead of winter before they made it to 'safety' in the Yukon Territory.

In the spring, they found them frozen solid, him leading five men - he recorded in his journal he'd killed the other three while apprehending the gang - back in chains. That pretty much defined the nature of my Father's family - no too many stellar geniuses, but always relentless past all norms of endurance and reason. The moment females were allowed in law enforcement, the womenfolk joined the profession.

My Aunt Iliana was in the Coast Guard - that made her the 'Black sheep' in this clan. Taking the law out to the high seas was about as wild as Dad's family got. Dad was pretty much the standard issue for my kin. Big - Dad was 6' 5" and 290 lbs. - and about as imaginative as a glacier. Why Mom married Dad had long been a mystery to his sons.

Don't get me wrong. I loved my Dad, but the man used a grand total of twenty different sentences his entire life. The fewer words he had to speak, the happier he was. He was a nice guy, never drinking too much and I'd never seen him lose his temper. He smiled, was unerringly polite and had always been helpful and playful with us kids from our earliest memories.

Grandpa, my great-aunts & -uncles, my aunts, uncles and cousins by blood were the exact same way. I mean that quite literally. We all pretty much looked alike as well. Those who married, married eccentrics. In our regular family get-togethers that translated over to the blood kin in one room saying and doing nothing (we were already cluing into some sort of primitive telepathy) and being very happy that way, while the married relations were in another room packing on the lunacy.

There was no middle ground; you were either a silent, brooding peak in the Samsonov mountain range, or the aurora borealis. That left me and my brothers - we were triplets, in a precarious position. We looked like smaller versions of our Dad (we were still growing) yet were totally at the mercy of our Mother most of our young lives. Recall what I said about eccentrics and lunatic behavior. Mom was the Queen of the Asylum.

Mom quickly fell in love with 'things' and she loved doing those things with family. Since Dad worked long hours, family meant my brothers and me. We could make passable pottery by age seven. Krav Maga? Screw this 'driving to some dojo in Anchorage' crap. Mom signed us up for a two week course in Israel and online lessons for a year. Archery - check. Rewiring our house and refitting all the plumbing - check.

The three of us were SCA squires at age 12. Pleading to Dad was pointless. He'd smile, mess up our hair and remind us these excursions made our Mother happy aka he wasn't going to help us have normal lives. We had some ex-Green Beret guys teach us outdoor survival skills in Wyoming. We could pull wool, make thread and knit a set of pants and sweaters.

I and my brothers had to memorize 1200 medically useful plants before we could get our Christmas presents when we were 14. We free-climbed mountains, ran 10Kms, kayaked, were proficient seamen on a sailing ship and learned how to navigate by the Sun, Moon and stars. Around the age of 15, we figured out that Mom had a ton of money squirreled away. There was no way Dad, with his civil servant's salary, could afford all this crazy shit.

By the age of 18 we had such a crazy patchwork set of skills, we weren't sure what we would end up doing with our lives ... though tracking down Uncle Theo and living a life on the run was looking more attractive every month. What we didn't have were great social lives. We all had girlfriends at one time, or another, but they never lasted.

Right before any of us were about to get serious with any girl in high school, my Mom dragged us off ... to things like a five day course on Renaissance artwork in Milan ... that's Italy. We had to learn to speak Italian in three days, plus during the flight over. Mom made it easy for us. We could only speak Italian the entire time. Doing that at school was 'fun'. Dad? He smiled and said nothing for three days.

{Welcome to the Fonteneau House, Kingston, Arkansas}

Anyway, Mom's Great-aunt Mattie kicked the bucket and left her vast fortune in northwestern Arkansas to my Mom. The old bird hated the rest of the nutjobs in the clan, but adored my Mom (and Theo). Upon receiving the news, my brothers and I began thinking the same thing: banjo lessons, redneck stunts and girls in Daisy Dukes. By 'fortune' we were thinking a ramshackle Ozark shack sitting on a mountain top.

Nope. Great-aunt Mattie was loaded. In fact, Mom's whole family had tons of money. They'd made a killing, quite literally, during the White expansion westward using various despicable means. They'd even been cursed by an entire Indian Tribe for bilking them off their land. Mom's family blamed that malediction for their bizarre behavior.

That Arkansas home was actually the summer residence for the Fonteneau clan from a hundred years ago. Along with the palatial residence came thousands upon thousands of acres spread over a quarter of the state (and some land in Texas, Missouri and Oklahoma too).

Tara, or the Biltmore estate, it was not, but it certainly had pretensions. It was a wide and roomy, rambling Victorian structure. The house proper (there were two barns, a stable, storage sheds, two garages [one attached and the other stand-alone], semi-attached servant quarters and four outlying hunting lodges) abutted the Kingston town limits.

The place was big enough to require Mom to employ six staff;

Phineas Cobb III, an angry, sullen old White guy and his carbon-copy son, Phineas IV, were our two Wardens. That meant they took care of the outlying property which included hunting down poachers, interlopers and moonshiners (the competition, no doubt) and seeing to the upkeep of the various lodges, roads, trails and bridges around the place. Phineas III and Mom ... well, he cried and hugged Mom when he saw her, so we didn't know what to think of him and his son.

Bebe Marston worked the stables and the twelve horses therein. She was a college dropout, White and 21; a woman at one of life's crossroads. Great Aunt Mattie brought her on a few months before she passed on. Bebe was a bit shy and distant around the menfolk. Mom treated Bebe like her long lost daughter; they got along fine.

Thomas Freeman was the groundskeeper. Thomas seemed nice enough - a polite and somewhat deferential older Black man. I liked him. Mom fired him the moment the lawyer finished reading Maggie's Will. She believed the man was a back-biter, liar and a thief.

Kamika Perry was the cook. She was a largish, plump Black woman with a large family in town. She was a tyrant in the kitchen but friendly and out-going everywhere else. She knew Mom from before ~ before what, we didn't know. She was close to Mom's age and was the niece of the former cook. She and Mom were cordial yet a tad formal.

Nefertiti Cooke was the upstairs maid. She was a whip-tin attractive Black woman in her late-20s and joined Thomas heading out the door. Mom discharged her due to Nefertiti's sour attitude and general unwillingness to adhere to a work schedule.

Anita Turner was our downstairs maid and overall manager of the other servants. Like Kamika, she knew Mom from her previous stay at the house, though Anita was already part of the staff back then. They acted like old friends though they understood the mistress-servant dynamics of their relationship.

Mom solved our labor shortage by bringing in Mexicans (Hondurans actually). The two families divided up the nine rooms in the detached servants' quarters with Bebe, since Anita and Kamika lived in town and the Cobb's had their own cottage somewhere on the property.

Hector Martinez became our new groundskeeper. He had a wife - Maria. Mom enrolled her in some online college courses so she could get a teaching license. They were both pretty young.

Consuela Castro was our new upstairs maid. She was a single mother with a son - Gustavo (10) - and a daughter - Isabo (6); they went to the local elementary school in town. Both families were very nice to us and seemed happy with their current circumstance. Since this job was their first go at being domestic servants, Mom told us to be patient and respectful while they learned the ropes from Anita and Mr. Cobb (only Mom could call him Phineas without pissing him off).

My brothers and I, our Father, the Martinez's and the Castro's couldn't have predicted the shit-storm Mom was creating between our house and the dominant Black populace of Kingston along the great racial divide. The Hondurans had spent half their lives learning to keep their heads low when faced with discrimination. We didn't, nor did we know that Mom was acting with deliberate malice of forethought at that time.

To help appreciate our understanding of the situation, we triplets had known a grand total of four Black people well enough to call them by their Christian names our entire lives. One was a crazy, older guy who had been a sniper at some point in his military career. By crazy, I meant he'd go off on tangents in mid conversation, or just stopping entirely. We all liked the guy.

He and Granddad Samsonov were real tight. They'd served together in Vietnam and we boys suspected something bad had happened to them both - something which scarred and bound them together closer than brothers. He and Alexander went hunting all the time back in Alaska. All I knew was Morris (Grandpa's comrade-in-arms) was treated like family.

That meant if Morris got in trouble, fifteen to twenty Samsonov's would show up to bail him out. That's what family meant. The other two were a retired Air Force couple, Parker and Mariana Carrington plus their infant William, that had moved in next door (that's 40 yards away in Alaska) when I was fourteen. They were in their early thirties and wanted to start a family. The woman had been pregnant with her second child when we left.

My Mom and another neighbor trundled her off to a clinic during her first birth. Dad had driven fifty miles in a blizzard to get her husband, so he could witness his firstborn come into the world. The man worked as a fishing boat mechanic and had gotten stuck at work when his wife went into early labor. It was the Alaskan way to look after one another.

I never much thought about minorities. There were nearly as many Native Alaskans attending my schools as White folk. The Natives knew my family going back eight generations. I had a few cousins who were 'First Peoples'. Minority? Majority? We were Alaskans and that was that.

Again, I didn't think much about there being a social and economic racial crevasse when I showed up in Kingston, Arkansas. I probably would have been totally blind-sided about it if Dad hadn't done his due diligence and went to the Kingston Police Station and Davis County Sheriff's Office to report his status as an Alaskan State Trooper and register his firearms.

Since we didn't know what to look for, we missed the obvious signs of trouble. The Black police officer that Dad talked to was ... impolite. He informed Dad there would be no 'courtesy' given despite Dad's professionalism - i.e. he wasn't permitted to carry any of his licensed firearms. The Sheriff's department was very different.

We met the Sheriff and the man got Dad to be about as verbose as I'd ever seen him. The Sheriff verified Dad's story, gave him a 90 Day permit for his sidearm and told him to make no never mind over the Town cops' hostility. He certainly seemed pleased Dad had three big, strong, strapping boys and gave Dad an application to join his department.

That night, Dad informed us all at the dining room table he was considering the Sheriff's job offer. Mom was secretly pleased (like her sister, she IS an evil mastermind and master manipulator). Anita, Bebe and Kamika were eating with us as well - Mom insisted all the help do so (the Hondurans weren't with us yet) - and I detected a hint of worry in their posture. I would have thought 'us' staying in the house, thus their continued employment, would be seen as a good thing.

That night, over some late night cocoa, Mom gave the family the regional 4-1-1. Kingston was 75% Black, 20% White and 5% other. The rest of Davis County was 95% White and 5% Black and other. In Kingston, the Blacks ruled the town. All elected officials and police officers were Black. The Sheriff's department had a few Black officers, but was mostly White.

It would have been all White except a combined lawsuit by Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) and NAACP forced the County to 'integrate'. I asked the logical question: why hadn't the town been forced to integrate too? Mom told me that wasn't how things worked in the Lower 48. Here, Blacks couldn't discriminate; they could only be discriminated against.

The Federal government said so. I was sensing shades of Uncle Theo in Mom's blanket assessment of things. My brothers and I were wrong. Mom was right. We were entering White Man's Hell aka Big Black Cock Country. Of course, Mom wasn't sadistic, or masochistic. She had a tidbit of knowledge no one this side of British Columbia was aware of - a Secret Weapon.

Dad applied for and got the job of Senior Deputy, which riled some of the other (read: Black) deputies, but Dad's extensive experience and easy-going manner eased his entry into the unit. Mom remained Mom - an unconventional, beautiful, free-spirited kook. She made no effort to make friends. I was the boldest of the triplets so I asked her why.

"Do you know how your Father's family would rather hack of a hand than go back on their word?" she gazed at me intently. I nodded. When she said 'Father' instead of 'Dad', this was our cue that this was a Major Life lesson we had best memorize. "These people aren't like that. They will take that which is not theirs, break trusts, sully families and lie to your face."

"These women are all bold-faced whores, cock-hungry tramps and sluts who get abortions because they don't know what color the daddy is. The males are either the kind of men who would sleep with those kinds of women, or gutless wonders who won't fight for their rights as boyfriends, brothers, fathers, fiancés and spouses."

"This is a colored thing, right?" I guessed. I wanted to be wrong.

"Got it in one," Mom patted me on the shoulder. "Most White men in town are spineless wimps, Black men jump on whatever pussy they can crack open and women of either color put up with it, even beg for it. I know because I was once like them."

"You and Dad?" I worried. Mom gave a deep, hearty laugh.

"That is not going to be a problem, I promise you. The only man for me is your Father," she smiled. "I had plenty of lovers before your Dad. Since one month after I met him, I've never been with another man, or woman, or even wanted one." More than I wanted to know, but good news none the less.

While we were moving in the small amount of belongs that had followed us from Arkansas, two Kingston cops stopped by to see what we were doing. I had spent my entire life around law enforcement who knew about me and my clan. They were always friends and people we could trust. Kingston PD was a rude awakening we weren't in Alaska anymore.

They were brusque and intimidating. Their real purpose was to remind my family the house was part of the town, even if the back acreage was not. Mom snorted at their pale deception. She asked to see their warrant. They asked if there was some reason they might need one. Mom politely asked them to leave as they were trespassing.

They basked in their defiance. What could Mom really do? If she went all redneck and produced a gun, they'd lock her up - pointing weapons at law enforcement was stupid. Sadly for the cops, familiarity breeds understanding too. Mom gave us the April Fools' signal. Alexander, our oldest triplet, moved the cargo truck so it blocked the officers' view of their patrol car.

While Mom looked peeved, feeding the Black cops sense of empowerment, my youngest triplet Mikhail and I (Vladimir) stripped their car of all easily removable parts; the dash-cam went first. They wanted to loiter around on our property? We let them behave stupidly. We dumped the parts and our work gloves in a packing box and carried it right past them.

We walked straight out the back too. There was a burning barrel which we made prompt use of - for the oily gloves and box. We had spares. Mikhail tended the fire as I picked up a broken cinder block, a heavy-duty trash bag and walked a few hundred yards to the bog near the creek that ran through our property - county land. The bag and contents went into the bog.

I used a branch to make sure it sunk deep before returning. Cleaning off my boots with the outdoor hose completed my destruction of evidence. Ten minutes later a member of the Arkansas Highway Patrol stopped by to see what the problem was. Mom had called them before the sabotage had even begun. She didn't know these two personally, but she knew from earlier visits to her aunt that these two were going to give us 'attitude'.

Calling the Sheriff's Department would only cause a standoff where the police had the upper hand - the whole town jurisdiction thing. By the time the HP arrived, Alexander had left with the truck so when the Highway Patrolman began expressing concern for my Mom's civil rights, the two buck butt-bandits made to leave. That didn't work out well for them.

First came the circus of the discovery they were missing key parts of their vehicle and the lack of an explanation of how that had happened. Mom wouldn't let the town cops search her place. She happily let the Highway Patrolman (who happened to be Black too) look around. We'd used the hose and the burning barrel because moving was nasty, sweaty work - especially in the Arkansas summer heat.

The two policemen blamed us - the triplets. Mom asked them when, in the cops thirty minute trespass, had her 'little angels' stolen the parts, why we would do such a criminal thing, and if they knew where the parts might be. The Highway patrolman was kind of curious about the length of their stay as well.

The cops lied, Mom went inside and brought back the camcorder that had taken in the entire event. They were caught in the lie and all they could claim was the cargo truck had been strategically placed to block a visual to their car ... as we unloaded our truck. Mom even got the Highway Patrolman to co-sign her complaint to the Arkansas State Police Criminal Investigations department.

Mom knew this one wouldn't go anywhere. She had lived with cops long enough to know the value of building up a case file. Alexander was off returning the truck in another county, so he was safe. Mom called him and Dad so they could hook up before Alexander came home. She counted on the cops to be petty and they were.

Alexander was on a motorcycle. When he got pulled, the city cops pulled in front of him. Dad stopped as well. Despite their continuing pressure to make Dad leave, they had no legal grounds to do so - he was Alexander's father, who would be responsible for Alex's ride if they took him into custody. Being an off-duty sheriff's deputy wasn't good enough, yet Dad's point was telling.

Cops always pull up behind a suspect, not ahead of them unless they want to ignore the dash-cam evidence. Dad had pulled up in his Sheriff's vehicle behind Alexander and his dash-cam was recording everything. They let Alexander off with a Warning Ticket and departed giving father and son dirty looks. School was five days off. We checked out the property for two days. The third morning my brothers and I, on motorcycles, decided to explore Kingston.

Having never before confronted such blatant racism, we weren't afraid - we were furious. We hadn't done anything to anybody. We were from Alaskan-Russian stock and had never owned a person ever, as far as we knew. We certainly weren't invested in this whole 'Black slavery - White guilt' issue. Those who gave us attitude about 'White privilege' didn't care for our counter, that saying all White people were alike was equally racist.

As Mom had warned us, Black people couldn't be racist ... just ask them. Mind you, many of the town's Black residents were friendly and helpful. They just weren't friendly enough to defend us from the 'haters'. At the end of the first day, Mikhail nearly got in a fight with five members of the Black post-high school crowd who were fucking with, and sitting on, our bikes.

Where we came from, that was rude in the extreme. When he appeared to be alone, they were boisterous enough. When Alexander and I stepped out of the pool hall (we'd been made unwelcome there), they backed off from their threatening rhetoric. They still wouldn't leave, or get off our bikes. The three versus five odds didn't deter us.

It was the lack of faith in the local justice system that encouraged Alexander and me to hold Mikhail back. We had an answer to their intransience - crowding. It takes a great deal of cool to have three guys, all over six feet tall and 220 lbs. lean in on you while you are sitting down. When the current bastard was dealt with, we moved to the next. Before the group could figure a way to thwart us, we had retrieved our bikes and were headed home.

The next day, we took Mom's 2012 Shelby V8 Mustang out for a drive. We found the three spots in town the 'White folk' hung out in. We had the Country Western Redneck posse' section of town, pseudo-riche Southerner clique downtown region, and the movie theater (theoretically neutral turf). The saner White middle class had departed for safer pastures - they had established their own municipality a few miles outside of town).

The rednecks welcomed our physicality. We were attempting to fit in until they began talking about all those damn 'niggahs'. Alexander broke down after a bit and asked what a 'niggah' was. It was a 'coon'. Since that was of no help, we asked what a 'coon' was.

The regulars found our naiveté amusing. It took us three minutes of running a verbal obstacle course to piece together that 'niggahs' was their inbred pronunciation of 'niggers' (a term we knew from TV and movies) which was idiot slang for a Black person. We were 'crackahs' - idiot slang for crackers aka White people. Hispanics were 'beeners' ... yeah, right.

We also learned that the favorite activities for teenage rednecks was knocking over mailboxes as they sped down the road, beating up White girls who sucked Black dick and beating up 'niggahs' who touched White girls. My analysis was that these yahoos were long on talk and short on action.

I wasn't a fashion icon yet I could tell these boys could use a bath and some fresh clothes. The girls who hung around this crowd looked about as loyal as salmon during spawning season. At 18, we were hardly experienced, but we weren't desperate virgins either. Girls we had just been introduced to, flirting with us and suggesting later sexual rendezvouses were a definite turn-off because God knows who else they'd been doing it with.

That led us to the riche clique. Among the guys ... half were snobbish closet gays who weren't our thing. The other half were rich straight guys pretending to be rednecks. Rich White girls pretended to be friends with the rich Black girls. They were used to being pampered by their rich White boyfriends while eyeing every Black stud that crossed their path.

Until they realized Samsonov = Fonteneau, they were snide. After that, they tried to convince us we were all (distantly) related. Bloodlines and riches were not the basis for what we called friends so we politely postponed any celebrations.

The Cineplex was a hunting ground for all ages. White women I was pretty sure were married to someone else engaged in sexual liaisons with Blacks; be they teens, business types, or lay-abouts. We had no idea if these were random hook-ups, or affairs and we didn't really care.

Having wasted nine hours of our lives we definitely wanted back, we ended up rendezvousing with Mom and Dad at his boss's - the Sheriff's - place. Whatever else he was, Robert "Big Bob" Carson wasn't an underpaid county employee. His home was nice, expansive, relatively new and sitting on four wonderful acres of land - half woodland/half professionally maintained lawn and gardens. He had an expansive deck with a built-in grill, hot tub and pool out back.

My brothers and I had been under the impression this would be an office outing. It ended up being our two families; the five of us, Big Bob and his daughter, Brandy Crystal Carson. There was no Mamma Carson in sight and a lack of family pictures was noticed by us and our Mom. Dad and Bob (it was tough to call him Big Bob when Dad was bigger than he was) were deep in conversation at the outdoor grill when I arrived.

"Vlad, come out here," my Dad called to me in his easy going manner.

"Brandy!" Bob shouted. I promptly showed up. Dad wasn't a passionate disciplinarian. I didn't hustle out of fear. I hurried out because I wanted my Dad to look good in front of the Sheriff. "Hello Vlad," Big Bob greeted me. "You are a strapping lad - big like your Daddy."

That was a bit odd. I had only heard one person call my Father 'Daddy'. That was my Mom when she was feeling frisky. Mom walked around the house naked when the mood struck her (even when we had guests over) and had few compunctions about hopping into Dad's lap when she wanted attention. That was a common enough occurrence that 'us' boys had learned to sneak out of the room quietly before we were ten.

Only in the last two years had we figured out part of Mom's bizarre sexual behavior was caused by Dad being utterly clueless where women were concerned. He could spot a shoplifter at a glance, or an expired car registration at fifty feet on a moonless night. I had seen a car saleswoman hit on Dad when he was getting his newest pick-up. She did everything but flash her tits and do a striptease...it all went right over Dad's head.

"Brandy! Get your ass down here!" Bob bellowed. She must have been most of the way to us because she materialized five seconds later.

"Yes Daddy," Brandy sounded bored. I was too busy gawking to see Big Bob's reaction to his daughter's insolence.

Brandy was beyond gorgeous (according to my personal standards). She had pale-blonde hair in a ponytail that clearly went past her shoulder blades. Her caramel skin was the beneficiary of countless sessions with a tanning booth. Her eyes were the darkest blue I'd ever seen. Breasts - Jesus, they were large and firm. I could tell that because she had on a pink crop-top and no bra. I could almost see the bottoms of each orb.

Her stomach was muscled with a thin layer of fatty tissue to give her real womanly curves and she had curves to spare. Her waist was narrow and her hips were wide, complimenting her breast size. She had on super-short, cut-off, 'faded-almost-to-White' denim jeans that accentuated her dark skin. Her ass was to die for. A bit big but well-muscled - each a perfect hemisphere.

Her thighs and calves were the product of consistent exercise. Hot, hot, hot. She had on white tennis socks (no shoes) that finished off her delectable image.

"Brandy, this is Vladimir, Senior Deputy Samsonov's son. He's going to be your boyfriend this year," Bob announced. I had a feeling this wasn't open for debate - in his mind.

"What!" Brandy squawked.

"What?" I looked to my Dad.

"What the fuck?" Brandy turned and glared at me. I would have enjoyed her breasts bouncing more if I hadn't been eyeballing my patriarch.

"Dad?" I kept my voice calm. Brandy was fantastic looking, but I didn't want anyone dictating my social life - period. I was eighteen. Besides, Brandy was turning out to have a far less appealing personality - Pretty Princess syndrome.

"Brandy, Vladimir's a nice boy. His father is 'good people'," Bob laid out his case.

How did he know I was a good boy? He was taking a lot on faith.

"I don't want to date this loser," Brandy shouted. 'Loser'? She didn't knew me either.

"If you don't keep Vlad as your boyfriend, then no cheerleading and no dance team," Bob glared at his daughter. This clash of wills made no sense to me.

"No way!" Brandy glanced back at her Dad, protested loudly and stomped her foot on the wooden deck.

"Well then, you need to be home at 3:20 pm every school day," Bob threatened. "And I'll make sure to check up on you." Before I could wonder about Big Bob's abuse of power, I noted the state of the art security system - cyber-nanny.

Brandy turned on me in a furor. Her face was screwed up with anger, her fists were clenched and I was working double-time to not ogle the cleave she enhanced by leaning forward. Man, she hated me for reasons I couldn't fathom. I disgusted her which I didn't get either. Plenty of non-relative women had called me good-looking and handsome.

I had a healthy, well-defined physique, nice thick, blonde hair and the common sense to keep my body and clothes clean and casual. My only downside I'd ever been told about was my size - I was tall for my age and 'cut'. Brandy was 5' 4". I was 6' 2". I had stormy grey eyes, light blonde hair the color of wheat and skin spared the ravages of acne.

"Brandy, I am as uncomfortable and surprised about this as you are," I tried to placate her. "Do you want to talk about it?" She forced herself to appear calm.

"Fine Victor," she grumbled. Worse than getting my name wrong was the look of viciousness that glimmered in her eyes. "We'll make Daddy happy and be a cookie-cutter couple."

"Dad?" I tried to exit this fiasco with some decorum.

"You'll do fine son," he responded. That wasn't helpful.

"I'll see you Monday morning, Victor," Brandy snidely mocked me before leaving. I turned to follow her thunderous retreat.

Running after her would have felt pathetic so my sedate pursuit meant she put some distance between us. She ran right into Mom, who grabbed her arm.

"I'm warning you right now," Mom hissed. "Don't have sex with any of my sons."

"That won't be a problem," Brandy snorted. I was filth in her mind and I didn't know why.

"You've been warned," Mom got out before Brandy tore herself away and stormed upstairs.

"Mom?" I looked for guidance from my other parental unit.

"Stick close to your brothers when you are at school," Mom cautioned me. From long experience, I knew that was the best explanation I was going to get. The cookout was chilly and it had nothing to do with the weather.

(Davis County Consolidated High School)

To better define the entrenched racial tensions we'd been dropped into; there had not always been a Kingston and a Davis County.

Back in 1977, the first time the Blacks seized the majority in the town council (and they'd never lost it since), they changed the municipality's name from Fonteneau (my Mom's ancestors had built the town so they named it after themselves) to Kingston, in honor of Martin Luther King. The County responded by changing its name from Parsons County to Jefferson Finis Davis County, after the only President of the Southern Confederacy.

For the first time in our history, my brothers and I had separate homerooms. I wasn't sure why, unless the faculty was afraid they couldn't keep track of which triplet was which if we were in the same room. We arrived early so we could scout out the terrain and determine which class was where. When I entered my first class - homeroom, I noticed we all had our names taped to our chairs.

I ended up on the far left side (if you were facing the dry erase board) with a window seat viewing the athletic fields. No sooner had I gotten comfortable when several other students came in. One was a girl with thick curly black hair and huge, round glasses that dominated her face. She was slight of build and had serious under-confidence issues. She headed for the seat right behind me.

"Hello, I'm Vladimir Samsonov," I extended my hand before she got past me. She gave me a limp hand to shake while stammering something. "I am a transfer from Alaska. Are you a regular?" I inquired as I let her hand go. More muttering. I noticed that a) the majority of my class was Black and b) they were shifting the seat signs around to suit their own personal cliques.

One Black jackass noticed me staring at him.

"Whatchya looking out, boy," he snorted with amusement. A few of his buddies joined in deriding me.

"Not much, you moron," I mocked him. "You think the teacher doesn't have a seating list in her possession?"

My resistance appeared to gather their ire. Three Black kids came my way. They were pudgy and stood around 5' 8" to 5' 10".

"You had better watch your mouth, bitch," he postured. He was in my 'space'. I didn't like that so I stood up and looked down on him.

"Bitch?" I mused. The enormity of his mistake was written on his face. I had six inches on him and my mass advantage was pure muscle. I was anything but intimidated. "Does your punk ass wants to be thrown down?" I grinned. Their proximity and stances screamed "amateurs".

"Hey man, we were just playing around," he and his buddies tried to retreat.

"Now put the seating assignments back where they belong. I don't want to waste the teacher's time with your juvenile bullshit," I demand.

"Or what?" one of his comrades felt that the expanding distance allowed him to be mouthy. I took one step and then drove my first- and forefinger into the muscles shielding his heart. Pain and fear caused the dude to recoil and crash into a chair before slipping out and slithering to the floor.

"Where I come from, we respect our elders - that includes teachers. You are going to do it because that's how the teacher wants it," I stated in a clear, even tone. "Are we clear, or do you want some more?" The class was dumbstruck. The three Black kids were especially fearful. "Now pick your ass up and make sure the seating assignments are correct."

I resumed my seat. The Black crowd was muttering, glancing my way angrily. They were also doing as I had told them. That poke was actually something I learned when my Mom had us take a 'Bodyguard' course in Las Vegas last summer ... sometimes ... that woman. It was 'back the fuck up and listen to me before I have to kick your ass' poke. It was painful and didn't raise a welt.

It was meant to get the person's attention without hurting him/her. It wasn't my fault the dumbass fell over.

"Hi, I'm Kaelyne Harlow," the girl, who I had tried to talk to, tapped my shoulder.

"Glad to meet you, Kaelyne," I turned and shook her hand again. Her grip was firmer.

"You are going to get in trouble for that," she looked worried. That expression was enhanced by the size of her glasses.

"How so?" I asked.

"Vlad, who are you talking to?" Brandy's voice dripped with false affection. I had missed her entrance.

"Kaelyne Harlow," I turned back. Considering the reasonable population of our student body, the importance of race and the size of the White minority, Brandy should have known her.

"Kaelyne, he's my boyfriend this year. My Daddy says so, his Daddy says so and we have to do what our Daddies tell us to do," Brandy demeaned Kaelyne and me with her attitude. "Even if he would want someone like you, he can't have you."

Kaelyne wilted. The teacher's (Ms. Alice Thomas) entered the room cautiously and called for attention. She seemed somewhat surprised people were in their assigned seats. Brandy was on the front row and a Black girl next to her kept up a whispered conversation. The girl, Taliyah Malik, acted like she was Brandy's BFF and their disrespect was annoying.

It was also troubling that the teacher didn't call them to task over it. After we were dismissed to go to our first period classes, Brandy looked over her shoulder and smiled at me.

"Vlad, meet me in the men's locker room at the start of lunch break and I'll give you something special," she said. That was wrong on so many levels.

Worse, most of the Black students found that amusing. Not good, not good, not good. I caught Kaelyne's look of pity my way, but had another difficulty to deal with as I moved down the hall. The three asshats from homeroom had found two larger goons. They were coming at me, the hall crowd was expecting a fight and I was giving them a wolfish grin.

I wasn't seeking Valhalla, or a masochist. I was looking at my two brothers following those five.

"Problem?" I addressed my pursuers.

"Yo bitch, you are about to get jacked," the mouthy guy smirked. 'Bitch' again. Had someone slashed this school's insult budget?

"Problem?" Alexander grinned at me. Two of the guys looked over their shoulder at my twin.

"Problem?" Mikhail was positively feral. More looks of shock. Yeah, we were triplets.

"I'm not sure," I joked. "I think this gang of homosexuals was stalking me." I didn't give a crap about homosexuality.

The only homo I had ever knowingly met was a lesbian IDF (Israel Defense Force) hand to hand combat trainer (Krav Maga). She was one scary lady. I'd asked her what it was like being a lesbian. When it was translated, she asked if I was one of 'those' Christians. I told her I was OCA (Orthodox Church in America). She nodded; clearly I wasn't one of 'those'.

"Do you like girls?" she asked me in broken English.

"Yes," I nodded.

"So do I," she laughed and that was that. The issue at hand wasn't what I thought of homosexuality. Mom had informed us these Blacks found it insulting and an assault on their masculinity.

"Are you chasing my brother's ass?" Mikhail teased the biggest thug.

"Fuck..." he got out. He was trying to push Mikhail back. Schoolyard brawlers shouldn't pick on trained martial artists. In general, it's wrong to pick on people and it is moronically wrong to pick on people you don't know.

Mikhail was the most violently-inclined of us three. This bastard had screwed up. Mikhail channeled his attacker's momentum into the closest set of lockers. That blooded the brute's face.

"I think he tried to grab my pectoral, Bros," Mikhail belittled the guy.

"It looked that way to me," I agreed.

"Let's go to class," Alexander suggested and off we went. The four remaining guys were totally off their game. The first half of school followed that pattern. For some reason, we were supposed to put up with this Black bullshit. Grabbing girls, pushing the wimpy White guys around and beating up the rednecks who fought back (because the rednecks fought stupidly and were always outnumbered by the Black mobs they clashed with).

The Blacks harassing my brothers and I got bigger and had a game plan that involved keeping us apart. At third period I was introduced to a peculiarity I hadn't believed existed outside of Hollywood. Black men calling Black men 'niggers' and 'nigger'. To test the water, I joined in that jocularity and boy, oh boy, did they get pissed.

In this environment, White people couldn't call Black people 'nigger' to their face. The hypocrisy insulted my sense of fair play. I was making my way to the locker room date with Brandy when I got a text from Mikhail. He was going to the Vice Principal's office after a similar run in with the 'nigger' dichotomy.

Four 'homies' attempted to 'correct' my brother's word usage. From the pics he took, they looked pretty badly beaten. I would have gone to hell and back for either brother. That didn't blind me to Mikhail's mean streak. Mom said it was his Varangian ancestors calling to him. Mom was always coming up with that kind of poetic nonsense.

Alex checked in okay - we had code words - thank you Uncle Theo. Outside the entrance to the Men's locker room stood two rather impressive Black gentlemen, around my height but lighter built. They were kind enough to follow me in. That was a good thing because as I opened the door, all kinds of muffled sexual sound assaulted my senses.

For a moment, I loss perspective and, as they say, fools rush in. Two locker rows in, on the benches was an orgy. I had a feeling despite Brandy telling me to come here, it hadn't been to invite me to join. In the split second it took me to realize this wasn't rape going on, the two guys who followed me in grabbed my bicep and elbows on each side.

Brandy was in a somewhat awkward 'on all fours' position. A Black guy was beneath her, fucking her pussy and mauling her tits. Another was feeding his super-sausage-sized dick down her throat, face-fucking her, with his hands holding her head. It turned out to be rather stumpy, but I didn't learn that until later. There was a third Black guy with a truly impressive phallus pounding away violently at her butthole.

"You must be Vlad," snorted the hugenormous Black guy. "I just want you to know that Brandy is my slut. Now," he gave Brandy several hard thrusts, "you are going to be a good cracker-boy, or you are going to be a dead cracker-boy, you understand me?"

"Answer Darius," one of my two captors growled at me. Darius had to be the talker.

"What exactly do you want?" I asked cautiously.

"She's my fuck-slave. You are going to lie to her Daddy about what's going on, and you get by just fine. When I tell you to take her out on a date so I can fuck her - you take her on a fucking date. That's what you do to stay safe - you and your brothers."

Brandy was trying to say something but the guy forcing his dick down her gullet wasn't letting her. Darius signaled the 'brutha' to ease up. Brandy gasped for air and choked down the precum and saliva.

"Darius is my Man, Vlad. You play nice and no one gets in trouble," she smiled at me.

Maybe she was trying to look seductive, or triumphant, but all she looked to me was tawdry and used. She was about to say something else, but the guy getting his cock sucked didn't care. He shoved it past her lips though I doubted it reached much of her throat his rod went. That ended her participation in the 'conversation'.

I took several seconds to take in the larger scene. There were five girls here in some state of undress of their cheerleader outfits. Two girls were Black. They were getting the solo treatment. The two other White girls and Brandy were getting slammed. One big fella shot off over one girl's face and another took his place before she could even clear her eyes.

If there was love in this school, it wasn't in the Men's locker room at that moment. Brandy's BFF looked at the 'air tight' blonde with distain, sharing in some private joke with her confederates of color. Darius dumped a load in Brandy's ass. That set her off into orgasm. How sweet was that?

Before another guy took Darius' spot targeting Brandy's posterior, I could see that it was a gaping cavern filled with white goop. I was strongly convinced this wasn't Brandy's first, or tenth gangbang, or bout of anal sex. In a way it was a relief. Brandy was no longer my problem.

"You going to be a good boy?" Darius came up and grabbed my chin.

I would give him this much, he was fast. He blocked my knee, which would have been decisive if that hadn't been my distraction. My foot came down and stomped on the instep of the guy to my right. His hold weakened. While I broke free from the guy on my right, I pivoted behind the guy on my left. I let Darius' counterstrike hit that bozo.

Now I was free and here was my chance to not be Mikhail. I ran for it. There were twenty Black guys down there. I wasn't sure what level of threat the fucked cheerleaders would be, but I didn't need the hassle. The guys looked to be members of the football team (I guessed correctly). That meant strength training and endurance.

Run to someone in authority? Who could I trust? The Principal was this fat, old Black joker. The Vice Principal was some heavy-set White chick who was currently reaming out my brother. Fleeing school? Nah, I had to come back at some point so running away was delaying the inevitable. I decided that a crowded spot was my best bet so I ran for the cafeteria.

As soon as I made it, another conundrum revealed itself. Where to sit? My calculations were interrupted by someone calling my name. It was Kaelyne. She was at a table with a nerdy otaku chick and an overweight Goth girl.

"Are you okay?" was the first rush of words out of her mouth when I sat down.

"Sure," I nodded.

"Did you go..." the nerdy girl with the crimson haired pixie cut prodded. That pretty much reinforced what I suspected and feared.

"Yes. I went, I saw and I ran away," I grinned. "So, who is Darius?"

"Darius Pope pretty much runs this school," Pixie-cut babbled. "He's serious bad news. The Principal and the Coach worship the ground he walks on. He and the football team pretty much do what they like." I looked to Kaelyne for some help.

"Oh, this is Vicky - Victoria (pixie cut) and this is Leona (Goth girl)," she made introductions.

I seemed to need no introductions. Further confusion was curtailed by Alexander joining us. Another round of greetings came and went then it was down to brass tacks - relaying my locker room revelations and threats. Alex and I both knew we had no alternative. No one at school liked us, the biggest, both literally and figuratively, cult on campus was going to stomp us flat if we so much as squeaked and they wanted us to lie to Dad.

Knuckling under to tyranny and lawlessness wasn't the Samsonov way. We had a frozen stiff great-grandfather to prove it. Beyond some impressive genetics and a bloodline dedicated to bringing forth the light of justice into the darkness where inequities poisoned the soul, we had our Mom's crazy-quilt of skills to fall back on. Honestly, if all he had wanted was to date/slam-fuck Brandy, I'd have walked away.

Sadly for Darius, Alexander and I saw the look of fear in Kaelyne's and Victoria's faces (Leona kept her bangs over her eyes) when they talked about the school's biggest cock-monster. Worse, this malignant, weird sickness seemed to infect both the school and the town. If you were a sexy 'townie' White girl, Black guys fucked you whether or not your parents approved, or if you had a boyfriend.

Some cliques of Black girls were just as bad. In either case, the affair never ended well for the White students. If the girl got pregnant, it was either a back room abortion, or an unwed mother with no Black guy taking responsibility. White boys who screwed Black girls were living on borrowed time. When her father, brother, and/or boyfriend found out, the guy got a serious beating.

The teacher situation was just as malignant. Those who wouldn't willingly pull up their skirts and drop those panties were blackmailed to do so unwillingly. The Principal knew and didn't care. He was part of the problem, using trumped up demerits to force sex on girls, White and Black. He did the same to some of the mothers and teachers too. Coach was in the same sleazy league.

The Vice Principal? She was married to this tax professional in Kingston yet she was basically the Coach's cum dump. Occasionally he pimped her fat ass out for his star players to fuck as well. Alexander, Mikhail and I were alone in this...maybe Mom. I could tell that Kaelyne and Victoria wanted to do 'something' vaguely like resisting, but we couldn't afford it if they folded up under the pressure.

At the end of lunch break, we got a text from Mikhail. First off, he had recorded the VP's little put down session including her ignoring the reality that Mikhail would never pick a fight with four guys he had never met before. For better, or worse, the Principal had intervened and suggested that Mom showed up for a visit - just the two of them - after school.

I was kind enough to ask Mikhail if he'd warned the Principal about the can of whoop-ass he was about to open. He said he had and that the Principal gave him this shit-eating grin. We called Mom. She was aware of the setup and was coming 'equipped', whatever that meant. Darius caught up with us as lunch was ending.

He had five of his biggest plus Brandy and Taliyah. Darius had an arm around Brandy's shoulder. She looked to be as happy as a well-fucked clam could be.

"That was very stupid of you," he glared. It was a common intimidation technique to not use a person's name. It dehumanizes them. Me? I could care less.

"I'm not a fan of men putting their hands on me in locker rooms, Darius," I regarded him coolly. "If this is about Brandy; I don't want her. If this is about her Dad; that's not my problem. If she wants to lie to her Dad about who she's seeing, that's on her. Quite frankly, I don't want any part of this scummy mess."

"You shouldn't have hit my boys," Darius grinned wickedly. "You are going to have to pay for that."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," I shrugged. "Do you want to handle this like men, or should I expect more of your nigger ambush bullshit?"

"I'll get to you in due time," Darius smirked. The 'N' word angered his crowd.

Darius let it slide this time. I guessed the 'men' angle was out. That was fine by me. Ambushing worked both ways. "Brandy, why don't you give your 'boyfriend' a big wet kiss," he directed her toward me.

"Ffhh," I scoffed. "I wouldn't let my dog lick her mouth. I'm definitely not kissing that latrine."

Brandy looked incensed. Darius was pissed, but not over Brandy's tiff. No, I wasn't afraid of him and I wasn't going to back down. That meant he'd have to find a way to break me and my brothers. His problem was he was smart enough to know we weren't the normal redneck dumbasses. You couldn't get at us through our sisters, aunt, or cousins; only our Mom (yeah, right).

Our Dad was the law and the school was outside the town limits. That meant the Sheriff and the Senior Deputy could answer calls to the school on criminal matters. Darius let us go. The day continued and I got plenty of black faces snickering at me over my perceived misfortune. The three of us waved to Mom as we drove home and she went in to see the Principal.

I noticed she had on her weighted, fingerless gloves. To the uninitiated, they looked like racing gloves. They weren't. Those gloves were the disguised equivalent of brass knuckles. We went home, did our homework and prepared dinner. Mom and Dad would be late getting home tonight.

There was the law enforcement inquiry, gathering evidence and the time it took for the ambulance to come and go. Crime scene stuff. We were used to it.

(That First Week)

I started out the next morning admiring the boarding on the window to the Principal's second story office. The ground and bushes beneath it were pretty trampled up too. That was a good way to start the day. In homeroom, I was talking to Kaelyne again when Princess Brandy announced her entrance and her 'power' over me.

"Hey Vlad," she greeted me with sugary sweetness. She was working out ways to get me for the whole 'dog not kissing her mouth' thing.

"Hey Skank," I grinned at her. Her face froze. Taliyah pulled up short.

"What did you say?" Brandy hissed.

"Skank. Are you hard of hearing?" I mused.

"I'm Darius' girl, asshole. You had better accept that right now."

"Girl? Sure. I imagine that Darius and seven other guys fucking you in all three holes until you are oozing sperm is your ideal dream date," I chortled.

Having the scope of her depravity openly discussed really pissed her off.

"You are jealous," she sneered. There was a hint of desperation in her voice. I chuckled.

"That's clearly delusional thinking," I laughed. "You look hot, just not enough for me to want to wash my dick in ten other guys' cum. You act like a skank so that is how I will address you, Skank."

She was infuriated. The start of homeroom ended the matter for the moment. The rest of the day was spent with a hundred slights and pin pricks. Darius' crowd would get in jabs from behind as we walked the halls, or projectiles tossed at us during class. We were fine with that. There was no fighting back. The 'niggers' didn't get it.

We were scoping out the faces of our enemies and finding blind spots in the school's security camera system. The truth about what happened to the Principal had also gotten out. Mom had already informed us of the series of events, including the spy camera video she took of the entire proceedings.

She'd kept up the 'dunce housewife' act even after he whipped out his cock and forced her to suck it - because he was a 'big Black stud' - his words recorded for posterity. Finally, he put his hand down her blouse to give her bountiful bosom a good squeeze while shoving his dick past her loudly protesting lips. That was all the excuse Mom needed. She portrayed the frantic housewife really well. We, her family, knew better.

She was hamming it up to allay any criminal charges. His pleas for mercy were ignored. It was hard to make out what he was saying after she bashed out half his teeth with his 'African-American Educator of the Year' award. She'd ruptured his scrotum, stabbed his exposed penis repeatedly with a letter opener and cracked half a dozen vertebrae and a dozen ribs.

We were pretty sure she'd broken his arms in multiple places, ground up both his hands and shattered his left wrist. She snapped his right leg in two, all the while screaming 'Don't touch me! Don't touch me!' Her last bit of sadism was to toss him out his second story window. The first try, he bounced back, but we were pretty sure he had a concussion.

The second try cracked the safety glass. The third time was the charm and down that rapist rat-bastard fell into a modest sized holly bush (ouch!). Mom completed the act by pretending to sob as she crawled into a corner of the office while she dialed 9-1-1. As she gleefully went over the play-by-play for us once home, we knew she was cool about the entire incident, even the groping and forced blowjob.

It was Davis County jurisdiction so they were in charge of the investigation. That didn't stop Kingston from sticking their noses in. The Mayor was all about the Principal being a pillar of the community, a Black leader and a church-going man. Then the School's video evidence came out. The Principle had been so full of himself and his immunity, he recorded his attempted violation of my Mom.

Did the Negro community accept the obvious? No. This was a racist White lady, from a racist family, framing a good Black man though how she accomplished that was unclear to most of us and undefined by the Black leadership. They claimed that the Principal had yet to give his side of the story. That would take a while. The man had lost most of his teeth and had his jaw wired shut.

Both eardrums were ruptured and he could barely see out of his right eye. His left was swollen shut. His nose was pancaked. There was even a rumor that his penis was so badly mauled they had to cut most of it off (which turned out to be true). Big Bob, some deputies (all White) and some Highway Patrol (both colors) raided the Principal's house and found a stockpile of tapes and DVDs depicting previous sexual encounters at school going back almost two decades.

Apparently that was nothing more than extra proof of the hateful, bigoted White man framing a decent, hard-working Black man. That any group could be so blinded by their own bigotry that they would embrace such a blatant fiction was appalling to me. At school, the Blacks were indignant and the Whites kept a low profile, as if they'd done something wrong.

The one grey cloud in this monsoon of misery was basketball tryouts were on Thursday after school. We picked up consent forms from a furious coach that slathered on the kind of negativity we had come to expect from him and his sick breed. White boys can't jump. White boys can't dunk. White boys can score inside the 'paint'...yep. No racism there (insert maniacal laughter).

The Assistant Athletic Director coached the basketball team. He was a short, thin, hyperactive White man and, as we were to learn, a race-hater. He hated White people, or at least White athlete wannabes. More on him later. There were two key developments on my front. First, Alexander informed us he had a side project he couldn't talk about yet.

The second thing was that Darius demanded, by way of Brandy, that I took Brandy to an 'after victory' celebration out by the lake Friday night. From 9 p.m. to whenever, I was to sit back and let Brandy be used like a drunk runaway at an outlaw biker rally. Personally, I didn't see how that could be an enjoyable sexual experience.

Brandy believed this made her Darius' lady. She certainly embraced the bukkake, sperm baths eagerly. I still chose to ridicule her constantly because I could tell she was having trouble rationalizing her sexual treatment with any style of romance, or affection. She hadn't been honest with me so I was now tormenting her and using her shame to stab at Darius.

We could see it in his eyes whenever we mocked his crowd. Darius was plotting out his revenge. His problem was we didn't care what he called us, we didn't care about the teachers he turned against us and we had no spies in our camp, or friends to turn against us. We accepted our social life, for the time being, would be limited to our home.

Mom hinted she had a 'plan' in the offing and proved the internet had rendered local belligerence impudent. All our supplies came by parcel delivery from out of town. We wired up a new home security system, engaging a Little Rock private security service instead of putting any faith in the local, Black-run firm. We signed a waiver for the self-install.

There were times when we could totally believe that Mom and Uncle Theo were twins. Technically, as the twin born last, Mom was the youngest of the five children. For unspoken reasons, Theo ended up at a military academy for delinquents at fifteen. She only publically saw him three times since then. Once when she broke into his school (and got caught), at his academy graduation and lastly when he finished basic training for the Army.

Yet they remained close in ways only multiple birth kids could understand despite the time and distance. It also meant Mom came equipped with (cough) healthy doses of paranoia and vindictiveness. Mom reminded us our battle wasn't limited to the school. We were fighting a secularist religion with a fanatic core.

Had Black Americans been fucked over by White America? Yep. That didn't end 150 years ago either. There was Jim Crow legislation after Reconstruction as well as uninvestigated rapes, beatings, whippings, lynching and even being burned alive. All horrors visited on the Black Race by the White Man.

Yet it was White men who passed the Voting Rights Act in 1965. Yes they did, but getting Black people to accept that there were White people who stood with them as equals was impossible. Since 1965, had there been Black councilmen/women, mayors, state legislators, governors, Congressmen/women, Supreme Court Justices and, dare we say - a PRESIDENT?

Why yes. Where there Blacks in every aspect of professional life? Damn right there were. Where there Black millionaires? Thousands of them, and even an African-American self-made Billionaire. So exactly what were White Americans supposed to feel guilty about? Crap our parents and grandparents did? Great-grandparents?

When was the cut-off date for being held accountable for actions you had no part in? There were poor Black people. There were poor White people and poor Latinos for that matter. As far as my Mom was concerned, racism was racism and it had no exceptions for color, creed, and orientation coming, or going.

She'd given the Blacks of Kingston their chance to make things right - to end the cycle of hate. They had declined to rein in their own, so she felt no obligation for her, or her sons, to give obedience to their injustice.

There was a pile of evidence that the Principal had done wrong, still Kingston treated him like a hero and martyr. Fuck that noise. Mom didn't want to start some wacked-out guerilla war. She only wanted to punish those responsible for this fucked up situation. Target #1 - Darius and by default, Darius' family. That, in turn, was Darius' biggest problem.

He didn't realize he was hunting people more than capable of hunting the hunters. We knew he and his supporters were coming for our family, they had tons of advantages and little fear of the four of us (we wouldn't involve Dad since he was in law enforcement and a straight arrow). We weren't aiming for a body count. Our goal was humiliation and breaking their wills to resist.

With that accomplished, we could install some truly impartial justice and social order. My family was aided in this quest by the clarity of our enemy's weaknesses. They were proud of their Big Black Cocks and their lack of restraint in using them on whomever they pleased. Basing their Black masculinity on a single bit of mythology rendered them painfully vulnerable to us.

They hadn't chosen to base their dominion on anything but their cock & balls. Solidarity, economic output and healthy competitiveness had been tossed aside. The Black community in Kingston accepted Black male predation as the natural course of things. It was revenge for the White Master/Black Slave Girl depredations that happened during Slavery. Did they humble White men by fucking their moms, sisters, wives and daughters? Yeah.

That disregard for social bonds and femininity meant Black women were under the same dominion, though they lied to themselves about it and the Black men comforted them in that lie. Black Mammas let their boys run around like dogs then were aghast when their husbands did the same thing. Big Black Cocks were eroding the basis for trust in this town.

If BBC wanted a woman, he stuck the dick in and that woman became his cock-slave. Had the woman started out resisting? That didn't matter because now they needed that dick to get her through the week. That was the score. The truth Mom laid out was confirmed by a week of school. How were we going to defeat the BBC menace?

Mom just smiled and said she had a 'Secret Weapon' to go along with her battle plan. We took that assurance into Thursday's basketball team tryouts. We rocked. We had the talent and the skills. That didn't matter to the Assistant Coach. He had six Black players returning from last year's team.

There was one White guy whose Mom was throwing gobs of new equipment the team's way, so he was on board. That left five spots to fill the twelve man roster. Up against us was one ambitious White junior, seven Black juniors and one Black female senior. Apparently she'd been denied a spot on last year's team based on gender alone and was still pissed about it.

The Ass Coach immediately set his sights on five of the Black juniors that fit the profile - Black top (that's outdoor courts that used asphalt) experience, tall, lanky and a willingness to dunk on a moment's notice. Our scrimmages were stupid and biased. The Black players could elbow, trip and punch us without repercussions. Mikhail almost got booted for threatening to toss the next blatant fouler into the bleachers.

We caught a break when Ass Coach got called away with a phone call which he couldn't understand because his 'chosen ones' wouldn't shut up and even attempt to be quietly considerate. I had an idea to create our own scrimmage team, but I had a problem. The two Black guys and one White guy not getting on the team sucked. I needed two of the other Black players.

I chose an alliance. I went to the angry, dispirited female player and made my offer. We would challenge the current team and, if we beat them, we made a pact that all of us made the team, or none of us did. I could see her weighing screwing me over. The whole school knew Darius was gunning for me and my brothers. She shook my hand. We needed a fifth.

The girl, Kaja Woodrow, went over to her cousin, one of the players from last year's team. He didn't want to join us. He had a guaranteed spot and he could blow it by joining his crazy female cousin and the three most hated White boys in school. Kaja threatened to bring their grandmother into this mess. I think that threat plus a strong sense of fair play changed his mind.

We were good. Shaquille, Kaja's cousin, knew it. Everyone knew it. He was shorter than us, around 5' 10". His ball-handling skills were phenomenal, he was a fairly accurate shooter and would happily pass the ball if someone was in a better court possession instead of taking a risky shot.

Passing the ball was key and not an art form shared by the rest of his current teammates. With Shaquille on our side, we put our proposal before the Ass Coach. He denied us, but we were ready for that. Our team took to physically and verbally mocking and denigrating the manhood of the current roster. They took our bait.

After a quick warm-up, we made our move. Everything worked in our favor. High School courts aren't black top. The courts are wider and there is no turning around at mid-court. You added to that our opponents were ball-hogs and suffered from terminal 'dunk-itis'. Mikhail made the 'paint' his bailiwick (bally-wick?).

Dunk attempt after dunk attempt were brutally rejected by him. By their logic, my brothers and I would also keep the ball for ourselves. We passed like crazy. This was doubly painful for them because the White boys and Kaja could nail a jump shot from 18 ~ 20 feet out - no problem. Shaquille would race behind their screen, catch a pass on the leap and dunk unopposed.

Our squad was making their squad and the Ass Coach look like idiots. The All-Black squad didn't regroup and create a new plan. No. We were belittling them. First came the fouls. When that wasn't enough to stop us from outscoring them, they brought out on the egregious fouls and still the Ass Coach did nothing.

Finally, after the fifteenth time Kaja humiliated the player supposed to be guarding her with a quick feint-step and a basket, he ran her over. He didn't shove her. He threw a powerful shoulder into her chest and followed up by stepping on her stomach. He smiled. His buddies laughed. Mikhail walked over and broke his jaw.

Remember, Mikhail was a big, strong, skilled fighter and had a temper. That message hadn't filtered through the mind of the All-Black squad. They rushed him. Their center took a piston kick to the gut (he had pathetic reflexes) and his closest buddy succumbed to a leg sweep. The Ass Coach went apoplectic. Shaquille rallied to Mikhail and Kaja while we went to our gym bags.

Out came the two recording devices (it is the freaking Information Age, you morons). Thanks to the internet, we uploaded the files and then we took the damning evidence to Ass Coach. He and most of his team were in deep shit. Their blatant fouls counted as assault in the real world. Mikhail wasn't in trouble. The dumbass who attacked Kaja was standing over the woman he assaulted when my brother intervened.

We also promised to show this video to every school on our schedule for the year as well as any and every athletic authority we could think of. Grudgingly he offered we three Samsonovs a place on the roster. We insisted on all five of our squad. He insisted he would never put a girl on the team.

I put my arm around his scrawny shoulders and forcefully walked him away for a private chat. I reminded him keeping Kaja off the team solely because she was female was discrimination. My brothers didn't like discrimination. My Mom REALLY didn't like discrimination.

Did he want my Mom to come to school and explain to him how much she disliked it? Kaja was on the team. Ass Coach announced the new roster and promptly uplifted our spirits by declaring this season would be a disaster because we had a girl and four White guys on the team. The next day, she and Shaquille received ten kinds of trouble from their racial compatriots.

Mikhail gave Kaja a 'First Alert' bracelet and cautioned her to wear it at all times. It was a testimonial to how screwed up this environment was she put it on without question. Shaquille ended up eating lunch with us as well. The razzing was bad enough. The cracks his former friends were making about Kaja made him want to commit violence on their persons.

Shaquille found out what comradery was all about as classes let out that first Friday afternoon. Eight big bucks ambushed him as he prepared to walk home - he lived about a mile way. Recall what I said about identifying our tormentors? We figured out who the 'shot-callers' were so when they started texting their plan around, the Samsonovs began taking counter-measures.

Darius was the Capo. Since we had a 'home' game tonight, he couldn't attend to this errand personally, nor could his football-playing associates. He had plenty of non-jock lieutenants to command. In turn, those bozos had the rank and file big and average-sized thugs to follow his orders. This wasn't an army. It was a loose vigilante herd.

They also were kind enough to joke about their target when they thought we weren't around. We had to keep out of sight until the eight made a move on Shaquille. We hadn't warned our 'buddy' out of concern he might not want to keep his role as bait. We waited for the shoving to end and the desperate grappling to begin before intervening.

We had to film them committing their crime to make our crime non-criminal, if you can understand that reasoning. We should have thanked Darius for giving us his eight best 'B-grade' boys to annihilate. Seven of them went down super-quick. The eighth bolted. We couldn't maintain our legal smoke screen if we ran him down.

Instead, we settled for stomping the fuck out of the seven we had. Keeping them on their feet was the key. Kicking a man when he's down looks suspect. Shaquille joined in the 'fun'. Our victims pleaded, cursed, threatened and cried like little babies yet we still beat them raw and bloody.

Their superior numbers and initiating the conflict pretty much allowed us to do anything we wanted to them, short of murder. Was this a White racist beat-down? You could look at it that way except for the first minute of the video showed eight Black kids surrounding and shoving around another Black kid.

Once we vacated the trashing, I leveled with Shaquille about our actions - we had known what was coming his way, used him to give us an excuse to kick ass ... and he was pissed with us. After a few minutes, he shook his head, snorted and agreed while we were total bastards, there had been no other way for that encounter to play out that left the four of us in a better position.

Those seven guys would be in no shape to bother him or Kaja for a week, or two, and the message of the pummeling those seven went through would reverberate throughout the school.

I touched base with Big Bob, who was attending the game, so that Darius and Brandy could see me being a 'good boy' thus foolishly playing my part in their deceptive scheme. That was living proof the worst deceptions was self-deceptions. Come on now, my brothers and I had beat up seven of Darius' flunkies and now they thought I was cowed enough to be led like a calf to the slaughter?

(Football Follies)

There was only one unexpected event on that nightmare first date. The score of 42-3 made sense. Darius was an epic running-back with all the natural talent and ambition to make the NFL. The rest of the team was pretty good as well and more than enough to manhandle the mixed race team opposing them.

The coach running up the score was par for the course as far as unsportsmanlike conduct went. By now, nil human compassion was what we expected from that crowd. They behaved like brutal thugs. The other team was suitably battered, broken and sullen. Every underhanded blow, discourtesy and disrespect our team exhibited reinforced my sense of my brothers' righteousness.

A tractor-trailer sized 'Humble Pie' was coming down the pipeline for those assholes and it was so well deserved. 'Our' team even had the gall to molest the other team's cheerleaders before they could exit the arena. A few dust-ups occurred when fathers and boyfriends of the attacked ladies tried to save their womenfolk. Their coach appealed to our coach.

Coach's look said it all; 'to the victors go the spoils'. Big Bob's deputies moved in. It took all of five seconds to see whose side the Black deputies were on. They gleefully aided the monsters struggling with the White men whose sole crime was wanting to get their women out with their virtues intact. All of these shenanigans were anticipated by Mom and us.

Three members of the defense managed to steal one terrified White cheerleader away from her side of the field. The boyfriend who tried to get to her was held back by a Black deputy. They would have been home-free except for one thing - my Dad's height and instincts. He spotted the trouble and headed those three off. First they blustered. Dad was unfazed.

Next they decided two would block Dad while the third dragged the girl away. They didn't know Dad. The second they put hands on him, out came his collapsible baton. He swung it up and into one antagonists' elbow. Trust me - that hurts. Of greater importance - no one saw it coming. Dad got in a blow to the other guy before he knew why the first guy was cursing in pain.

Then Dad fell on the third football player. My favorite lawman was finished talking. He shoved a thumb into the bastard's left eye - trust me; that hurts too. I can also assure you it is horribly distracting. Dad corralled the panicked girl and brought her back to her boyfriend - and the deputy who was arresting him. The White boy was freaking out and the Black officer was gloating.

I had never been the recipient of what came next, but I'd heard Dad's family talk about it and witnessed it a few times from a distance - like tonight. Dad, as Senior Deputy, asked the 'plain' Deputy to release the boy. The Deputy said something disrespectful to Dad. My Father grabbed the man's right wrist faster than a rattlesnake. I could almost feel those wrist bones grinding painfully together.

Dad, like all the men in our family, was big and bulky - not fat. We packed muscle mass upon muscle mass and I knew that Black man wasn't getting his wrist back until Dad decided to release him. Dad leaned in and whispered a few things to the Deputy. The Black man spat back then nearly crumpled over in pain as my Father ratcheted up the pressure, until the crying man acquiesced.

The girl and her boyfriend beat their feet out of there. Dad escorted the rebellious Deputy to a quiet corner to have a chat. That shithead immediately went for the racist angle - White cop picking on rambunctious Black youths. Dad replied that if he ever saw anything like what he saw that night again, he wasn't going to report the deputy, he was going to arrest him on the spot for facilitating an attempted sexual assault.

The Deputy made one more stab at the racist smear, proving he had never bother to get to know my Father. Dad's comeback was simple. If the deputy called him a racist one more time, he would bring the Black officer up on State and Federal Hate Crime statutes - creating a racial charged work environment.

The Fed would be a 'swing and a miss'. It was the 'Blacks can't be racist' bullshit. The State of Arkansas on the other hand...Dad, Big Bob and the White Deputies would gladly grease the wheels of justice. Nik Samsonov had a flawless 23 year record in law enforcement. All of that was of no surprise.

Dad had never come out and said there was a racial divide in the Sheriff's office, but it was clear to us that to a man, the Black Deputies kept the Black power structure in town abreast of all the goings on at the county law enforcement level. Until our arrival, the Black elite had their eyes set on litigating themselves into the office of Sheriff.

A man of Dad's background and caliber sort of curtailed those hopes and dreams. This was another reason for them to support Darius and his efforts were to make Dad look bad and even shame him into leaving. Fat chance of that happening. No, none of that was surprising to me. What caught me somewhat off-guard was...

"Why do you hate me?" Brandy asked me out of the blue. We were driving to the lake party site when she finally opened up.

"You've never given me a reason to do anything but hate you," I replied after some thought.

"That's not so," she protested. My first thought was to laugh in her face.

"Did it ever occur to you I didn't want to be in a relationship with you either? Did it occur to you that you could have been honest about this and I would have understood? Did you consider my feelings at all before you fed me into Darius' world?" I proffered up my questions.

"You wanted to date me," she rebutted. "I saw the way you looked at me on the deck last Sunday."

"Nope," I shook my head. "I thought you looked 'hot'. I never wanted to date you. Had my mind ever planned to wander that way, your attitude shut that down pretty quick."

Oh really?" she remained confident in her sex appeal. "If you behave tonight, I'll give you a blowjob when you drop me off at home. I'm really good."

"No thanks," I shrugged. "However Darius and his crowd rate your talent at fellatio is not something I consider reliable. If I want a blowjob, I'll get a pro whom I'm sure is disease-free."

"You are being such a bastard," she pouted angrily. I didn't care. "You are just jealous."

"And you are little more than three nameless orifices in a gangbang," I snorted. "If that's what floats your boat; good for you. I prefer to date a girl who doesn't need an orgy to feel erotic and desirable. My problem isn't with how you express your sexuality, Brandy."

"You deceived me and you don't regret it in the slightest. That's my problem with you."

We rode for a while in silence. Brandy couldn't let the matter rest until I acknowledged she was right...and she was the foxy babe I could never have because my melanin levels weren't high enough.

"You wouldn't have understood Darius and me," she spouted with certainty.

"Why?"

"What? Why what?" she asked.

"Why would you assume I wouldn't understand you wanting to date the star running back?" I explained.

"He's Black," she stated.

"So? I don't care about Black and White. Hell, I have cousins who are Native Alaskans - that's Indians to you people," I responded. "The few people of color I did know before coming here were my neighbors and nice people."

"Liar," she smirked. "White men always get upset when strong, Black men take their women."

"You are not my woman, so there was never anything to take. Until you and Darius decided to fuck with me and my brothers, we didn't care," I answered.

"We are not your limp-wristed rich boys, or your rednecks. You both exhibited a painful level of prejudice so here we are."

"Well...you can watch the party but you can't come down," she tried a different angle. "Darius may send you on a beer-run later."

"That ain't going to happen," I chortled.

"You had better do what he says," she threatened. I gave another amused snort. I drove us to the bottom of the parking lot near the lakeshore. Brandy got out, tried to give me a salacious look. I yawned. There were two other pseudo-boyfriends on the scene and a passel of empty cars most likely belonging to the football crowd.

I had taken into account that my family's resistance and Dad's actions had earned me some serious retribution in their minds. That was all part of our strategy. I cut off my headlights then backed my car toward the road. I waited for ten seconds then Alexander appeared at the passenger door of the Mustang.

"Hey Vlad," he teased me. "How are things going on your 'date'?"

"As expected," I chuckled. I put on the emergency brake and popped the trunk. Five minutes later, Alexander had taken Mom's car and split. I was in a dark maroon ski-mask, the same colored hoody and exercise pants (I already had on Black shoes and socks), night vision goggles and video camera with a really excellent audio system that would allow me to negate things like cricket noises.

Dark red and maroon were better than black, or grey, in hiding at night. I was virtually invisible in the darkness. After checking the wireless hook-up, I found my pre-scouted spot to watch and record the festivities. Thirty-two Black football players, ten Black girls and seventeen White girls filled the stage.

First came the drinking and pawing. Then came the rough-housing and the screams of the few White girls who were only now realizing they weren't on a 'date' in the classic sense. Then came the orgy. For the Black athletes who didn't bring dates, it didn't matter.

Every White girl had three holes - take your pick. Beers, whisky, Red Bulls and Viagra where the diet of choice. The last pleas for mercy were smothered so that only the moaning, groaning and the slapping of hands on flesh and flesh on flesh remained.

After an hour, two of the White chicks were fucked up emotionally and mentally. Their obvious distress didn't elicited concern from anyone else in that crowd. They had been turned into BBCock-slaves. The football players gleefully took pictures of their victims and partners in various sex acts.

Even for the girls who didn't want to participate, this was a license to shame. After the latest rounds of ejaculations, Darius gathered up some of his niggers and sent them to the parking lot...to find me already departed (my car not being there). The two other White boys hadn't a clue where I had gone.

That was their misfortune. They were dragged back down to the lake for Darius to interrogate. Their so-called girlfriends taunted them and added to their degradation. Since BBC's are never homosexually-inclined ... the team decided to ass-rape those two saps (yeah - right). Did I pity them?

A little, but barring retardation, what did they expect the likely outcome of events to be? Now those two could bask in their home-erotic fantasies while convincing themselves they weren't really gay. Darius and crew didn't view White people as human beings - Whites were subhuman, so the Blacks could do anything to them because sub-humans didn't deserve respect, or have rights.

I filmed it all and I wasn't alone in my voyeurism. Undoubtedly, this was blackmail for Darius to use in the future. He also decided to up his game in dealing with me. A Black Deputy Sheriff showed up and began calling my name and looking for me, shining his flashlight around.

He was pretending to be helpful, encouraging me to come out, so he could take me home. For fifteen minutes I switched my attention between his futile and false efforts and the (non-)rapes going on at the lakeshore camping grounds.

The Deputy eventually made his way down to Darius's area. The two chatted a bit, deciding I really had abandoned Brandy, then the cop partook in some of the party favors, ending his sexcapade with Brandy swallowing his load. He even declared it was partial vengeance against Big Bob (the niggahs laughed) and my Dad (since Brandy was theoretically my date).

The festivities died down after the second run at an orgy yet Darius was unsatisfied. First came the throwing of all the ladies into the cool lake waters despite their pleading screams. Then they tossed the two devastated White boys in. After some splashing around and some serious begging and pleading through chattering teeth, they let them out of the water so they could dry off on whatever was handy.

The wasted girlfriends of the two boys poured their false dates into their cars and drove away to the chorus of slights and general mockery. Darius had Brandy give me a call (actually Alexander) and requested I (he) come pick her up. I (he) said he would be there in forty-five (lie).

Darius' trap was simple but effective. He and four of his linemen would be waiting in a sedan parked at the far, upper-hand corner of the parking lot out of sight. Brandy would wait down on one of the bench-tables in the camping ground for me to arrive. Whether I honked my horn, or got out for her, Darius's team planned to roll down on me, block my car and deliver some well-deserved and overly-delayed vengeance.

Once again, Darius was behind in the game. We knew his resources and mindset - he believed he could get away with anything, he would always win and he could intimidate anyone he chose to. From my perspective, Alexander hadn't walked the nearly ten miles from school to get here. I secured my gear, put on my helmet, uncovered my motorcycle and rolled it quietly over to Brandy.

"Here," I surprised her as I stepped out of the darkness to hand her a motorcycle helmet. "Put this on."

"Vlad," she squeaked. "I thought you had left me." She was also fiddling with her phone.

"If you make that call, I'll leave you here," I threatened.

"Leave me here and my Daddy will make you pay," she countered.

"Brandy, try to think for once," I taunted her. "If I didn't leave, what have I been doing all night?" I let that thought sit there, but she wasn't approaching understanding. "I filmed this entire party from start to finish. I'm not the one in serious trouble."

Her fingers hesitantly stopped playing with the phone. I pushed the helmet her way again. She set her phone aside to put it on, allowing me to snatch it up. She hadn't called Darius yet. I pocketed the device then cut it off once she could no longer see it.

"Hey, give me that back," Brandy insisted.

"You didn't call Darius so I'm not going to toss it into the lake," I informed her.

"I'll return it to you when I drop you off," I added. That seemed to mollify her - that and the belief I'd be running into Darius soon. No such luck for her. Mom had spent some of her youth around this place and there were several hiking/biking tracks that also led out of the park the lake was situated in.

I lied to Brandy, telling her I had to pick up one more thing. That allowed me to push my motorbike far enough away to put a copse of bushes between me and Darius.

"Get on," I told her as I mounted and started the engine. She hesitated so I started rolling away. I let her jump on and off we went. Brandy held on tight.

Some of her death grip was from the dangerous route I was taking to exit this place. I knew part of it was also the combination of fears that she'd disappointed Darius and I would tell - show - her dad what had happened tonight. I was counting on Option A. I wouldn't tell Big Bob the truth until it suited us Samsonovs. What Brandy suffered for her numerous lies wasn't my concern.

"Here we are," I told her when I stopped in her driveway. She got off, clearly sore and worn out from her duties as a sperm trough. She gave me the helmet back then held out her hand.

"Oh yeah - phone," I nodded. I hurled it across her yard. "You can find it in the morning. After all, I would hate to run across any of your friends on the way home."

"Bastard," she snarled. I could see the clever spark in her eyes. "I still owe you a blowjob. You held up your end of the bargain." She would have succeeded in looking incredibly sexy except she'd already leaked fluids and semen from her over-used holes all over the back of my seat and I had the vivid memories of all the guys who had already made her swallow a gallon of cum.

"No thanks," I shook my head. "One of us needs to keep their self-respect and it sure isn't going to be you. Night-night," and off I went. My call woke up Big Bob. I let him know I'd dropped off his daughter on his doorstep. I didn't want her to find her phone quite yet. 'Us' triplets had already scouted out an overgrown old timber trail I could use to skirt the Sheriff's speed trap and the blind turn in the road the Kingston cops always used.

By my estimation, as I walked up my back steps, Darius was just figuring out I'd missed my forty-five minute arrival time and had called Brandy...and received no response because her phone was turned off in a darkened yard. He'd go looking around the camp site on the off chance her phone battery had run out of juice. No Brandy. As planned, I called Mom telling her I was home safe and Darius was probably hideously pissed at the moment.

She told me she'd be home in a few minutes. She had a few things she needed to clean up first. It wasn't until later Mom clued us into her part of the plan. Darius' older brother had been a drug conduit in the county and Brandy's dad put him away for seven years. That was why Darius was going after Brandy in such a bad way.

Worse for Big Bob, his wife (a taller, more lush, mature model of Brandy) ran off with a Black Senior Sheriff's Deputy - the man Dad replaced. Apparently he'd been porking the old lady behind Bob's back then been caught joking about it. Brandy had been dating Darius and Big Bob had her break it off - so they were sneaking around behind his back as well.

If underhanded was how Darius wanted to play it, so be it. The damage had already been dealt by his older brother. Mom got in touch with Uncle Theo. Uncle Theo knew all kinds of disreputable people and not just drug cartel members, mercenaries, arms dealers and other assorted killers. He also knew information brokers.

It didn't take too much money, or effort, on Theo's part, to let the DEA know that Darius' Mom was involved in her elder son's illegal enterprise. First, she went through Darius' parent's trash finding containers that could be used to house cocaine that had his mom and dad's fingerprints all over them.

Theo would send her some 'contraband' for Mom to place in those containers. Then she'd sneak into the family home and plant/hide the evidence. Then Theo would have some fool in Mexico send her some trinkets - three or four deliveries would do.

Then he'd send a few kilos of cocaine that Theo would ~ acquire ~ and let the DEA swarm in. Mom would also plant evidence to implicate two of Kingston's police officers ~ to tarnish the whole department in the DEA's eyes. That would lead to a Federal investigation because everyone knew the Black community lied to protect their own.

They would be claiming the Black Man couldn't find justice in the White Man's court system. They would blame the 'White Man' and this time they'd be right ... and not even know they were right. They always blamed their problems on the White Man. They did lie and discriminate against White people so often that their knee-jerk reaction would ring hollow to anyone who truly mattered.

Furthermore, this wasn't the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department who was bending over backwards to undo centuries of judicial failures were Blacks were concerned. It was the DEA and they were a bit more color-blind concerning matters of illegal drugs.

They had the pipeline, previous deliveries, drugs arriving in the mail and drugs stashed in their house. Darius' family had a history of doing this very thing. The DEA wasn't going to believe that 'White folk set us up' spiel. They were going to think that when they busted Darius' brother, they'd only touched the tip of the iceberg.

When I was finally clued into this conspiracy, I thought it was viciously cruel and over-the-top then I looked into my Mother's eyes. There was more to this than she was willing to share at the time ~ some unhealed wound. This was the Samsonov sense of justice married to a long-buried injustice whose moment of resolution had finally come.

The whole community had tried to lie concerning Darius' brother being a drug kingpin and blamed Big Bob Carson for doing his job. They were lying about the Principal right now and those legions of falsehoods thus creating their self-fulfilling prophecy.

Having knowingly and wrongfully blamed others for their own wickedness when the proof of guilt was plain as day, when one of theirs was getting railroaded, no one, not even themselves, would believe their spiel. This town lied to itself and the outside world so often, they could no longer rely on one another for truth.

Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Pope could be saved if the true drug dealers in Kingston and Davis stepped up and testified - they wouldn't. The family could help itself out if they handed over other people in their network - except they had no one to give over for a lighter sentence.

The only thing the Pope family lawyers could trot out was the old 'racist White folks' refrain and a jury in Little Rock would roll their eyes. They would find them guilty on all charges and, during sentencing, they would prove that Black people really did get longer sentences for the same crime than White people did.

Mom didn't care. In her mind, the Pope family was serving time for one crime to pay for the fact they'd committed a crime years ago they'd gotten away with scot-free. She was aiming to squeeze Kingston and keep the pressure on until they cracked, confessed to their crime and their racism. Then, the healing could begin.

(The Secret Weapon ~ Saturday)

Mikhail was being a bit of a bastard. Sheriff Big Bob Carson called us/me to let me know his daughter was coming over to our house to 'hang out' and he wanted her to call him when she got there. Either Brandy hadn't found her phone, or this was his way of making sure she went to the place where she said she was heading - a serious lack of trust.

Mikhail decided I could use the surprise so he neglected to tell me this unwelcome news. He was smart enough to let Mom know. Instead of steeling myself for whatever her game might be, I was practicing long arms (that's archaic weapons for most folk) with Alexander and Mom. Using dulled, steel practice blades and quilted clothing, that was hot, sweaty and somewhat painful work.

That certainly wasn't the way I wanted Brandy to see me. Mikhail had met her at the front door and let her in. She was frightfully late and we all knew why. Mom greeted Brandy with a disgusted snort then stormed past her.

"Good morning, Vlad," Brandy smiled somewhat feebly.

Mikhail was behind her, flashing me a devilish grin. I glared back my displeasure.

"It is nearly noon," I replied. "How's Darius?"

"I...I don't know. We haven't talked since last night," she lied. She was pretty good at it, yet I was already inclined to distrust her ever word and intention.

"Okay," I shrugged, not disguising my disapproval. I tossed my blunted steel sword to Alexander before unbuckling the straps of my armor.

"What is all of this?" Brandy turned to keep up as I went inside.

"We are in the SCA - Society for Creative Anachronism," I said. "The steel blades are Mom's idea ~ for the sake of realism."

"That is a group that relives medieval practices and weaponry," I filled in her obvious ignorance. "We've been doing it half our lives. Mom likes these kinds of things."

"It looks seriously weird," Brandy stated.

"I didn't ask for your opinion in the same way I didn't ask you to come over," I replied.

"I came over to make up for the stuff I've put you through for the past week," she offered. "Maybe we could go out and get some lunch...catch a movie?"

"I think I'll pass," I started putting my armor onto its mannequin in our weapons room.

"Oh..." her next argument trailed off into nothing.

She so annoyed me it wasn't until I turned around, wearing only my boxers, did I realize she was staring at my body. At the same time I finally had cooled down enough to truly appreciate her apparel. Black butt shorts, White halter top thin enough to give a strong indication of the racy, lacy purple bra she wore underneath. I was sure this highly provocative garb wasn't what Big Bob saw her wearing when she left home.

Blood was rushing to my penis despite my best mental efforts. Brandy gave a slight snicker. She was celebrating her sexual success. With the way her nipples were sprouting against her bra and shirt, I was having some success of my own. The difference was I could care less. I brushed past her and headed upstairs. Brandy tagged along.

"We could hang around here," she suggested.

"Did you find your phone?" I inquired. A phone guaranteed a Darius lurking behind the scenes. It was a simple back-up stratagem - have sex with me and take pictures. Then he/she could use the pictures for leverage for my 'good' behavior - that slippery slope of compliance.

"Yes. You didn't throw it very far," she grinned.

"You couldn't have snuck behind your Daddy's back to touch base with Darius if I tossed it into the woods," I replied. She didn't know what to make of that. We made the third floor before she spoke.

"Why do you assume I've talked to Darius?" she mused as she looked around. "Nice house."

"Darius - you exhibit perpetually poor decision making when your pussy is concerned, that's why. About the house - thanks. It is still growing on me," I said as I went into my shared bathroom.

Brandy traipsed in after me. "I am going to take a shower."

"That's okay. I've seen plenty of naked guys," she leered.

"That's for sure," I mumbled. I exhibited a lack of body consciousness by tossing my boxers in the clothes hamper.

"You have a nice body," Brandy observed.

"Yes he does," Mom snarled as she stormed in. "It is time for you to leave."

"Wha...what have I done wrong?" Brandy squalled.

"You are a whore and you are trying to sleep with my boy with some other chump's cum in your cunt - Whore," Mom snapped.

Brandy started to sniffle up. She looked my way for support. Brandy was confusing sexual arousal for affection which I figured was common for her. I looked disinterested. It wasn't true - her stunning sexuality was making me think stupid stuff...like fucking her.

"Vlad?" Brandy pleaded. My blood was rushing to the wrong head, but my brain was still functioning. Darius wasn't used to being out-smarted, made to look foolish, or made to pay for his hubris. Mom had covered her tracks well. Her part of our offensive would still take time.

Besides, he was completely distracted by his lack of success last night. I was sure Brandy had already brought up my recording of the night's festivities. He had idiotically passed on that anger to Brandy so she was making irrational, hate-clouded decisions as well.

"Mom, Brandy and I were just talking," I faux-intervened. Brandy looked to me, thankful for her salvation. Mom shot me a look past her that projected her pride in my deceptiveness. Play the players.

"Brandy, you screwed Darius before coming here, didn't you?" I asked. I knew she would deny it so I upped the ante.

"I know you did. Lie to me and don't let the door hit you in your ass on the way out." Now she was trapped. She was damned if she did and damned if she didn't.

"Yes...but...I was worried about him...he wanted to talk to you last night and..." she stammered.

"You were afraid of his anger, not worried about him, and we both know he didn't want to talk to me last night," I corrected her.

"No. He was upset and I wanted to calm him down. Then I came straight here," she kept stumbling through her lies. She didn't really admit to having sex.

She certainly lied about what Darius wanted. He wanted to hurt me and my family. Darius had started out yesterday night convinced he was closing in for the kill yet now he found himself forced to play catch-up. The normally bright guy was letting his BBC and bull-sized ball sack do his thinking for him.

It gave me a chill to realize as devious as my Mom was, she swore Uncle Theo was more convoluted in his thinking.

"Fine, Vladimir, but she comes with me while you shower. I don't trust this slimy, scum-skank," Mom was now playing bad cop to my good cop.

I didn't know what she had planned. I was okay with that. When Darius referred to Brandy as his 'fuck-slave', he wasn't exaggerating. Brandy's wasn't his paramour. She was his owned piece of flesh and a dispirited bitch that was controlled by her lusts and fears - fear of Darius being key to her way of thinking. It was not only the fear that he would hurt her - he had.

There was the fear he'd stop stuffing her with BBC's; keeping her a slave to her lusts. Those glaring character flaws allowed Mom to heap on the humiliations to Brandy while I showered. She was subjected to multiple mouthwash sessions, douching and an enema. Sure enough, she'd already been fucked in her pussy and her ass before coming here.

Participating in orgies wasn't my problem. Tricking me into partaking of the debris afterwards was. By the time she showed up at my bedroom door, I had finished dressing. I found Brandy rather revolting by this time in our relationship. She was pretty shaken up by the ordeal Mom had put her through, but I had no sympathy to spare.

Brandy was what I described her as - a lying Skank. Had Mom not 'strongly suggested' I needed to fuck her, I would have called Big Bob and asked him to take his daughter home. Honestly, the girl I was thinking about was Kaelyne. She was nice to me, daring within her limits and cute in her own way. Brandy? A Playboy Playmate covered in other men's slime - no thanks.

"Hey," she said feebly. She was debased in the extreme. Any pretense to being her own woman had been stripped bare - she was Darius' sperm landfill and my whole family knew it.

"Let's go for a ride," I offered. She thought that over.

"Let me call Daddy first," she smiled. "Where are we going?"

That attempt at deception was pathetically transparent ... couldn't she see which way this was going? The best she could deliver to Darius was a draw and she could only do that by walking away.

"Out ... I'll figure it out on the way," I told her. She nodded then turned around and went to the hall to make that call. I heard her mumbled curses.

"Problem?" I asked. She smacked the phone into her palm a few times.

"It is broken," she whined. I extended my hand so she gave it over for my examination. I knew that vacant electronic look. Mom had tossed her phone into our electromagnet box. The computer portion of her smart phone was wiped clean. I handed it back.

"Yep, it seems to be broken," I nodded. "I'll call your Dad." She blanched slightly then nodded. She meant to call Darius except the Samsonovs had decapitated that part of her plot. I called Brandy's Dad, told him we were going motocross over the back acreage. He was happy to hear we were bonding. We had to keep Sheriff Carson in the dark for a while longer.

It was the 'better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission' creed in effect. Brandy was truly distressed as we drove away from the house and headed into the broken country we owned. The property had economic value as passable timber land. It was either tree-covered mountains, rocky hills, creeks, or marshy bogs. What it was good for was hunting - deer, black bear, duck in season, and all assorted ground critters.

That was important because my destination wasn't random. There was a two thousand square foot hunting lodge a few miles up into the hills Mom's family used once upon a time and the Cobb's, our wardens, had cleaned and updated. Mikhail and Mom had taken care of the electrical wiring and cable hook-ups.

I let Brandy walk around the place as I stalked her. Her mind was dialing up her choices and was coming to the 'ugly' conclusion that the best she could hope for was to fuck me then get out of here - mission somewhat accomplished to her delusional reasoning. I doubted Darius would agree with her. After all, I'd be fucking 'his woman' even if he treated her like a dog in Michael Vick's kennel.

With his macho blinders on, this would be yet another point for me to mock him. He'd probably fuck the shit out of Brandy over this just to remind her who had the BBC she craved. When we came to the master bedroom, Brandy caved in. The king-sized bed was low to the ground on a solid wooden box frame. Brandy flopped her butt down on the mattress and gave me her best erotic effort.

Her lips were pouty, her cleavage was hypnotic and her legs were spread enough to be suggestive. Her eyes...her eyes were the windows to her soul and her soul was projecting 'let's get this over with so I can get back to a real man'. Bitch.

"Hey," she purred then patted the mattress next to her. "Sit down."

My ass had barely bounced once on the comforter when Brandy rolled on top of me and began kissing me. Her mouthwash had been Cherry-flavored. Yeah, wham-bam thank you Ma'am was her exit plan. She was working her shirt off while grinding her crotch onto my belt buckle. Going along with Mom's strategy was my second best option.

I'd had sex once before in my young life and that was a weeklong session with a professional Mom procured. That was something else I could never talk to my Dad about. I was still leery of putting my cock into her from the standpoint of memories I'd rather avoid. Brandy's shirt and bra came off then she worked down my underwear and pants.

Brandy playfully licked my cock as she worked off my boots and socks. With practiced ease, she shed her sneakers and butt shorts, revealing her baby smooth bald pussy. I was actually starting to look forward to a blowjob. That was not to be. When I took off my shirt, she crept up on me, rolled us over so I was on top then planted some pretend-passionate kisses.

Soon enough, her legs were spread wide and I was slipping into her vagina.

"Oh God," she moaned sensually. How fake could she be? I felt like I was pumping a slimy, wet, cavernous cavity. I could barely feel her vaginal muscle action, she was so loose. All I could think was this experience was so devoid of penile stimulation it would take a while. "Oh baby, that feels good," Brandy cooed.

Since I could barely feel her, I suspected she wasn't getting that much from my actions either. I settled for teasing her left nipple between my thumb and forefinger while I kept my body above hers with my left arm. Brandy gifted me with a few more platitudes I didn't believe. Her body reactions were equally basically a well-rehearsed routine. She'd pivot her hips in an effort to get me off sooner than later.

Around my tenth thrust, I began to feel her vagina conforming to my cock. Brandy's porno queen remix died down until she was utterly quiet. I kept going - this was still a somewhat noxious experience I wanted to get through before my interest dimmed to the point my cock lost its enthusiasm. About two more minutes into the ordeal, Brandy started making noises again.

I was so used to her disingenuous nature it took me a moment to figure out her gasps and moans were genuine and she was struggling and failing to keep them in check. By this time her pussy was mysteriously beginning to feel pretty snug. The texture of my cock was rubbing all over her vaginal folds. In a last desperate effort, Brandy closed her eyes, rolled her head to the side and bit her lower lip.

I was even more annoyed by this latest ploy.

"Play with your nipples - twist them," I commanded. Brandy's eyes looked into mine. Her look of confusion and disbelief was unsettling. She did as I demanded allowing me to hook her left leg up and shift it to the side. Now I was pounding down on her well-worn clit.

Her tears were really unwelcome. I was damned if I was going to have an ounce of sympathy for this tramp. Then she started yelping. Her yelps turned to a long guttural growl which led to an ear-shattering scream. What the fuck? She'd climaxed. I was pretty sure of that. The way she regarded me after that scream was rather scary on an emotional level.

Her mind was trying to cope with what her body had just experienced.

"Can...please...give me...give me a second, please?" she pleaded. I slowed my pussy pounding down to a slow gentle massage. She appeared to like that so I kept to that pace. "Do you want to keep going?" she murmured. It took me a second to realize that was a request.

I kissed her on the lips. This time I didn't mind and she didn't look like she was forcing herself to appear as if she was having a good time. I gave her a minute or two before upping the power and rapidity of my thrusts. Instead of objecting, Brandy let a sensual smile grace her lips as her hips pushed up to meet my penetrations.

I'm in good shape - iron man, I am not. When I started showing my fatigue, Brandy forcefully rolled us over so she was on top. That provided me an excellent view and extra incentive to shoot off. Brandy was working my cock like the seasoned slut she was. She decided to dangle her boobs within reach of my lips. I went to suckling like I was born to it...so true.

She was well on her way to her second orgasm when I could feel my time had come. I started to push her off.

"What are you doing?" she panted.

"I'm about to cum and I don't want to risk a pregnancy," I ground out.

"I have a Norplant birth control implant," she snickered. She shimmied her hips, grinding her vulva down on my crotch. A few seconds of that, and I was ejaculating. As my body stiffened, arched up and I uttered a fierce growl, Brandy began rubbing her re-energized clit with some fingers of her left hand while massaging her left breast with her right hand.

After my control returned, I joined her fingers gently strumming her clitoris. She had been looking up at the ceiling fan. Her eyes fell down and gave another bizarre look. Her vagina was feeling practically racing-glove tight as she cascaded into her second orgasm. I interwove my right fingers with those on her left hand.

She clenched our grip tightly as her voice carried her from one orgasmic spike to the next. Brandy's body finally gave up its last gasp and she fell upon my chest panting heavily. Though I'd shot off into her once, my penis' descent to flaccid status was reversed by her vaginal muscle contractions and was making a serious effort at another go.

I was a bit of a loss what to do as our sexual congress had gone in a totally different direction from what I had foreseen. Brandy seemed physically happy with the outcome yet her mind was conflicted. She slowly slipped to my right side before propping herself up. She didn't look at me. Her vision was locked onto her scattered articles of clothing.

Dressing meant us heading back to my place then her having to confront Darius with all that had happened to her...and she'd liked being with me. She felt Darius was going to pierce any fable she created so leaving equated to pain and degradation for her. I believed Darius would punish her for his lousy planning. It was ludicrous to believe Brandy could entrap me.

That might have been sadistic back-up plan. He could get one up on me, or blame Brandy for failing at the task he shoved upon her. Darius would beat her up over the failure. Brandy was so infatuated with him, she would willingly accept the fault was hers. His cruelty didn't excuse her stupidity - not in my mind. Still, I reached out and ran my fingers from mid-thigh to her underarm. That tickled so she turned to me and smiled.

It was the first genuine sign of affection she'd ever shown me. I kept repeating the motion even after she put her head back on my chest. Brandy followed up her happy murmuring by stroking my cock. That turned into a hand-job. My pleasurable moans led to a blowjob and that graduated to a sixty-nine. I worked over her clit with my lips as I worked my fingers inside her vagina and butt hole.

I was positive she'd had some intense anal sex this morning with Darius. Mom's forced enema hadn't helped her sphincter relax much at all. I fit two fingers inside her anus with little effort and, by her reaction, causing her nothing but sexual satisfaction. I admit I got carried away, altering between vaginal/anal intrusions, spanking her ass and unleashing my vitriol.

I reminded her she'd treated me like filth beneath her heel, tried to have Darius bust me up - and he had failed - and I knew Darius had sent her to me today. He'd failed again, so had she and because of that I was going to own her ass multiple times before I let her go home. All of that blame and passion excited Brandy to a razor's edge.

She was choking down my semen in no time. While she was nursing my cock (we were still '69'ing) back to health, I tore another climax from her. She was wearily working toward my third round when I enforced a bathroom and food break. I let this play out in the reverse of my experience - Mom and Dad.

I followed Brandy around, hugging her from behind when she slowed down, or stopped. Initially she didn't know what to make of my snuggling affection though she quickly decided she liked it. She'd often lean back into my embrace. She also decided to open up a little bit. We were eating some Pimento Cheese sandwiches which she made while I poured us two tall glasses of lemonade.

"I like it when you spank my butt," she mumbled around a mouthful of food. She wasn't being rude. She was giving herself an 'out' if I found her request annoying, or a cause for derision - a misunderstanding of what she'd said. I arched one eyebrow, stepped to her side, cupped her buttocks then gave the left one a sharp smack.

"I like that too," I nodded hungrily. "You were right," I added. She looked at me with curiosity. "You do give a good blowjob. I really liked it." I didn't really know how to rate her. She was the second girl to ever give me fellatio, but the experience had been good for me. My simple praise put a spark back in her self-confidence.

"I told you I was," she grinned triumphantly. I stepped up and gave her right buttock a quick slap.

"Don't forget I'm still angry with you," I met her sultry gaze. A sexy side of her I'd never seen before shone forth. She was mixing fun and intercourse in a way new to her and she was finding the combination enjoyable.

Without a doubt, Darius had played mind games with Brandy. My games were on a more direct level. I was still sure she was going to return to being Darius' fuck-slave and for the first time I felt sorry about that.

"What are you thinking about?" Brandy snuggled into me.

"I'm curious why you are still here," I countered. That put her back into our ugly reality. She should be pushing me to take her back home, but she wasn't. "Let's go back to bed." My offer evaporated her indecision. She took my hand and returned us to the bedroom. I spanked her exquisite butt a few more times on the way.

Brandy made it clear what she wanted next. She crawled up to the head of the bed, put one pillow under her breast and a second one beneath her head all the while wiggling her ass in my direction. Lube...in the bedside table. I almost discounted it. Brandy was fairly loose. I still decided to err on the side of caution. I lubed up while she buried her face into a pillow in anticipation of what was to come.

My trepidations were justified. Brandy's ass was an overly used tunnel. A few strokes verified that Brandy was only marginally enjoying the event all that much either. Diligence proved to be the most important Word of the Day. A dozen strokes in, Brandy gave a pleased grunt. I decided to alternate five slow, easy strokes followed by three rapid, hard and deep ones.

That was the correct choice. Brandy began huffing and panting, thrusting back and giving her ass a clever twisting motion that increased the stimulation for us both. She knew what she was doing while I was a complete novice. I took her instruction and suggestions well, leading up to a thunderous orgasm on her part.

Recalling her earlier request for post-climactic care, I took my penetrations nice and slow while she built back up her stamina. I couldn't explain it. Her anal passage was becoming just as snug as her vagina was - a perfect fit for my cock. The movement of my glans upon her back passage was driving her nuts.

A few minutes of compassionate union saw Brandy forcing herself onto all fours. The look she gave me over her shoulder expressed an unspoken desire for my assistance. I took a stab at what she wanted by wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her back up to my chest. My guess was almost what she intended. Brandy moved my hands to her breasts.

Our height difference kept my kisses to the top of her head. I compensated by mauling her breasts, twirling her nipples and keeping up a rigorous breast play. She loved it. Brandy rocked back on my rod repeatedly, raising up then impaling herself with a downward push. I became absorbed in the sexual moment, losing track of whether this was one more orgasm for Brandy, or two.

All I did know was when I finally came for the third time in this marathon coitus session, Brandy screamed like a banshee, shook as if she was having a seizure and then passed out. I couldn't immediately rouse her, so I quick-stepped (on my wobbly legs) to the bathroom, wetted a washcloth and rushed back to her side.

I rubbed the cool cloth over her neck and cheeks until she revived. The collision of emotions in her eyes imparted a look I didn't then understand and would never forget. It was starting to get dark, so I recommended a shower before heading back. Brandy's silent depression wasn't something I could understand.

She did hug me tight all the way home and made no protest when I snuck an arm around her waist as we went inside. We ran across Anita Turner, the downstairs maid, first.

"Ms. Carson, you need to call your Father," she informed Brandy. She exhaled deeply, looked to me so I gave her my phone. Big Bob wanted confirmation that she was where she claimed to be.

"Yes Sir," I stated. "We messed around the house for a bit - we have some swords, bows and stuff here...then we went out to the hunting lodge to make sure that it was habitable. You know, in case you, my Dad and my brothers want to go hunting when Deer Season comes around," I bent the truth.

That soothed Brandy's Dad though he did insist Brandy come straight home. She let him know her phone was kaput. I promised to give her a spare my Mom had. As I gave Brandy the phone, I reminded her that her father might check her phone log so she shouldn't make any other calls. I neglected to teach her how to clear that log - I was still fucking with Darius.

Mom was sitting on the front porch swing as we stepped out the front door. I was planning on walking her to car because that felt like something a guy should do.

"I told you not to fuck any of my Sons," Mom taunted Brandy. Her voice shocked us.

"I...ah," Brandy stammered.

"Mom, is this really the time?" I intervened.

"Yes it is Vlad," Mom informed me kindly. To Brandy she was less kind, "You stupid, insipid tramp. Do you regret doing my boy yet?"

"No," Brandy protested.

"You will," Mom chuckled. "You will." I had no idea what she was talking about. Brandy flashed me a concerned look. My face held no answers so we headed to her car in silence. I gave her one unexpected kiss on the lips. She responded with a ravenous French kiss. I remained standing, a prisoner of my uncertainty, as she drove away.

"Mom?" I asked when I got back to the porch. "What are you talking about Brandy 'regretting sleeping with me'?"

"Vlad, you are a big boy," Mom began. "You know I like sex, right?" I nodded. "Your Dad is the best fuck I've ever had - period - end of statement."

"It is not just him either," Mom chortled. "All of us Samsonov husband and brides feel that way about our mates. Despite my experience and willpower, I couldn't get away. The first time we had sex - your Dad and I - I knew it was the best dick I'd ever had and ever would have."

"Gee...thanks, but no thanks for that crumb of information," I grimaced.

"Vlad, you know I like to get my way in all things," she made sure she had my attention. "I told you one month after that night with your father, I came back to him and have never been with anyone else. That's because after your Dad, all other sex was boring and pointless. I couldn't have an orgasm without your Father's help. It is like that with all the Samsonov's, men and women."

"That's your Secret Weapon?" I scoffed. "Magic Dicks?" Mom laughed at me.

"You'll see. Wait until Wednesday - Thursday at the latest. Brandy's not all that strong-willed. She'll be begging you for a second round. I have no doubt," Mom smiled knowingly. Why my Mom had finally wander off to fantasy land was my source of worry for the rest of the weekend.