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Subject: {Kellis} "Hidden Journal: First Files" ( MF) (Not Stroke)
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The Hidden Journal
by Kellis. Copyright 1998
Prolog
Harrison Everett Stone maintained two diaries, an open one kept on the
bedside table for the world to see and a secret one that he called his
"hidden journal." At first the latter was written in an invented writing,
an English syllabary like Japanese Hiragana, that must have been
interesting. When he obtained a personal computer, sometime before 1991,
he transcribed both diaries to the hard drive, carefully backed up, and
destroyed the handwritten versions, along with the key to his syllabary.
Thereafter he printed out the open version as he added to it, keeping a
fat three-ring binder on the bedside table.
Harry was a programmer and a good one. He created a remarkable
encryption program for his hidden journal, described in the first
encrypted file. Without knowing a couple of key facts, I seriously doubt
the journal could have been cracked, because his encryption scheme was not
algorithmic. But I was Harry's confidant; he had left me his computer,
hard drive intact. Along with the machine his wife passed me a yellow
sticky slip with the phrase,
copy filename.zen /*
and the comment, "He said you'll know what it means."
The following are files from his hidden journal, presented in order of
file name, which apparently depends on the date when Harry transcribed it.
Only the files after 1991 have corresponding occurrence dates. For
obvious reasons I have changed peoples' and employers' names and generally
eliminated place names in this country. This is tedious work and is one
reason for the slow release of these files. The main reason is that
Harry's decryptor only displayed files on the screen, which of course was
enough to suit him. Being no programmer, I must transcribe them manually.
Otherwise the literal truth of these events is open to question.
Harry liked a good story as much as anyone. He was definitely an honest
man, despite an admission of stealing the holy bible, but I don't suppose
he was above embellishment. One indication is the detail of conversation
in the files. It would demand an implausibly good memory, even though
recorded only a day or two after the event.
Whatever the files' degree of truth, whether in reality or imagination
or more likely some mixture, Harry led an interesting life.
--Kellis
File D910412.ZEN
<Sunday, April 21, 1991>
Finally! The program works. I can encrypt a file, so long as it's a
text file (*.txt), into something that look's encrypted -- i.e., makes no
sense -- then decrypt it back to sensibility at will. Rather quickly,
too. All by the same program: my own replacement for DOS's "copy." It
does everything DOS copy does, plus with the right modifier encrypts or
decrypts and displays the decrypted file on the screen while allowing the
viewer to scroll back and forth. I am inordinately proud of it and intend
to say briefly here how I did it, even though this file, too, will be
saved only in the encrypted form.
copy filename.txt /*
will take the named file and exclusive-or it byte-by-byte with -- of
all things -- the holy bible, add Hex 20 to each resulting byte and store
the result as filename.zen, then remove the original. Text files in
USASCII have byte values in the range x20-7E, except for three control
characters, Tab, Line Feed and Return, which have values x09, x0A and x0D,
respectively -- that is, below x20. Exclusive-oring two such files thus
cannot produce byte values greater than x7F. Adding x20 to each byte
makes it generally printable.
copy filename.zen /*
takes the encrypted file, subtracts x20 from the content of each byte
and exclusive-ors the result, byte-by-byte, again with the holy bible,
saves the result in memory and displays it on the screen without changing
the hard drive. It recognizes the Page-Up and Page-Down keys, Home and
End, to position the display to any part of the document. The Escape key
ends the program, leaving no decrypted copy around.
The holy bible file is one I obtained -- <stole>, not to mince words --
from the office. It is the King James version, each verse numbered by
book, chapter and verse, colon-separated, each verse beginning a new line.
To eliminate the possibility of some outsider exclusive-oring two of my
files together, thus reproducing an almost legible portion of the bible
and thus inferring my method, the first four bytes of each file are filled
with random data, with the fifth and sixth containing a 14 bit random
offset in the bible file, all suitably shifted to resemble ASCII text.
Encryption and decryption begin at that byte offset in the bible, thus
largely assuring each of my files a different key. The time of day is
used as the random seed.
The bible file is about 4.5 megabytes. I doubt I'll encrypt any
single file greater than that, but if so the program simply rolls back
to the front of the bible.
I don't know if this is an "uncrackable" scheme or not. I've looked
at the result in a hexadecimal dump and no pattern is apparent. It is
certainly not a substitution cipher, where the character of highest
frequency must be a Space, next an E, next a T, etc. (remember ETOAIN
SHRLDU?). In fact it is not an algorithmic cipher at all; instead it is
based on what amounts to "table lookup," where the bible file is the
table. Unless a code breaker guesses that I have applied an outside file
in this way, then guesses which file and further guesses the location and
use of the offset, I don't see how it can be broken. Of course, if my
breaker is such an excellent guesser as that, no scheme is safe!
One might ask, what documentation is so important in the private life
of an ordinary programmer that such concealment is necessary or even
desirable?
At thirteen I began to keep a diary, a journal of actions and thoughts
significant to me. When I was sixteen my parents discovered that document
with mortifying consequences, the least of which was termination of my
diary. After my military tour, when I had better control of my personal
effects, I resumed it. But this time I kept <two> diaries. One has
always resided prominently on the bedside table. I encourage my wife --
indeed, anyone who will -- to satisfy her curiosity about its contents.
The other, a much smaller volume, much less frequently recorded, has been
written in a shorthand that I invented and taught myself. Apparently it
is not very efficient; I can hardly write it faster than longhand. But
it is sufficiently obfuscatory. My wife ran across the manuscript once in
an old briefcase and when told that it was practice in an invented
handwriting (which illustrates my preferred method of lying: part of the
truth), remarked only that it was a hell of a lot of practice!
The reason for the obfuscation was not only that the secret diary
contained those private thoughts whose disclosure would embarrass the
thinker, though some such thoughts were certainly recorded, but also that
it contained accounts of illegal and perhaps immoral actions:
self-incrimination of the worst kind!
I'm not a saint, Jill. If you should ever read this, that won't
surprise you, will it?
(I say "perhaps immoral" because I see no necessary correspondence
between the legal and the moral, nor in the opposites. But that's another
issue that I have argued at length in the open forum, <q.v.>)
But all was not happy in paradise. The difficulty, the very annoying
shortcoming, of my invented handwriting is that it is deliberately
ambiguous, such that its meaning can be determined only from context.
More obfuscation, you see. Unfortunately, in practice what this means is
that it is confoundingly slow to read!
So again: finally! Finally I shall have my obfuscation, possibly
even more so, along with an ability to read the text back faster even than
I wrote it. Wonderful! It feels rather like having one's cake and eating
it, too.
Now I have only to decipher the secret handwriting one more time in
order to type it into this machine. After the typing and the making of
sufficient backup files, I'll burn it and good riddance.
Though I may have argued their merits while recording them, I make no
general apology or defense for the events described herein, except to say
that I am human and subject to the human condition.
File D9104121.ZEN
<Sunday, April 11, 1971>
I made a discovery this afternoon that will certainly influence the
future course of my life. I'm sure to forget the details of it unless I
write them down. But they are very private details. Thus the adoption of
this deliberately obfuscatory method of writing that I invented at age 16
after Mom found my diary -- invented then but hardly used until now,
almost nine years later. During that interval, though I sometimes wanted
it for embarrassing information, I never felt sufficiently in control of
my effects to warrant keeping even an obfuscated journal. Now both
conditions converge.
Writing this is a bit slow. I must bear with me while practice brings
speed.
The discovery is this: Daisy <enjoys> sucking dicks!
I underline that word for good reason. I've never known a woman with
such a taste. The claims for them heard in the army I always dismissed as
wishful apocrypha or advertising of whores for whom such a reputation was
money in the bank. I could never -- and still can't -- imagine <why> a
woman would like it! The best you can say for the stuff is that usually
it's about as flavorful as distilled water.
But she likes it. That's clear -- and mine definitely not to worry
why!
I met her just about two months ago at John King's party. We hit it
off so well that I brought her home with me and screwed her nearly all
that night. She was eager as I, which I gathered meant she'd been without
about as long. That's a bit surprising in retrospect. Though her mouth
is too big for real beauty, she turns heads wherever she goes. She's a
brunette who keeps her hair at shoulder length. A bit over average
height, she's still comfortably below my five-eleven. Though 130 plus,
she's not a bit fat in the ass and calves; her extra weight is on her
chest. What a set she has! They fit in a 40-D brassiere but have small,
brown nipples which, according to the books, a baby will change. They
sharpen up prettily under my tongue.
We continued to hit it off, trading weekends between her place and
mine. I've already described her work at Jansen Publishing in the open
diary so won't repeat it here except to note that she's assistant editor
for a men's magazine, among other things, but swears they've never offered
to photograph <her> tits! Obviously they're blind.
Her cunt has an odor that grabs my balls. One component is urine; I
miss it if I lick her fresh from her bath. The rest is ... Why are there
no good words for odors? With the piss it reminds me of piney woods on a
hot afternoon, the same piney woods where Don Carpenter taught me to jerk
off one afternoon and Beth Carpenter taught me to fuck that night.
I started out today enjoying that odor, almost as much as her
never-fail reaction to my tongue. But when I rose up to mount her, she
put a hand on my chest.
"Wait, Harry. It's <your> turn."
"My turn for what?"
She pushed me to one side. "Lie down."
I said in a poor try at humor, "You can't lick <my> twat!"
She raised up on her elbow and looked at me sideways. "I would if you
had one."
Before I realized what that meant, she bent over me and showed what
she could do with what I <did> have. Which at that moment was a little
larger than usual. Licking her -- more likely, feeling the twitches and
hearing the moans while I lick her -- makes my dick so hard it hurts. Her
mouth on the head and hands on the shaft didn't make it any softer, but
they soothed it nevertheless.
I lasted about thirty seconds. At the first spurt, her hand, which
had been moving like a milking machine, let go. Her lips slid half way
down the shaft and her tongue restricted itself to gentle laps only upon
the sensitive thread under the squirting eye. Her mouth relaxed, ceasing
to compress the unbearably sensitive glans.
That last bit was unique. For the first time in my experience a blow
job was both exquisite <and> bearable all the way through. She compressed
my glans again only to aid her hand in milking the last drops. Then she
raised her head and studied my face. Not one trace of semen appeared on
her lips. Despite the receding thrill I might have doubted my own orgasm
if a last white bit hadn't appeared suddenly in the dick eye -- which she
bent and promptly licked up.
"Now you do me again," she ordered, lying back as she had before. I
did with gusto, you may be sure, until my tongue became unbearable to her.
Then I mounted her properly at last and ... I've never seen the like.
She had orgasm after orgasm for the two or three minutes it took my dry
balls to produce another load -- unmistakable moaning, twisting and
turning, shuddering orgasms, with her vaginal sphincters squeezing.
We were both sweaty and out of breath. When I got some of it back, I
told her in certain terms, "God, Daisy, that was <great>!"
"Yes, it was," she agreed, smiling at me smugly.
"You ..." I shook my head. "I've never known a woman to do that but
I've heard of it: like a string of firecrackers."
"I ..." She hesitated.
"You what?"
"I sensed that it might be possible if ..."
"If I didn't shoot off so soon?" I'd been a bit worried about that.
A few days without pussy gives me a hair trigger.
"Or if I could be aroused far enough first."
"You mean ..."
She lay silently, but her smugness increased.
"You mean you figured to take my starch with your mouth, knowing I'd
last longer the second time?"
"Something like that."
"I'll be damned. Where ... How did you learn that trick?"
Her smile faded. "Harry, you know I wasn't a virgin."
I raised both hands. "Neither was I. I didn't complain the first
time and I'm certainly not complaining now!"
She frowned. "I don't mean that. It's just that ... I don't have a
<lot> of experience, but I do have some. Let me ask you: do you like
what you do to me?"
"I've told you that. I love <everything> you let me do!"
"Even the ... cunnilinctus?"
"Especially that. You have a uniquely sweet odor."
"I do?" She sniffed. "I always thought it smelled like piss."
I grinned tolerantly. "Come on! Don't tell me you can lick
yourself."
"No. But I can taste my fingers. And ... I don't like to taste a
cock after it's been in me."
"What about <before>?"
"That's what I've been saying. You like to lick me. I like to suck
you. Can you understand it?"
"Even the ... seminal fluid?"
Her smile reappeared. "Haven't you ever tasted it, Harry?"
"Well, yes --"
"Then you know it's not so bad. It's not bad at all. I like to feel
it spurt. <Wherever> it is at the time."
"You can feel it in the vagina, too?"
"Especially there. Right under the womb drives me mad."
"I'll remember that."
"What's to remember? When you come you always drive so hard I think
you're aiming for my throat."
"Aiming for your throat!" I repeated. "Daisy, that's another thing
about you. You're the first woman I ever knew who would talk about these
things. Will you marry me?"
Her face sobered completely. "That's not funny, Harry."
"It's not meant to be funny. I'm perfectly serious. I want you to be
my wife." Suddenly I realized it was also perfectly true.
"Isn't this rather sudden?"
"In one sense," I agreed, "but not in another."
She grinned crookedly. "Because I swallowed your juice?"
"Because of that very statement, even if you said it just to shock me.
Because you are willing to say such things. Mainly because you just made
our sex about the best I ever knew. A man seldom admits that, I guess. I
never said it to anyone else. It's never been true before... Also, as I
just now understand, I happen to be in love with you."
"You'll get over that."
"I don't think so." I began to sing that part of <A Bicycle Built for
Two>: "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true."
"Cut that out!" She hit me with a pillow and while I was dodging
raised up and tickled my kneecaps. I can't stand that, as she knows by
now. So I jumped out of bed. She lunged, caught me around the hips while
I was on one foot, which knocked me down. I pulled her off the bed on top
of me. She promptly grabbed my balls in both hands. I froze, expecting
the worst.
She said thoughtfully, "I'd marry this sweet little pole, even greasy
and stinking of me. It sure is full of juice." Her fingers manipulated
the foreskin. "This is the first one I've seen that hasn't been cut.
How'd you manage that? 'Stone.' That's not a Jewish name, is it?"
"No. And you've got it backwards. It's the Jews that practice ritual
circumcision."
"I never had a Jew, far as I know. Not that I've had so many. But
every one of these I ever saw had been cut. Why not yours?"
"My father wouldn't let them."
"Wouldn't he? Did he give a reason?"
"Yes. He believed that it made the head -- the glans, that is -- much
less sensitive."
"Oh, yeah? Maybe he was right."
"What do you mean?"
"You ... come off quicker than anyone else."
"The second time, too?"
"The second time is fine. Do you know what? The others can't keep it
up long enough to even <have> a second time!"
"That's interesting. But you haven't answered my question."
"A girl can't talk with her mouth full, can she?"
I felt the unmistakable touch.
"I thought you didn't like it afterwards."
After a moment she released me. "Harry, your protected glans is
slick. I like the <feel> of it -- reminds me of the bubble kids suck in a
bu'sted balloon. It's like a purple plum. Now do you want my mouth to be
full or do you want me to answer foolish questions?"
So I didn't ask her again. But I will.
After sucking the bubble, kids generally bite it to make it pop. Just
as well I didn't remember that at the time.
<Sunday, April 25, 1971>
We played badminton Friday night at the Wing Street YWCA -- surprised
they let a man in. Daisy's damned good, has a wicked serve. Beat me the
first two games till I learned how to return it. Walking to turn in our
racquets, she gestured at all the straining women sweating on the exercise
court below us. "Bet you'd like to do it to all of 'em, wouldn't you?"
"Huh? Do what?"
"Put your thing into their things."
I pretended to study the throng. "That fat one over there looks
sexy."
"Fat or skinny, you'd love to stick every one of them, wouldn't you?"
"Well ..."
Her look of calculation became a knowing grin.
"What's got into you?" I wondered. "Everyone knows men like to screw
women."
"And everyone thinks they're choosy, don't they?"
"Choosy?"
"But they're wrong. Don't take a shower."
"I'm pretty sweaty. You don't like that odor."
"Nevertheless."
"All right, as you wish. As to all those twats down there, I've got a
bigger tittied one within arm's reach."
"My sister's boobs are as big as mine."
"Is that so!"
"I'll bet you'd like it if she came to bed with us."
"But would <she> like it?"
"She probably would."
"All right. I'll play along. You ask her. Just remember, I don't
have a brother."
"Too bad. <I'd> like it if you did."
That conversation was unsettling. Was she hinting at a spot of
mate-swapping? I'll admit that I might tolerate two women in my bed at
the same -- hell, I can be honest here! I'd love it! Maybe even three or
four. But another man, sharing my woman? Not at the same time. And if I
have anything to say about it, not ever. Not that I'm foolish enough to
believe I'd ever have anything binding to say about it.
The reason for the prohibited shower was apparent after we got home to
her place. She wanted us to take a bath together. Not a shower: a full
tub bath. She made the water too hot for me at first, but it cooled and
soon became slippery fun. She wrapped her big ones around my dick. With
all the soap it was almost like a pussy. Though she's been blowing me
nearly every time lately to start our exercises, the light had always been
dim or the position had been wrong or her hair covered her face -- or most
often my face was in her cunt. I'd never actually <seen> her suck me
after that very first time, much less peel down the foreskin and inspect
me thoroughly, both with fingers and tongue.
"I love to watch you do that almost as much as I love to feel it," I
told her, to which she only grunted an acknowledgment, her mouth being
full at the time.
"How much of it can you take?" I asked.
From the thickening of her cheek muscles I knew she was smiling. Her
hands went under my ass and she lifted me higher in the water -- she is
surprisingly strong -- as her head went down. In it went, in and further
in, until her nose hit the padding under my pubic hair. She had swallowed
the whole thing. Her hot breath stirred the hair as she breathed out. It
affected me immediately and powerfully. With a very sharp pang of
pleasure my sphincters convulsed, expelling a thick jet of semen. It must
have gone straight into her windpipe. For the first time she jerked away
from me before I had finished. As a consequence the second jet went right
up both her nostrils.
She fell back against the end of the tub. Her eyes were round as
marbles. She made gagging noises.
I knew what had happened. Though still in orgasm, I raised her out of
the water, sat on the platform that surrounds her tub, put her torso
across my legs, and began to pound her back. On the second stroke a blob
of spermatic phlegm flew out of her mouth onto the floor. She took one
shuddering breath and began to cough rackingly. I raised her up until her
head was over my shoulder. In a moment she vomited down my back. But she
was breathing.
She was annoyed with me to the point of anger, refusing at first to
believe I hadn't strangled her on purpose. She seldom drinks alcohol, but
she accepted the whisky I pressed on her and calmed down after awhile.
"It nearly killed me," she concluded, putting her drink down. "But I
want it again. Let me get on top of you."
The only way she would fuck was in the sixty-nine position. I licked
her clit until she screamed. Only then did she relax. She'd gotten my
juice again, though only a dribble in comparison.
We rested over another drink, her fourth or fifth. Her eyes were
watery and she felt her nose, pronouncing it to be numb. My hand was
lying on her thigh. I touched her clit and she twitched. I said, "If so,
it's the only thing."
"What about thish bad boy?" She lifted my dick, skinned it and
inspected the head. "He's pouting. May have to give him another
licking."
"It's only partly his fault, you know."
"Oh? Jush who else was in there?"
"It's the first time he was ever totally swallowed. He gets
enthusiastic about that."
The whimsy pleased her. She giggled. "Strangled on sperm! D'you
know how many wrigglers are in one good ejaculation? Millions and
millions. I'll bet a few thousand are swimming like mad in my lungs right
now. What if they make my tits pregnant?"
"Didn't you say you were on the pill?"
"Not for my tits!" That struck her as uproariously funny. She raised
up and kissed me, tongue probing. I tasted myself on it.
"I like your cock better," she announced, regarding me owlishly.
"Better than what?"
"Your mouth. Oh! What a terrible thing to say!" She kissed me
again. "Will you forgive me?"
"Sure. It's not even true. You like my tongue best."
"I mean, I like it best for <me> to kiss!" She bent to it. For a
moment her lips closed over it, then she raised her head. "I love to feel
it grow in my mouth."
"You do love to suck my dick." I was feeling reckless. "Isn't that
unusual?"
She shrugged loosely. I always enjoy seeing her tits roll when she
shrugs. She said, "Other women do it, too. Are you complaining?"
"Not at all. But I am curious. Where'd you learn it?"
"What's to learn? Even you could do it. To another man, of course.
Hmm. I wonder if any man can suck his own cock."
"I knew a boy who could. Well, he could kiss it and lick it until he
came. We all envied him."
"Can you do that?"
"No. Not nearly limber enough. If I could I wouldn't need you, would
I?"
"You don't need me now. Hundreds -- thousands -- of women'd suck your
cock."
"Not with <your> enthusiasm ... and skill. You give better head than
anyone I ever heard of. How <did> you learn that, Daisy?"
She grinned. "I had good help."
"An older man, I bet."
"You'd lose."
"How could a kid teach you?"
"Actually, I taught myself. It seemed to hurt him just when it should
be the best. I wondered why. We worked at it until I figured it out."
"How remarkable! Who was he -- the boy across the street?"
"Who cares?"
Her mouth closed over me again.
As I sit here at my desk, my mind's eye sees the girl mouthing some
unidentified boy day after day until they get it right -- until no longer
must he snatch it from her at the moment of sweetness. And my dick rises
up in my shorts, though still a bit sore.
But that was last night. Tonight, before I left her, I asked her
again to marry me.
"I've been thinking about it," she admitted. "Do you still mean it?"
"Yes, my dear, I do mean it with all my heart."
She shook her head slightly. "Those words."
"What's wrong with them?"
"You don't really know me, Harry."
"I know enough. I'll <make> you love me!"
She stared at me, nodding slowly. "Let's wait a while and see if you
do."
<Sunday, November 7, 1971>
The schedule called for Daisy to spend Saturday night at my place, but
she had to keep her niece, daughter of her brother, while her brother's
wife was busy squirting out their second child. Unfortunate choice of
words. I said "squirt" to her on the phone and received dead silence for
two seconds, followed by a promise to bite my dick the next time <I>
squirted! Parenthetically, why isn't it as easy for a woman to expel a
child as for finger and thumb to squirt the pulp from a grape? When I
once voiced that concern at a party, a woman advised me to consider how
the grape hull looks after thumb and finger have compressed it: split.
She had a point, but it still ought to be easier!
No disrespect meant. I admire women's birthing ability tremendously,
tickled to death that I <can't> do it! I take my hat off to them -- and
anything else they want. When I told Daisy as much, she promised <two>
bytes!
If the mountain won't come to Mahommet, he will damned well go where
the pussy is. Agnes, the niece, was plump, standing high as Daisy's
shoulders. She'll lose her baby fat, according to Daisy. A pretty girl
with very curly dark hair, she was shy at first but under Daisy's
encouragement soon communicated her disdain for boys. She admitted
praying that her mother wouldn't produce one of "those ugly creatures."
I looked at Daisy inquiringly. "No cabbage patch?"
Daisy shrugged. "<I> didn't tell her."
"Tell me what?" Agnes asked.
"Where babies come from," Daisy answered with a cocked eyebrow.
"Oh, that!" She sniffed. "Everybody knows <that>!"
Daisy looked at me and grinned. "Everybody knows that."
We discovered that she likes cowboy movies. Apparently she is
fascinated by closeups of men and women riding horses. Her ambition is to
have a pony that she can ride herself. I found a couple of westerns on
TV. Good that Daisy subscribes to the cable, though this was the first
time I'd ever seen her tube turned on. Agnes sat on the floor in front of
the set. Daisy sat in my lap on the couch.
She whispered in my ear, "Were you surprised to find me in a skirt?"
"No. Should I have been?"
"In this cold weather shouldn't you? Pull it up under me."
Surprise, surprise. She was without underpants. In a moment she had
my fly open. I slid forward, leaning well back, and she straddled my
legs. With some manual encouragement in it went while both of us
ostentatiously watched the blue shadows dancing on the boob tube.
A commercial immediately arrived. The girl got to her feet. Daisy
fell still.
Agnes drew near. She didn't seem to notice anything unusual about our
seating arrangement. "Will you get me some water, Aunt Daisy?"
"You know where it is, Agnes."
Daisy turned and watched the girl exit to the kitchen. Gently she
restarted her bounce. I said, "Do you really enjoy this?"
"It could be better. Slip your hand up under my skirt."
I understood. My hand worked under her cool buttocks cheek and crept
in front of my dick to find her clit. "How's that?" I asked, rubbing
gently.
"Much better."
Her movements were more horizontal, back and forth, round and round,
than vertical. She grew steadily wetter. My free hand clutched her
breast through the dress.
"Don't that hurt?"
Apparently Daisy had closed her eyes, the same as I. Both pairs flew
open to find the girl standing solemnly before us, holding a glass of
water.
Daisy took a deep breath and held herself still. "<Doesn't> that
hurt!" she corrected.
"Well, doesn't it?"
"Doesn't what hurt?"
"Uncle Harry pinching so hard."
"Uh, excuse me," I blurted, removing the visible hand.
"Agnes, the commercial is over," Daisy pointed out.
"Oh." The girl stared at us for a second, shrugged and turned back to
the TV.
Daisy waited awhile to begin again. I whispered, "She knows what
we're doing."
She leaned back against me, her mouth next to my cheek. "So what?"
"Suppose she tells your brother?"
"He knows you've been doing me. You're about to come, aren't you?"
"I'm afraid so."
She sighed. "Well, go ahead."
"I hate to leave you high and dry."
"High, yes; dry, no. I'll catch you later." Her cunt gripped me
like a hand. I proceeded to fill it full as a man can. A TV range war
masked any sounds we made. Standing, she turned around, tucked me in and
zipped me up. Efficient, my Daisy. Then she sat close beside me and put
her hand under my belt and down the front of my pants, cupping the wet
manhood in her palm. She likes to sit this way when we talk, except that
we always sat naked until today.
"What's this about your brother?" I've never met the man.
"I told him you're my steady. He's seen your picture."
"Then he only guesses what we're up to."
"I'm afraid not. I told him about your ... intact foreskin."
"You did? Whatever for?"
"We've exchanged confidences since we were kids. Don't worry. He
knows you're discreet and responsible. He's all in favor of me having
fun. He likes you a lot better than my last boy friend. Well, so do I."
"Did you tell him I asked you to marry me?"
"Yes."
"What's he say to that?"
"That I'm a fool not to have pinned you down right out of the box. I
told you, he likes what he hears about you."
"Why haven't you pinned me down?"
She grimaced. "Because it cuts both ways. I don't like the idea of
being pinned down myself."
Agnes prefers Burger King to Macdonalds, not because of the flavor but
because the toy furnished by Burger King with the meal is presently
superior to Macdonalds'. This was determined only after stopping first at
Burger King, then at Macdonalds. It resulted in a return to Burger King.
We took the food home to eat it, after which the adults changed into
comfortable clothing -- robes over naked and accessible flesh -- and Agnes
had her evening bath.
I was reading a magazine when Daisy called me into the bathroom.
Agnes was in the tub, water up to her waist. She looked at me without
flinching. Carefully looking away from her, I stopped in the door and
complained, "You might've warned me."
Daisy shrugged. "Of what? Agnes has a splinter. Men have sharper
vision. In my family the men always take out splinters. Agnes wants you
to do it. Will you?"
"Do you have a needle?"
"Right here. And here's a match."
"You sterilize it with fire, do you?"
"It works."
Agnes spoke up. "It makes the needle black, but my daddy says the
black won't hurt you."
I took the needle, struck the match on its box, held the tiny rod in
its flame. "All right. Where's the splinter?"
"In her thigh. Stand up again, Agnes."
"He'll see my ... thing."
"He <has> to see the splinter, silly. Be careful, now. Don't slip.
Hold on to me."
In the bright light I could see a fine splinter inside her right thigh
within two inches of the groin. Yes, of course, I noticed the hairless
split nearby. The flesh above it displayed a curiously blue tinge.
I asked, "How in the world did you get a splinter <here>, Agnes?"
Her eyes fell. "I ... pretended the fence was a horse."
Indeed her legs showed a pattern of short faint scratches on the inner
thighs. I put my face close to the splinter and positioned the needle to
dig it out.
No, I smelled only soap.
"You won't hurt me, will you?"
"It's unusual to get a splinter in such thin, tender skin. Mostly
they're caught in hands or feet. I'll try not to, Agnes. Hold very
still. While I'm probing, you might tell me how you got that bruise just
above your mound."
"My mound?"
Daisy touched her. "Right here, dear."
"The same way."
"I see." I had worked the needle under one end of the splinter,
preparatory to prying it up. "You were bouncing up and down on the fence
rail, were you, pretending it was a galloping horse?"
"Yes. Oooh, that tickles!"
My knuckle had inadvertently touched her clit. Hastily I withdrew it.
Daisy said wonderingly, "Removing a splinter <tickles>?"
I glanced up. The girl's eyes sparkled on mine. She said through a
faint grin, "What you don't 'spect tickles worst. It wouldn't tickle
now."
I couldn't resist, which is why this account is in the secret journal.
I let my knuckle bump her clit again, while apparently repositioning the
needle. She held still and said nothing. I twitched the needle, actually
holding it barely above the skin, letting my knuckle vibrate. Again she
was still and silent -- but the clitoris hardened noticeably!
Daisy muttered, "It seems to me if you dug just a little deeper ..."
"I don't want to draw blood," I explained, but returned my attention
to the job. Up came the brown splinter, only its tip left in the tiny
wound.
"Would you like to pluck it out, Agnes?" I offered.
She craned her head to look at it. "I ... You can touch it better."
Touch <what>? I passed the needle to Daisy and deliberately laid the
side of my hand in the girl's slit, thumb and forefinger curling for the
splinter. She inadvertently clamped her legs together, squeezing my hand.
"Spread them apart, Agnes," Daisy commanded impatiently. "It's almost
over."
"I know," said the girl, reopening her legs. Her tone sounded
disappointed to me.
I took hold of the splinter and was careful to give the clit once last
rub with the side of my palm as I withdrew it and held it up. "There you
are, Agnes: your own piece of the fence."
Her hand came down, paused over her mound, then pulled the flesh
around on her leg the better to expose the wound. "It's not bleeding,"
she observed.
"We were lucky," I explained. "It wasn't in very deep. Do you want
it?"
"No. I want ..."
"What?"
"To finish my bath."
Daisy remarked, "Agnes, you might thank Uncle Harry."
The girl bent down and kissed my nose. "Thank you, uncle, for the
tickle, too."
"Ah, you're welcome."
Daisy pulled me up as the child sat down with a splash. She said
brightly, "You're almost finished, Agnes. Your gown is on the guest bed."
"Do you want me to run naked down the hall?"
"Why not? Harry and I will be in the den. No one will see you."
Agnes looked at me with what I'd've sworn was a twinkle. "It don't
matter now."
"<Doesn't>," Daisy corrected. She turned away.
As soon as we were out of the child's sight, Daisy did a curious
thing. She snaked her hand into my robe and clasped my dick, murmuring,
"I thought so!"
"Well, she's almost man high," I explained defensively.
"You'd make <some> doctor!" I glanced at her guiltily but she was
grinning. "You were touching her button, weren't you?"
"Ah, accidentally."
"I'll bet! That's what caused the talk about tickling, wasn't it?"
"I suppose."
"You wouldn't hurt her, would you, Harry?"
"Of course not! I'd kill the man who hurt a child that way. Unless
you believe that a man touching a girl's clit hurts her."
"The law believes it."
"Well, sometimes the law is right." I spread my hands. "I'll
apologize to her if you wish, though I believe if any harm is involved,
that would be worse."
"I do, too."
"You do? Would you like me to promise never to --"
Her free hand came up to my lips. She had never relinquished my cock
with the other. I looked around to see if the girl had entered behind us
but saw no one.
"Why did you stop me?"
She shook her head. "Because I don't want to hear it. I didn't say
you hurt her."
"Didn't you?"
"You got the splinter out. Her father could do no more. You made a
friend."
"All right, Daisy, I confess. The first touch was accidental, but not
the next several."
"So you admit it. You sneak! Why'd you do it?"
"Because it was evident she liked it."
"Evident how?"
"It hardened."
"Hardened, did it? Show me."
By this time we were seated on the couch, her leg over mine, her robe
open in front. The demonstration should have been simple. I chuckled.
"I <know> yours. It's already hard!"
Her eyes were slits. She said, "Your face was within two inches of
her. Do to me what you wanted to do to her.
I bent over her. "You'll never believe I never thought of this," I
claimed just before I lost the power of speech.
She leaned back. "Well, why didn't you?"
* * * *
Her phone rang at 0230. From her expression it wasn't good. When she
hung up, she explained, "Complications. They want me there." She jumped
out of bed.
"I hope your sister-in-law is not ..."
"They said she's hemorrhaging."
"My god, Daisy!" I sat up. "What can I do to help?"
"Stay here with Agnes."
"All right. Wait a minute. Won't they mind?"
"Only if you fuck her."
Daisy, while often plain spoken, is rarely quite <that> frank! I took
it as a sign of her agitation. I got out of bed.
"I wouldn't molest her even if they asked me. Can I help you dress?"
"Huh! At this hour I'm going to throw on jeans and an old shirt."
I seized the opportunity to empty my bladder. When I came back to the
bed she was already dressed, even to long stockings. I helped tug on her
"walk over you" boots.
"Want me to walk you to the car?"
She grinned at me. "Stark naked and your thing flopping?"
"I'm wearing a wristwatch," I said, holding up the arm. "What do you
mean, 'flopping?'"
She was struggling into an overcoat. "In the cold it pulls up into
your belly, doesn't it? I'll be all right, Harry. Nobody in his right
mind will be hanging around a parking lot at this hour. But thank you."
She left the foyer light lit, but that wasn't enough to bother me. I
went right back to sleep. Sometime later someone got into bed with me.
Motion wakes me. I reached out, thinking fuzzily to touch her, and a warm
body fell against my side. The brought me fully awake. At that moment
lightning flared beyond the shades, followed immediately by a crash of
thunder. The brief light had illuminated Agnes's wide eyes.
She begged immediately, "Can I stay with you, Uncle Harry, please?"
"What's the matter?"
"I'm afraid of lightning."
Indeed she was shivering though her body was warm. Without turning on
the light I raised up enough to distribute the sheet and blanket over both
of us. "All right," I agreed, "but you must get back in your own bed soon
as it's over."
"Yes, sir."
I laid on my back with an arm under her and pulled her head on my
shoulder just as lightning flickered again. The thunder was even louder.
She was glued to my side.
"Are you all right now?" I asked, hugging her.
Her hand found mine and interlaced my fingers. "Oh, yes. I feel very
safe now."
"Good."
She was still, hardly breathing, as the lightning continued over a
steady hiss of rain. It lulled me to sleep, though I'd meant to see her
back to her own bed. I recall a vivid but short dream. Daisy was sucking
my cock, as she often does these days. Her lips gripped the shaft as I
flooded her throat. It was exquisite and awoke me immediately.
A wet dream? Not at all. The pressure of lips and the slightest
fluttering of the tongue continued. I opened my eyes but only slits,
barely enough for the very dim light from the foyer to show the silhouette
of a head bent over my dick. I was holding my breath. I let breathing
resume gradually, closing my eyes. The mouth released me. I felt the
blanket pulled slowly and gently back over me while a hand cupped my glans
to protect it from the sheet's friction. Then the girl laid down beside
me. After a moment I felt the faintest touch of lips on my bare arm,
accompanied by a faint vibration. I realized she was frigging herself.
It only lasted a few seconds.
After that amazing performance I could hardly go back to sleep
immediately. Where in the world, I asked myself, had a girl of her few
years learned such a skill so well? In two minutes her regular breathing
told me that she was asleep. I thought about getting up and putting on my
shorts, but apparently she believed she'd sneaked my juice without waking
me, which was another mystery. How could she expect to do that? But she
believed it. It seemed best for her to keep on believing it.
We both awoke with Daisy standing over us, shaking Agnes's shoulder.
"Honey, wake up enough to get back in your own bed."
Agnes raised up and explained, "The thunder scared me."
"Well, the storm's all gone. You can go back to bed."
She slipped from the blankets and scampered out of the room. Daisy
closed the door behind her and turned on the light. It was a bit after
seven. Light was showing behind the shades.
"How's your sister-in-law?" I asked, sitting up.
"They operated and stitched her up. She'll be all right... I'm an
aunt again. Another nephew. Six pounds and six ounces. My brother wants
to name him 'six squared.'"
"He won't stay square. I'm glad she's okay."
She threw off clothing. I helped with the boots. She fell back into
the bed naked as I. Her hand sought my dick. "Did Agnes entertain you?"
"Entertain? She woke me up jumping into this bed. She claimed the
thunder terrified her. She was shivering, though she wasn't cold. I told
her to get back in her own bed when it was over, but I guess we both fell
asleep."
"Is that all? I smelled semen on her breath."
"Good god, Daisy," I retorted automatically. "You smell it on <me>!"
"It's the same thing."
"Hardly! Do you recall what we were doing in this spot an hour before
they called you out?"
"Didn't you talk to her? Didn't she tell you her girlish dreams of
pressing her button into the vibrating saddle?"
"No. Don't give her too much credit. How old is she?"
"Eleven. I'm not. I remember being eleven, too."
"And you dreamed of riding horses?"
"No. My fun was behind my brother on his motorbike."
"Hmm. Is that why girl passengers always seem to seem to thrust their
butts back on purpose?"
"And lean forward, the better to put a hand under his jacket."
"And do what?"
"Massage his washboard stomach. Why don't you have a washboard
stomach, Harry?"
"Because I'm a programmer, not a roustabout."
"I'd marry you if you had a washboard stomach."
"Would you! Then I should work on it, shouldn't I? Come up here on
top."
Thus the subject was successfully changed -- and none too soon.
Daisy had to take the girl to Sunday School and from there to the
family who would keep her until the sister-in-law was home from the
hospital. I slept until she returned. We then spent an uneventful
afternoon -- that is, aside from our usual events.
Daisy and Agnes give head identically. Both know to balloon the mouth
around the glans and flutter the tongue under it while it squirts. Both
swallow the semen neatly. I've known no other woman to do as well. I'm
certain this is neither coincidence nor native skill. Must find out if
Agnes's home is near where Daisy was raised. Do I owe my good fortune to
some aging pedophile in Daisy's old neighborhood? His neighbors might
lock him up if they knew, but I'd give him a medal!
--
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