Alice free porn video

ALICE By Lisa Fox I must admit that I was a bit skeptical when Harold first came to live with me. I was his only surviving relative, so I really couldn't refuse the poor little orphan, but I am well into middle age, and though I raised two children of my own, I had no experience with boys, especially boisterous, rampaging, girl-crazy adolescent boys like Harold. Still, I had an obligation to my dear, departed sister, so I agreed to take him under my wing and do what I could for him, despite my doubts, doubts that it later turned out were very well founded. Such concerns were put aside initially, when Harold first arrived escorted by a social worker from the county. He looked so young and innocent, with his long, brown hair dangling in front of his sad, frightened eyes; he reminded me of a mistreated puppy yearning for affection. My heart went out to him at once, and I rushed forward to take him in my arms and hug him fiercely. He seemed embarrassed and uncomfortable for a moment, and then he melted in my arms and began to cry. I comforted him as best I could, but the weight of his grief overwhelmed him, and it took several minutes for him to hold back his tears and settle down again. As I held him and felt him crying on my shoulder, I realized what a tremendous responsibility I had taken on, but I also resolved to handle that responsibility as best I could. This poor child had lost his parents to a senseless accident, and I was their only real surrogate. I couldn't just abandon him to the care of the county orphanage without doing whatever I could to help him first. If it proved too difficult for me on my own, I could hire a live-in governess or something, but turning the boy away could only be considered as a last resort. If he proved to be completely incorrigible, only then could I let him go with a clear conscience, but otherwise, he was my child now. Once his crying had subsided, I took him inside for some milk and cookies, which he gratefully consumed in record time. I wondered how he could stay so thin with such an appetite, but I had yet to learn how much energy he could burn up in a day. After a quick tour of the house, I sat at the kitchen table with the social worker and signed some formal adoption papers as Harold dragged his bulging suitcase down the hall to the bedroom that was now his. The woman agreed to accept a cup of coffee before leaving, and we had a pleasant chat about my nephew, who was now my legal ward, as she gazed out at the ocean view offered by the front bay window. My late husband had built the house himself, soon after we were first married, and both my daughters had grown up within its walls. The place itself was no mansion: just three bedrooms, two baths, a spacious living room, a dining room and a kitchen, about average in dimensions and construction, nothing very fancy or expensive, but it was the property that made the house so special, for it was situated right on the crest of a large sand dune overlooking the public beach. The land and the special foundation required to build on it had taken so much of our funds, we had barely enough money left to complete construction of a rather simple ranch house, but though it wasn't much to look at, the tax assessors had estimated its value at well over half a million dollars, simply because of where it was. It wasn't just the view, although three sides of the house did offer splendid panoramic vistas of the Atlantic Ocean and the New Jersey coast; the property was also conveniently situated in the heart of the beach community within easy walking distance of stores, schools, bars restaurants and the fabulous mile-long boardwalk with ail its amusements and tourist attractions. Yet despite its proximity to these centers of activity, it was also somewhat isolated, for no other structure stood within throwing distance. Soon after my husband had hammered in the last nail and brushed on the last lick of paint, the town council put a ban on further development along that tract of land, so ours was the first and only private residence built on the dune line. To the south, the boardwalk began about a quarter of a mile away, and to the north a series of hotels went clear to the horizon, the closest being less than half a mile off, but ours was the only house this close to the beach, making it unique and therefore more valuable. When times were hard, especially after the death of my husband ten years ago, I considered selling the place. For the sale price of this house, I could easily have afforded two houses of similar dimensions on the land ward side of the dune line, but so many memories have been tied to this simple dwelling that I couldn't really leave it willingly even though I could now afford to live in a place ten times as opulent, due to death benefits awarded by my insurance company. It was just a rustic little ranch house, but to me it could outshine the Taj Mahal or Buckingham Palace for the wonder of its simple beauty. I knew Harold was going to love living there. It was so close to the beach that you could see the entire stretch of sand and everyone on it from the front porch but it was elevated more than a hundred feet above sea level on the crest of a huge dune, so the clamor of voices and activity coming from below was actually hardly noticeable above the continual thundering of the surf against the jetties. Both my daughters had loved growing up in that house. Daria, being the shy and quiet type, loved the isolation and the peaceful atmosphere, while my firstborn, Lara, enjoyed the easy access to beach parties and strolls along the boardwalk which contributed to making her so popular, especially with the boys. Whether he preferred restful quiet and solitude, like Daria, or a hectic social life, like Lara, I was sure Harold would adapt easily to his new surroundings. When Harold returned to the kitchen with his belongings now packed away in his new bedroom, the social worker bid him a slightly tearful farewell before shaking my hand and taking her leave. My new ward and I stood on the back porch together and watched as she carefully made he- way down the long flight of wooden stairs to the parking area below, and we waved good-bye in unison as the woman go- into her car and drove away heading west back toward the town where Harold had lived with my sister and her husband. The boy seemed concerned as he watched her go, as if he longed to go with her, but the life he had lived there was gone, and his new home was with me. To help him understand and accept this, I placed my hand gently on his shoulder to guide him back inside as I asked him if he wanted to have lunch yet. To my surprise, he was not only hungry, he was famished, and he seemed to inhale everything r put in front of him. At the time, I assumed that the Country authorities hadn't been feeding him properly during his stay with them, but within a few days I realized that his appetite was simply huge. Once he'd eaten, I followed him down the hall to inspect his bedroom. When offered the choice earlier, he'd chosen the empty room next to the master bedroom, as I'd expected. It was by far the smaller and the less attractive of the two rooms, since it had no view, unlike the larger room, which had a wide bay window facing north, but both rooms had been preserved very much as my daughters had left them, and Daria's room, much like Daria herself, was very plain and unadorned, so there was little to indicate that anyone had ever lived in it before. Lara's room was an entirely different story, however. Being the oldest, she was given the room with the view, and being a typically fluff-headed, boy-crazy teenage girl, she had decorated and equipped her room accordingly. Beyond the presence of a vanity table covered with Cosmetics, a full length mirror on every wall and a closet full of colorful teenage fashions, the lavender curtains and matching shag carpeting combined with the light pink wallpaper to announce that this was without a doubt the bedroom of a girl. I knew that the moment Harold saw it he'd refuse to accept the idea of moving in there, especially since Daria's much plainer room was also available to him. Lara's room might be larger and offer a great view, but the room he chose was less insulting to his growing manly pride. Once I'd finished a brief inspection of his room and found his unpacking to be satisfactory, I offered to take him on a tour of the boardwalk, and he readily agreed. I went to my room to change for the outing as Harold stripped off his traveling clothes in preference for something cooler and more comfortable. He was already waiting for me in the living room when I emerged wearing my simplest summer dress and light make-up, and the moment I saw him I felt a touch of concern. Clad in a tank-top, shorts and sandals, his long, brown hair tied back in a simple ponytail, and a dark pair of sunglasses perched on his nose, he looked somehow older than his fourteen years. In fact, he reminded me of the teenage surfers who bummed their way up and down the beach all summer. Perhaps it was a premonition, but somehow I knew that his attempt to look "cool" was just a facet of his desire to be "cool", a desire that could lead to all kinds of trouble in the days ahead. The summer season hadn't actually started, but the weather had been warm and sunny lately, so the hotels were already filling up with tourists and the "sometimers" were arriving early to ready their summer homes for occupancy. As a result, the beach was unusually crowded for May, and the sand below us as we looked down from the front porch was speckled with the colors of bathing suits, beach blankets and sun umbrellas. There was activity almost everywhere: children playing, couples frolicking in the waves, boys playing Frisbee, girls moving slowly in packs like a team of commentators... the beach was awash with humans involved in the art of recreation. Harold was anxious to see the sights, so without further delay, I let him lead the way down the long, straight stairway that sloped gently down from the broad wooden deck at the side of our house to the very edge of the beach at the foot of the dune below. A set of volley ball nets had been erected by the township near the bottom of the stairs, and Harold stood by watching a game in progress as he waited for me to catch up with him. As I continued down the stairs, I noted with mixed feelings that one of the young men involved in the game had turned to Harold and invited him to play. I was glad to see an opportunity for Harold to make new-friends arise so quickly, since I didn't want him to be lonely, but I immediately recognized this young man as part of a group of "surf freaks," wild, irresponsible teenagers, most of whom were high school dropouts. The girls were foul-mouthed and lewd, and it was common knowledge they were "easy," while it was rumored that the guys, all long-haired, hippie types, were involved with drug peddling, so I felt somewhat relieved when Harold politely declined the young man's invitation. When I finally stepped beside the boy, we both took off our sandals to walk barefoot in the warm sand as we made our way south along the beach toward the boardwalk. The sun felt good, and there was a warm breeze blowing off the ocean, rich with the smell of brine. We talked pleasantly about his interests and the friends he'd left behind. I was surprised to hear that he'd had a steady girlfriend, since I thought him too young for serious relationships, but times have certainly changed since I was a girl, so I guess I should've expected that boys would be interested in girls at a younger age than in my time or even in my daughters' time. When he talked about her, however, I did notice a very juvenile attitude toward their relationship. She was not his partner or his companion, she was his "squeeze," and the sole benefit he seemed to derive from her friendship was physical. She had "great knockers" and "cute buns" and her lips always tasted sweet, "like strawberries," but he never made any reference to her as a person. I began to see another possible problem in Harold's attitude toward girls, an egotistical delusion which all boys go through, and which some men never outgrow... the age-old belief in male superiority and the basically subservient nature of females. I would have to help Harold discover the true equality of the sexes somehow. He had to learn that girls were not sex objects, but people, with thoughts and emotions and concerns that mattered. When we arrived at the boardwalk, however, I realized that I had a lot of work ahead of me, for the boy's eyes flashed from one female figure to the next, always judging appearances and leering at those girlish shapes which most pleased him. His comments were like the remarks of a judge at a beauty contest, evaluating this girl's breasts and that girl's legs, but never once did he indicate that he was talking about human beings. Their interests and activities were of no consequence to him. They were possible sex partners, to be rated and valued by their looks alone, and that was that. I knew he'd inherited this attitude from his father. My brother-in-law could be a real ass sometimes. I could see why my sister loved him; he was a good provider and a caring parent, and according to her he was terrific in bed. I'd seen the male chauvinist lurking beneath the surface, however and in his son it had emerged full blown. All the boy really needed was a little guidance, I decided, and perhaps he could use some help finding the right girl. Little did I suspect then the drastic measures to which I would one day resort, not just to cure him of his sexist attitudes, but for reasons of a more desperate nature. We strolled casually from one end of the boardwalk to the other, taking in all the booths and attractions we could. There were betting wheels and ball tosses and stalls for pitching coins into jars or throwing darts at balloons, all of which offered prizes ranging from silly to substantial. There were arcade centers with pinball and video games, miniature golf courses, trampolines, kiddy rides and two roller coasters. There were snack bars and pizza shops and cotton candy venders, as well as the larger burger shops, steak joints and full-size restaurants, offering among them a wide variety of comestibles. Besides the booths, along the main runway there were art exhibits and portrait painters, crafts shows and acting troupes, jugglers and clowns and acrobats, all performing for the amusement of passers-by and the occasional coin tossed into an overturned hat. Throughout it all, Harold was fascinated and eager to try anything. The only establishments we strictly avoided were the bars and adult shows that cropped up about every hundred yards or so, and the boy seemed to understand without asking that he was too young to enter such places. We were there for hours, and it was almost dark when we finally reached the southernmost end of the boardwalk and turned back. I was almost out of cash, and Harold was looking tired anyway, so we retraced our steps with a quicker pace and hardly stopped at all until we reached our starting point. With a promise that he could return at any time, Harold reluctantly agreed that it was time to head home for dinner. On our return trip, I noticed that the tide was out, so instead of staying on the raised walkway that continued north along the dunes to the fisherman's pier where the boardwalk physically terminated, we went down a different set of wooden stairs to the beach and passed between the massive wooden pylons that supported the elevated planks of the tall platform overhead. It was darker under the pier, but the twilight was sufficient for us to find our way, and we were just nearing the far end when I heard a sound coming from farther back under the pier where the shadows were thickest. At first I feared it might be muggers or a gang of thugs; the beach was not entirely safe at night, especially for a woman and a boy. As I listened more closely, however, I realized it was a couple, no, two couples, and the moment I recognized the sounds they were making, I hurried Harold along in front of me. The boy also recognized the sounds of passion, and he chuckled to himself as he strained his neck to look back. Obviously the sand beneath the pier had become a kind of lovers' rendezvous, at least during low tide, and the lack of complete privacy didn't seem to bother those involved one bit. I suppose that if the presence of another couple making love a few yards away didn't disturb them, then the occasional passers-by, like Harold and I, weren't about to cramp their style either. Despite Harold's amusement, I found the encounter quite distasteful, and I wondered with a mother's concern if my beloved Lara had ever let a young man have his way with her in those same dark, secretive shadows. Back at the house, I fixed a quick dinner, and once again Harold gulped it down like a vacuum cleaner. He excused himself to watch television while I washed the dishes and tidied up, and then I joined him in the living room for a game of Scrabble before suggesting that we call it a day. Once he'd changed into his Batman pajamas, I tucked him in under the covers of his new bed and kissed him lightly on the forehead before saying goodnight. "Aunt Milly," he said softly as I reached for the light switch. "Thanks for lettin' me stay here. I didn't wanna go to that orphanage." "You're welcome, Harold." I replied. "I hope you like it here. Sleep tight." I felt a tear in my eye as I turned off the light. That night I was startled awake by a strange but easily recognizable sound. It was so soft and subdued that I had to get out of bed and put my ear to the wall separating our rooms to be certain I'd heard it, but then it came again, and I was sure. The poor boy was crying into his pillow. My heart went out to him, but I restrained the impulse to rush in and comfort him. This was private grief, the kind of grief I knew only too well from personal experience, and so I waited, listening, until he cried himself back to sleep. Then, with tears of sympathy still drying on my cheeks, I finally returned to bed and let sleep take me again. --- The next morning, I greeted my new ward with a big hug and a kiss as he entered the kitchen still clad in his pajamas. "How's my little angel today?" "Fine," he shrugged. "What's for breakfast?" I served him up some pancakes and bacon, which he devoured in minutes, and after draining his glass of orange juice, he asked to be excused. "Do you want to help me clean up and do the dishes? That way I can get done faster, and we can go down to the beach before it gets too crowded." "Nah," he replied, getting up from the table. "That's women's work." "Who told you that?" I objected, knowing the answer full well. "My dad," he explained. "Mom sometimes asked him to do stuff like that, but he never would, 'cause he said it was..." He hesitated, so I finished the sentence for him. "Women's work." "Yeah," he nodded, as if that explained everything, and without another word he headed off into the living room to watch cartoons on television. I was starting to see "my little angel" in a different light already, but this was nothing compared to the trouble that lay ahead. Before I'd even finished the dishes, Harold had switched off the television and gone to his room to change so that by the time I was through drying up, he was dressed and ready to go. I was not pleased to see that his "cool" look was back. He wore only a bathing suit with his sandals, while his eyes were completely hidden behind dark sunglasses, and his long hair was once again pulled back into a simple "surfer's tail," so common among the teenage delinquents that seemed to live on the beach. "You're not going out like that, are you?" "Sure," he insisted. "Why not?" "Well... For one thing, you should wear a shirt." "What for?" "In case you want to go to the boardwalk. You're not supposed to go there without a shirt." "That's okay; I figure I'll just hang out at the beach for a while." "Then why don't you let me take you for a haircut first? You're long overdue, and there's a good barber shop..." "I don't have to cut my hair," he interrupted. "Lots of guys here have hair longer than mine." "Only the surfers," I noted, "and they're just too lazy to get it cut." He shrugged, as if dismissing the entire conversation. "I like it this way." I knew better than to argue with him. I'd learned from my many encounters with Lara that teenagers can be very willful and will generally do want they want, no matter how many times you forbid it. A confrontation would only lead to a breakdown in communication. I had to try to convince the boy to change his behavior on his own. That always worked with Lara, at least until that fateful summer. For now it was best that I simply continue to observe and analyze the situation. Once I had enough information to make an educated decision, I could put some sort of plan into action. Of course, I had no idea at the time how desperate I would become, or how drastic my measures would be, when I finally took steps to set Harold straight. He started for the door with a wave, saying, "See ya later, Aunt Milly." I was insulted. "Aren't you going to wait for me? It'll just take me a few minutes to change." He looked irritated and impatient. "I'll meet you down there. I wanna make some friends today." "That's fine, but..." I knew what he was thinking. He didn't want his old aunt tagging along, getting in the way. I actually didn't mind; I was young once, too. What worried me was the kind of "friends" he might make, if I wasn't there to advise him, but there was no sense putting the cart before the horse, so with a sigh I agreed to let him go off on his own, trusting to his better judgment. What a mistake that was! Instead of changing and going down the beach, I sat on the front porch drinking tea and keeping my eye on Harold. Just as I'd feared, the moment he was within hailing distance of the volley ball nets, the surfers were inviting him to join their game, and he instantly accepted. They were quite a bit older than he was, although I think some of those girls were probably a lot younger than they acted, but the young men seemed to encourage and joke with Harold as if he were a younger brother, while a few of the girls appeared to take a different kind of interest in the boy. "It's just a volley ball game," I told myself, but I was already starting to worry about where this might lead. When the last in a series of games ended in victory for Harold's team, the boy was escorted from the court amid the praise and support of his new "friends" who led him over to their encampment for that day. Each morning the teenagers would erect a semi-circular wall of surfboards stuck into the sand like pickets in a fence, and thus shielded from prying eyes, they could engage in all kinds of shenanigans. Just what they were up to with Harold behind that barricade was becoming a major concern to me, and I even considered changing quickly into my bathing suit and investigating the scene firsthand, but before too long the boy appeared running toward the surf with one of the young ladies in hot pursuit. Both were laughing and stumbling as they ran, and it seemed that Harold had somehow teased her into a fit of false outrage, and she seemed bent on exacting some petty revenge. At first the encounter looked harmless enough. Harold had stopped short and turned around at the edge of the breakers, but the moment she was close enough, the girl tackled him around the waist and tumbled with him into the crashing waves. They emerged drenched and sputtering, but still laughing heartily. Then the girl began to splash water into Harold's face, and he quickly submerged out of sight. The girl looked worried for a moment and then screamed comically as her feet were pulled out from under her and she went under. I smiled to see Harold having so much fun, knowing that he needed such foolishness to forget his grief and get back to enjoying life as quickly as he could. It had taken me three painful losses to finally understand the fact that life must go on. My concerns were awakened once again, however, as the two teenagers emerged from the water, for they were now holding one another in a very close embrace, and it looked as if she was kissing him on the lips. His hands wandered over her backside, occasionally pausing on her shapely, almost naked rear end, and she didn't seem to mind at all her own hands being busily engaged in similar activities. This was a bit too much for me, and I knew I'd have to have a serious talk with the boy very soon about how to conduct himself with the opposite sex. When Harold and his pretty new girlfriend returned to the surfers' enclave, he once again vanished from my sight for a time, but came back into view shortly after in the carpet! "company of several older boys. It was a few moments before I realized they were headed directly south, toward the boardwalk, and apparently Harold had no intention of letting me know what he was up to. He never even glanced in my direction. I was sorely tempted to rush down those stairs dressed in my house-robe and chase them down, but I knew that such a display of parental discipline, especially coming from me, his surrogate mother, at this sensitive point in our relationship would surely backfire and drive him further from my guidance, if it didn't alienate him completely. No, I had to find a way to educate him, to make him realize the t errors of his ways on his own. That's the only way to truly change someone's behavior. I spent the entire day thinking about how I would begin Harold's education, but I still hadn't reached any decisions when he eventually came striding confidently up the stairs from the beach just before sunset. He looked a little tired, but very pleased with himself, and he was already starting to acquire a noticeable tan. He was carrying a portable video game in his hands, and much to my amazement I saw a bulge in the side of his bathing shorts that seemed about the exact dimensions of a pack of cigarettes, complete with matches. Slumping clumsily onto a kitchen chair, he offered a rather insincere apology for missing lunch, explaining that his new friends had bought him a hamburger and fries at the boardwalk. When I reminded him that he wasn't supposed to go there without a shirt, he just shrugged and said that his friends let him borrow one, but his tan showed no sleeve or collar lines at all. When I asked him about the game he'd brought back, he said he'd won it, but his voice carried little conviction, and I began to suspect that he'd actually stolen it, or one of his "friends" had stolen it for him. I didn't ask about the cigarettes, if that's what they were, knowing that it could only lead to an argument, and I was still trying to avoid that at all costs, since in the end I would probably have to ground him, perhaps for the whole summer, and there'd be little hope of saving our relationship after that. There had to be a better way, and I was determined to find it. So, that evening I said nothing, simply pointing out that he was still covered with sand and reminding him that he should rinse himself off with the outdoor shower before entering the house after going to the beach. He complied readily enough, but didn't bother to dry himself afterward and tracked puddles of water through the house as he made his way to his bedroom. "Harold!" I scolded him. "Look what you're doing to my carpet!" "Don't call me that!" he snapped back. "I wanna be called 'Harry' from now on." I swallowed my temper and simply nodded as he turned away and continued toward the hallway. The situation was rapidly becoming intolerable, and my determination to change it grew stronger. I could hear my brazen young nephew changing in his room, and I assumed that he was getting into his pajamas for the night, but when he returned he was dressed in some of his best casual clothes as if planning an evening out on the town. "Why're you dressed like that?" I asked. "I have a date," he smiled. "I'm meetin' Suzy at the boardwalk." "Suzy?" "Yeah, she's my new girlfriend. You should see her in a bikini. Man, is she built!" "I see." I was at a total loss for words. Events were quickly getting beyond my control, and I didn't like it one bit. Still, I decided to hold my tongue for now. Boys Harold's age did go out on dates with girls nowadays, and there wasn't necessarily any harm in it. It might be good for him. Perhaps Suzy could prove to him that girls were people and not just sex objects, although I assumed it was the same girl I'd seen him with that morning, so that seemed unlikely. Still, I had no definite plan in mind as yet, so I thought it best to just let matters continue to take their course and see what happened. If Harold was determined to get himself into trouble, all I had to do was give him enough rope to hang himself. Then it would be my turn. We ate in silence that evening, Harold stuffing himself quickly and then asking to be excused. He paused before leaving to come around the table and kiss me on the cheek with a sincere "Thanks for dinner, Aunt Milly," which made me feel somewhat more encouraged, and then he hurried off into the night to meet his alluring companion for their first date. I watched him go with a lingering sense of concern, hoping I was wrong about the trouble I saw brewing and then I set about cleaning up the kitchen once more. After watching a little television, I settled down with a good book for a few hours waiting for Harold's return, but when midnight came and went with still no sign of him really began to worry in earnest. It was nearly two in the morning when he finally wandered in, looking a little bleary-eyed and unsteady on his feet. He had smears of lipstick on his shirt, and his clothes were rumpled and disorderly, as if he'd dressed in a great hurry and hadn't bothered to straighten himself out again. He offered no explanation, just a friendly smile as he stumbled past me toward his bedroom. It was obvious that his new girlfriend was every bit as "easy" as her looks proclaimed, and I though at first that he might've been drinking as well, the way he looked, but as he passed me to step into the hall, I caught a scent of something clinging to his clothes, something terribly familiar. It took a moment for it to sink in, and then I remembered... Marihuana! How many times had I smelled that same horrid, acrid stench on Lara's clothes, even in her hair?! And here it was again! Invading my household once more, threatening another of my- children! I managed to control my temper, but inside I was boiling mad. Shoplifting, girl chasing, drinking beer, disobedience and even defiance were behaviors that would eventually need to be addressed, but using illegal drugs was something else. I had to do something about this right away, but what? Once I knew that he'd settled into bed, I stopped by his room to tuck him in. That awful aroma was there to greet me as I entered coming from the clothes he'd thrown on the floor and the long hair surrounding his face on the pillow. I tried to ignore the smell as I sat beside him on the mattress and gently brushed stray strands of hair from his eyes. I could see that he was too far gone to remember any of this in the morning, so I decided to save the lecture I'd planned to give him until breakfast. With a light kiss on the forward, I wished him a good night's sleep and retired to my bedroom to turn in. --- Harold didn't get up for breakfast the next morning. He slept until almost noon, and when he finally dragged himself out of bed he still looked sleepy. I waited for him to finish his daily bathroom ritual, then prepared him a sandwich and some soup for lunch. His appetite was in no way diminished by his groggy state of mind, and he polished off the meal in record time, although he did eat in silence for a change. When he'd finished, instead of excusing him from the table, I sat beside him and gently took his hand into mine. It was time to start his education. "Harold, do you...?" "Harry," he insisted. "All right, Harry." I paused to steel myself once more; it was not an easy subject for me to discuss. "Do you remember your cousin Lara?" "Sure, she was real pretty. Dad said she was built like a brick..." "Never mind what your father thought," I interrupted. "Do you remember what happened to her?" "She died." "Do you remember how she died?" "Uh..." "She took an overdose of cocaine," I said, and it took quite an effort to keep my voice from trembling. "She did?" I nodded sadly. "And do you know how she got hooked on drugs in the first place?" He shook his head, obviously becoming more interested. "Marijuana," I told him bluntly. "She started out just smoking a little pot with her friends, but before long she was using harder stuff, and then it was too late." He just sat there thinking about it, and I let the notion sink in before I went on to the next step. "Do you remember Daria?" He nodded again, still thoughtfully silent. "Do you remember how she died?" "In a car crash," he replied, his voice now a bit subdued. "She had just gotten her driving permit," I explained," and her car was hit from the side by a truck that ran a red light. The police said the driver had been smoking marijuana." I could see the light growing in his eyes as he made the connection, so I went to step three. "I know you don't remember your Uncle Burt, because he died when you were just a baby, but drugs killed him, too. He was taking sleeping pills and had too much to drink, and the combination caused him to have a heart attack." Again I paused to let the words sink in. "You see, Harold, I've lost my whole family to drugs, all of them taken from me in senseless tragedies that could have been avoided. Now, I'm not suggesting that you've been experimenting with drugs or accusing you of anything." As I spoke, he lowered his eyes looking a bit guilty. "I just wanted to warn you about the danger, in case some of your new friends don't understand. I know they wouldn't want to hurt you by making you do something that's dangerous, but sometimes teenagers don't know as much as they think they do. you see what I mean?" He nodded again, and I could see that my words had had an impact on him. I could imagine him already thinking up excuses not to join his friends in their illegal activities, and I felt more than gratified. This was only the first lesson in Harold's education, but it was an encouraging success. My confidence began to waver, however, when the boy returned from changing in his room, for I noted with displeasure that he still insisted on imitating the "surfer" look of his trendy "friends," and once again he was not wearing a shirt. I held my tongue as before, not wanting to cause friction between us, now that I might've gotten on the scoreboard for the first time. I just smiled and wished him a nice day as he went out. I gave him enough time to reach the beach, then stepped out onto the front porch to observe his behavior. Just as I'd feared, he headed straight for the surf freaks, who greeted him warmly and welcomed him into their midst. He no longer seemed the least bit concerned with the subject of our talk, and much to my astonishment, just before he vanished behind their wall of surfboards, I saw him actually accept a can of beer from one of them. That in itself wasn't too bad, actually. If an occasional beer was the limit of his indulgence, I could tolerate that. Coming so soon after my lecture, however, it was a very bad omen indeed. My curiosity was growing unbearable. Was he goring to stand up to these older boys and girls and refuse to participate in taking any drugs, or would he surrender to peer pressure and do as they did just to be accepted by them? I simply had to know, and so began my career as a spy. I didn't take my attempts at secret surveillance too seriously at first. It was just a half-hearted effort to satisfy my curiosity, so I didn't give it much thought or preparation. I simply changed into my swimsuit, sandals and beach robe, put on dark sunglasses and a sun hat, and I assumed that I'd be relatively inconspicuous on the beach. My only real concern was that Harold might recognize me and be upset that I was checking up on him, so my disguise didn't need to be too elaborate, just good enough to let me watch him more closely without being noticed by him. Once I was ready, instead of going down the stairway from our side deck, I walked down to the parking lot, went a at few blocks north to the nearest visitors' parking area, and took the stairs there over the dunes and down to the beach, t quite a bit up the coast from where Harold was. I then followed the waterline south again until I was close to the surfers' enclave, and there I sat down in the wet sand to cool myself. Since I was now nearer the ocean than they were, I could see directly into their semicircular wall of surfboards, but I kept the brim of my hat pulled low and looked sidelong at them through my dark sunglasses, so there was no reason for them to suspect that I was watching them. Harold was far too busy with Suzy to notice me. He was lying face down on a beach towel while the girl patiently spread suntan oil on his back, arms and legs. Her movements were quite sensual and suggestive, even more so when she finally had the boy turn over to do his front. The fact that there were a dozen or so teenagers standing around drinking and laughing only a few feet away didn't seem to q bother either Harold or his new girlfriend. They were in a world of their own. After a while, one of the boys seemed to notice me, so to avoid suspicion, I turned over as though trying to even out my tan, and didn't even try to peek at them for a good ten minutes. When I finally thought it safe to look over . there again, everything had changed. Some of the surfboards had been uprooted and removed, and most of the teenagers were gone, including Harold and his girlfriend. I looked around in surprise, trying not to be too obvious about it, and finally found the object of my search walking away from me, headed south toward the boardwalk in the company of three other couples, his arm wrapped securely about Suzy's waist. I followed them as discreetly as I could, moving in a wide arc designed to intercept them near the stairway to the pier, but my quarry continued to move along the coastline, making their way between the pylons beneath the wooden platform, apparently headed for the stairway on the far side, so I went cautiously after them. As I entered the dark shadows beneath the pier, I could only make out their silhouettes preceding me in the gloom, but I immediately became aware that something was wrong. My suspicion was confirmed the moment the group stepped out into the light on the far side of the pier, for there were definitely only six of them left. I was just beginning to wonder which two were missing and where they had gone when I heard a familiar groan of pleasure coming from nearby. Deep in the shadows, far up under the pier, I could vaguely make out the shape of a young couple engaged in a passionate embrace. They hadn't noticed me, so I intended to slip past them quietly and continue my observations of Harold, but as I passed within a few feet of the shallow depression in which they laid, I heard something that stopped me in my tracks. "Careful!" the girl complained. "You're getting sand in my pussy!" "I'm sorry," the boy replied, and the moment I heard his voice I knew it was Harold! I remained rooted to the spot in stunned disbelief as I heard the two teenagers grunt and sigh in mutual satisfaction, knowing full well what they were doing in the shadows, and it wasn't until I heard the girl begin to moan with ecstasy that I finally recovered enough to slip away unnoticed and hide behind a nearby pylon. From this vantage point I waited until the teenagers had completed their coupling, redressed and hurried off hand in hand to catch up with their companions. I was more cautious in following them this time, after my close call under the pier, and I almost lost them once or twice by taking too many precautions, but better that than being caught in the act. As I suspected, Harold made no attempt to conform to the rule regarding shirts on the boardwalk. He and his male cronies sauntered about bare chested in flagrant violation of the statute, and no one had the courage to stand up to them; even the police seemed reluctant to do more than offer a vague warning that was obviously ignored. It was just another facet of their total disrespect for authority, and I worried about the effect it was having on Harold. There actually occurred two incidents that day which I found rather shocking and quite discouraging. The first only involved Harold indirectly. One of the guys was trying to win a stuffed doll for his girlfriend at the rifle range, but apparently he had run out of money without winning enough tickets for the prize she wanted. Almost on cue, Harold's girlfriend moved to the far end of the booth and leaned over the counter, as if looking to place a bet, and with one hand behind her back, she quickly undid the bow holding her top together. With a mock scream of surprise and alarm, she stood up just as her bikini top fell off to reveal a pair of very healthy, very female breasts. Naturally, every male within view, including the attendant running the booth, turned his eyes in that direction and held them there until long after Harold had helped her put her top on again. Every male, that is, except the guy at the other end of the booth, who was apparently expecting this. While everyone else was distracted, he took an air rifle by the barrel and used it like an extension rod to reach up and knock one of the big prizes down into his girlfriend's waiting arms. The entire crime took less than five seconds to pull off, and no one seemed to notice it, except me. The smooth, practiced efficiency of it demonstrated that these teenagers had acquired such skills over time, and this was not at all the first time they'd succeeded in such a stunt. What bothered me most was that Harold seemed to be impressed by their illegal chicanery, for he was obviously plying his girlfriend with compliments, both for the splendid proportions of her upper anatomy and for the acting ability she'd displayed in pretending to be embarrassed by her suddenly topless appearance. She just winked at him, as if to imply that he hadn't seen anything yet. My concerns over this incident, great though they might've seemed at the time, however, were quickly dwarfed by what happened next. The entire group of eight teenagers, four boys and four girls, moved slowly north again to gather at the entrance to the fishing pier. They-hung around engaged in pointless conversation for some time, and I soon realized they were waiting for something. The moment I thought of it, the wait was over, for the tallest of the boys, a dark-haired young man whom I'd once heard Harold call "J.J.," stepped forward to greet an approaching figure, an older man with an untrimmed beard dressed in ragged clothing. The two talked for a brief moment, exchanged something, then parted company again, all with the shifty-eyed manner common to those who are breaking the law and know it quite well. It didn't take long for me to find out what they were up to, for the moment J.J. returned to his friends, the whole group hurried out the end of the pier and huddled together in a circle. I couldn't see what they were doing at first, and I dared not go any closer without alarming them, but the moment I saw the reddish glow of a match among them and the thick cloud of smoke that rose from their midst, I understood it all quite well. The raggedy, bearded man was their drug supplier, and they were now happily enjoying the marijuana they'd just purchased. And Harold was with them! I had no doubt that he was indulging himself right along with them. I could hear him coughing every now and then, followed by the jeers and taunts of his older friends. This was serious! He didn't appear the least bit restrained in his behavior, as though the talk we'd had that morning never occurred at all. Could he really be so insensitive? Was he that desperate to be accepted by these surfers? could see at once that solving this problem was going to take a lot more than just talking about it. It was only about noon, and there was plenty of time left in the day to take some action, so I gave up my surveillance for the moment and went back to the house, where I quickly changed into a light summer dress and hurried down to the car to drive to the library downtown. I needed facts at my disposal, weapons I could use in the battle for Harold's mind, and the only way to get them was research, so the instant I arrived at the library I began looking up everything I could about marijuana and related drugs, gathering an arsenal of information in preparation for the next stage in my personal war against dope, at least as far as Harold was concerned anyway. Finally, when I thought there was nothing more to be gained by research, I checked out books and photocopied articles and assembled the best presentation of data I could manage. Then I took it all home and began to study every fact I'd gathered, until I was a walking encyclopedia on the subject. By the time Harold wandered in for dinner, a little after sunset, I had listed fifty- five reasons why he shouldn't smoke pot, but the moment I saw his reddened eyes and blank expression, I knew another lecture, no matter how well informed, would go right over his head. I needed another way to get to him, one that wouldn't automatically raise his defenses and shut down the lines of communication. I got my opportunity as he sat in the living room watching television while he waited for me to finish dinner. Taking a break from cooking, I sat at the dining table and leafed through the articles I'd copied. Harold was flipping idly through the channels, not really engaged in watching anything in particular, so I seized my chance. "You might find this interesting, Harold." "Harry." "Yes, of course. I meant 'Harry'." "What's interesting?" "Well, remember what I was saying this morning about how dangerous drugs can be? Here's an article in Newsweek that lists over fifty reasons why marijuana is dangerous. Can you believe that? Fifty reasons!" His curiosity was engaged, and he lowered the volume on the television a little. "What kinds of reasons?" "Quite a wide variety, actually. Would you like to hear some of them?" He pretended to be only mildly interested. "Sure." I began to read from the list I'd compiled, pretending that the source was actually the magazine that I held in my hand, and Harold seemed completely fooled by the deception I had hoped that some of the more serious side effects of A marijuana smoking, like potential sterility and loss of memory, would frighten him into avoiding the drug at all cost, but as I read down the list the only item on it that seemed to really hit home with him was a recent medical report indicating that prolonged usage of marijuana could lead to breast development in males. "What was that?" he interrupted. I read the notation again, then translated it into simpler language to make sure he understood. "If a boy smokes pot, he might grow breasts, like a girl." "Breasts?" He actually looked concerned for the first a time. "Are you serious?" "Absolutely," I assured him, and suddenly I had a brilliant idea. If the fear of growing breasts was the only leverage I could get on him, then that's what I'd use, but the simple truth might not be strong enough to do the job unaided, so I decided to help it with a few embellishments of my own. I have a very good imagination, and work at once. "In fact," I continued, pretending to refer back to the magazine, "it says here that breast development is just the first stage in a total conversion process. The author of this article calls it the 'X-factor.' Do you know what genes and chromosomes are?" "Kind of," he confessed doubtfully. "Well, it all has to do with DNA; that's like the blueprint or instruction manual for making a living creature. When you were conceived, for example, your mom's DNA mixed with your dad's DNA to make your DNA, so you inherited some characteristics from each of them, but you're not exactly like either one of them." He nodded, "People always say I look more like my mom, even though I'm a guy, like my dad." "Good example. Things like hair color, body size and intelligence get passed on mostly by luck when we're first created, and one of the first things to be determined is our sex or gender. If the sex chromosome has four segments joined together," I continued, using a piece of notebook paper to draw four perpendicular lines combining to create an "X" shape, "then the baby is born a girl, like Suzy, your mom and me." I showed him the drawing and then placed my hand over the lower right-hand segment to change it from an "X" to a By" shape. "If only three segments of the chromosomes link up, then the baby is born a boy, like you and your dad." "So you mean I coulda been born a... girl?" "Definitely, and I could've been born a boy. It was a matter of luck that things turned out the way they did." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then grew puzzled. "So what does any of this have to do with smoking pot?" "Well, according to this scientist, there's a chemical in marijuana called THC that's released when the pot is burned, and that's what makes people feel 'high' when they smoke it. But the chemical does other things, too. It prevents memories from forming, it distorts perception, but most important for a boy your age, it can replace the missing segment in your sex chromosomes, gradually changing all your 'Y' chromosomes into 'X' chromosomes. That's why it's called the 'X' factor." "So I might grow breasts?" he gasped. "You would, if you were smoking pot, but don't worry, sweetheart. It only effects people who use marijuana." He tried to look relieved, but did a poor acting job. I could see that part of his mind was working furiously to absorb all this new information while the other part was looking for ways to refute my assertions. "How come none of the guys down at the beach have breasts?" he wondered. "They smoke pot all the time." "They do?" I said with feigned surprise. "Well, not the guys I hang around with," he hedged, "but some of their friends, y'know. They're real potheads, and they don't look like they're growing breasts." "The article does say that the 'X-factor' effects males differently, depending on their age, hormone count, height and weight, things like that. Small, thin boys of about fourteen through sixteen face the highest risk, so you see you're in the category most likely to be effected. It's very likely that if you started smoking pot, you'd be growing breasts soon afterward." . He grunted as the conclusion settled on his mind. "Pretty hard to believe," he answered, and then he turned up the volume on the television again, but I noticed that every now and then he'd glance down at his chest or touch his boyish pectorals critically, as if assessing their current size and weight. It wasn't much, but the seed had been planted. All I had to do was find a way to exploit the fear I'd seen in him, and the rest would be easy. His fear of losing his precious masculinity, as immature as it was, would be enough to make him stay away from pot, but he'd have to believe with all his heart that there were no other choices. After dinner, he excused himself and went out for the evening once more, this time without a "thank you" or a kiss on the cheek. While he was gone I continued to let my imagination work on the problem, and before long I had the answer. It was a bit far- fetched and not easily arranged but the instant I thought of it I knew it would work. As I've mentioned before, the passing of my husband and t both my children has left me rather wealthy due to the $. insurance settlements awarded me after their deaths. I'd ::2 been just sitting on my money for years, letting it collect interest as I tried to imagine ways to spend it. My life was very comfortable, however, and since I had no desire to make major changes in my lifestyle, the money just continued to sit there, piling up. Now, however, I finally saw a use for some of those funds. My family had perished due to drugs, so what could be more fitting than to use their death benefits to help someone else escape a similar fate? Once the plan was firmly set down in my mind, I made a phone call to an old friend from high school. We hadn't seen each other for years, not since Daria's funeral, but I knew he wouldn't let me down. Albert was one of my all-time closest friends, and I knew he wouldn't refuse to help me now, even if my scheme did involve a little illegality and risk. And it was for a good cause, after all. As I expected, he was overjoyed to hear from me and very sympathetic when I mentioned my sister's death. He listened carefully as I described the situation with Harold and agreed whole-heartedly with my conclusions, until I got to my proposal. He balked a bit at first, explaining how much trouble we could both get into, but between my friendly pressure on one side and my generous contribution to his medical research on the other, he just couldn't say no. We agreed on the procedure, arranged our schedules and made an appointment for Harold to come to his office the very next day. --- Harold complained loudly about having to give up his afternoon at the beach to go see a doctor when there was nothing wrong with him, but I explained that a current physical was needed to get him enrolled in school for the fall, and he eventually conceded the necessity of going. It was a long drive inland to the township where my old friend had located his practice, and Harold grew suspicious when he realized how far we were going, but I simply explained that I'd been going to this same doctor for years and trusted him, so it worth the drive, and that silenced him. When I introduced Harold, or "Harry," to Dr. Morton, the boy acted put out and was barely civil to the man, while the doctor couldn't help looking at his new, unsuspecting patient with a curiously amused expression he found impossible to hide. Harold was sent to an examining room to remove his clothes as the doctor and I conferred in his office. He asked me once more to give up my "crazy notion," but I was adamant and insisted that he proceed as planned, so with a final shrug of resignation, the man left to see his patient. I knew that a full exam would be performed, just to make things look authentic to Harold, so I was prepared for a bit of a wait. I thumbed through magazines in the waiting room, noting some of the new summer fashions, and then I managed to engage the doctor's nurse in a conversation, when she wasn't too busy, so the time passed pleasantly, and before I knew it Harold had reappeared escorted by the doctor. The boy looked annoyed as he stood there rubbing the band-aid on his upper arm, and without a word of thanks or farewell he left the office to go wait in the car. I thanked my old friend with a hug and a kiss and promised to keep him informed of developments, both physical and behavioral, and then went out to the car, where Harold sat sulking in the passenger seat. "You didn't tell me I had to get a shot," he complained. "It hurt." "I didn't know," I pretended. "I thought all you needed was a medical exam. What did the doctor say the shot "I don't know," he grumbled, "some kinda booster shot." "Well, I'm sure it was necessary, or the doctor wouldn't have done it." "Here," he said, handing me a crumpled piece of paper. "What's this?" "It's a prescription for some special vitamins the guy recommended. I told him I was gonna learn to surf, and he said surfing makes you real tired real fast, so I should take these 'mega-vitamins' to keep up my strength." "Well, wasn't that nice of him?" I said, knowing full well what the prescription was really for and admiring the doctor's cunning. "We'll pick them up on the way home." At the pharmacy, Harold wandered over to the large condom display as I approached the druggist in the back The man in the white lab coat gazed at me curiously for a moment, then smiled and went to fill the order. He probably assumed I was in menopause and needed a little help getting through it. I'm sure he never suspected that the prescription was really for my nephew. "Here you are, Harry," I said as I handed him the bottle of pills. "They were very expensive, so don't forget to take them regularly." "I'll remember," he nodded. "Thanks, Aunt Milly." "No need to thank me," I smiled. "I'm just doing what's best for you." And so it began. PART TWO In the weeks that followed, Harold became more and more of a discipline problem. He started taking everything for granted, never offering either thanks or apologies when due, and in front of his surfer friends, whom he sometimes brought over for a quick visit, he was downright rude to me. He was indeed learning to surf, but he was still a beginner, and he sometimes hurt himself, but whenever I expressed any concern over his safety, he'd virtually ignore me. one day he suggested getting a tattoo, and when I forbid it, he came home instead sporting a pierced ear with a small, gold ring in it, just like the surfers had. He started cursing in the house, he stopped asking to be excused from the table, and he began locking his bedroom door whenever he was in there, either alone or with a friend. I'm sure I heard him in there making it with Suzy more than once. Throughout it all however, I kept silent and waited for my plan to grow to fruition. It was well into summer by the time Harold began to notice the changes taking place in his body. I'd seen signs of his development after the first two weeks, when his nipples began to swell and his weight started increasing. He took the "mega- vitamins" daily, sometimes twice a day, and I even managed to get him back to the doctor's office to give his "booster shot" a booster shot, so the changes in his blood chemistry were just about complete and simply needed time in which to work their miracles. That monstrous appetite of his continued unabated, which greatly speeded things up, for instead of just burning up those calories, his newly acquired female hormones had other uses for them in producing new stored fat cells. The process was so gradual that it was barely noticeable to me, so it wasn't surprising that Harold took so long to recognize the changes. When he did notice something was happening, he seemed to be denying the obvious at first. I'd catch him standing in front of the mirror examining the slightly sagging flesh on his chest, where so many stored fat cells had recently been distributed, or studying the accumulated fatty deposits that were slowly making his hips and bottom look wider and rounder, but instead of changing his delinquent behavior, he thought to overcome the effects with exercise and weight lifting, so he started spending time working out. Needless to say, his exercise program did nothing to slow the development of his now obvious female secondary sex characteristics, and before long he was no longer able to deny what was happening. He tried to hide his shame under baggy clothing, and I even caught him wrapping a stretch bandage around his chest to compress the small mounds growing there, though he claimed he'd simply hurt himself surfing again. I knew it wouldn't be long now, so I just bided my time and let the inevitable happen. The proverbial last straw came for Harold almost halfway into summer. I was in the kitchen cleaning up a mess he'd left after making himself a sandwich for lunch, and suddenly I was startled to hear him cry out in dismay. I rushed to his bedroom where I found him sitting naked on the floor amid a mass of clothing strewn everywhere about the room. He held his head in his hands and sobbed gently, not even looking up as I entered. "Harry," I gasped, looking around in bewilderment, "what's the matter?" He made no attempt to respond and didn't seem at all embarrassed by his nudity, so I sat on the bed close beside him and comforted him until he finally recovered enough to whisper his confession to me, and when it came, it was everything I'd hoped for and more. He apologized for lying to me and admitted that he had been smoking pot... almost every day since he'd arrived. He hadn't really believed all that stuff about the "X-factor" before, but now... "Look!" he sobbed, cupping each of the small swellings on his chest. "I'm growing boobs!" "I thought you were putting on weight in strange places," I pretended to admit. "But it's not the end of the world. All you have to do is stop smoking pot." "I will," he promised. "I swear it." "Good," I assured him. "Once you've gotten that drug out of your system, your body will change back. Then everything will be right as rain again." He looked up, a glimmer of hope in his watery eyes. "It's not permanent?" "No, of course not. Your breasts are just a warning. You're only in the early stages of change, so the process can still be reversed, but if you keep smoking pot..." "I won't," he insisted. "Never again." "Fine. Then all you have to do is wait, and everything will change back to normal." "But..." He sobbed again, his sad eyes wandering over the articles of clothing scattered about him. "What do I do in the meantime? None of my clothes fit me anymore!" "Well, we could bandage your chest, like you did before, remember?" "I don't mean my shirts," he said impatiently. "Look!" As I looked on, doing my best not to laugh, Harold rose from the bed and picked up a bathing suit from the floor. He stepped into the trunks with his back to me and pulled them up quickly, but before they'd gone halfway up his thighs the leg bands were stretched to capacity. I could see that there was no way he was going to get that little boy's bathing suit over that big, girlish bottom he now had. "Nothing fits!" he cried, and then he collapsed onto the bed in a burst of tears. "What am I gonna do?" "It's all right," I said in a soothing tone as I leaned over to stroke his long hair. "I'll buy you some new clothes, ones that'll fit, and you can wear them until your old clothes fit again. Okay?" His sniffling stopped and he looked up with renewed hope once more. "You will?" "Of course, Harry. You're my nephew, and I love you. I don't want to see you upset like this. We'll get through this, together. All right?" "Thanks, Aunt Milly," he said, brushing away his tears. "Just make sure you don't make things any worse. No more pot. Is that understood?" "Understood," he agreed, nodding readily. "No more." "Good." I gave him a final pat on the head and started for the door. "I'll get my tape measure and we'll figure out what size clothes to buy. I'll just be a minute, "Aunt Milly," he sighed, making me pause at the door. "You don't have to call me 'Harry' anymore." I smiled. "All right, Harold." I felt so proud, for both of us. My plan was working perfectly, and Harold was responding just as I'd hoped. His arrogant manner was humbled, and his behavior became much more cooperative and manageable. He continued to hang around with his surfer friends, which I didn't like, but didn't object to openly, though I was glad to see that he stopped seeing Suzy, presumably because he was afraid of what she might discover on one of their dates under the pier. I knew she was wrong for him, and now he was free to meet someone else. For a few days, everyth