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Subject: {Kellis} "Hidden Journal: A. B. C." ( MF)
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Hidden Journal: A. B. C.
NOTICE: The following file is one of an ongoing series, transcriptions
of files decrypted from the hidden journal of Harrison Everett Stone.
For a summary of their provenance see the initial file, D910412.ZEN,
included in the release, "Hidden Journal: First Files."
--Kellis. Copyright 1998
File D9104122.ZEN
<Monday, December 13, 1971>
Soon as I gathered all the particulars on the breaker bug, I left the
buzzworks and took the listings back to my motel room. The buzzards --
that's what they call themselves when the brass is out of earshot --
didn't like it, either my departure or the listings removal, but I
couldn't think in all that noise. Cubicle tops open in an acre of machine
tools! Of all the stupid environments for programming -- though of course
their programmers are nothing but installers and tweakers. Otherwise I'd
not be here.
But all that can go in the open diary. And will. It's what happened
in the motel that needs these curlicues.
I was back here by ten with the listings spread out on the bed.
(Note: Ask Janey to find out how large the tables are in the future.)
About 10:20 came a knock on the door. I'd forgot to put out the DO NOT
DISTURB sign. Was deep in a subroutine and a bit slow to answer. But
this was a chambermaid with her own key, and she waited about two seconds
before using it.
Surprisingly she was a young woman, not very pretty -- else why be
cleaning toilets? -- but without wrinkles and with the hint of a good
figure beneath the baggy uniform vest and short skirt. Her sallow skin
bespoke black with a lot of white ancestors. She apologized for
disturbing me. I told her to go ahead and went back to my studies.
This program controlled hundreds of safety breakers, opening them when
danger threatened, then when it passed, resetting them so quickly the
machines never faltered. Except somewhere in the flow a reset had been
omitted. I was getting close to finding it, when I realized the maid was
standing beside the bed. Her odor is what fetched me, an ammoniacal musk
of seminal fluid several minutes old: the odor of recent sex. I looked
up.
"Can I do the bed?" she asked.
My mind was still on the program logic. "Do what to the bed?"
She only stared at me. With my face turned toward her the odor was
stronger. Her words penetrated at last. "You want to make the bed?"
"I'm supposed to."
I looked around. It was covered with open listings.
"But I don't have to."
The bug had to be in the module under my hand. I backed off the bed
at the foot, holding that listing, my place marked with thumb and
forefinger, and said as I turned to the postage-stamp table, "Just a
moment. Let me clean off this paper."
I reopened the suspect on the table and turned back as she offered to
help me. I showed her how to fold them and we began stacking them in the
corner.
It's a large program and the listings, complete with cross-references,
are bulky. I guess she held them too close to her face. She stumbled
over a chair, dropped her burden and caught her fall with her hands -- but
not before her faded uniform skirt flew up in front of me, exposing a
hairy crack. Wet streaks glittered on her inner thighs. She wore neither
hose nor underpants.
She went from knees back to her feet, not forgetting to retrieve the
dropped listings. She turned, forcing down her skirt, and searched my
face, eyes wide.
"You saw me, didn't you?" she demanded.
"I saw you."
She shook her head. "Damn him, he stole my panties."
"Who did?"
"Little Al." That's what she said.
I asked, "A customer?"
"No. The bellboy."
"I didn't know this place <had> a bellboy."
"That's what the boss calls him."
"Is Little Al the one who wet your legs?"
"You ... You saw him do it?"
"Do what?"
"Wet me."
I grinned at that. "Where were you when he did it?"
"In 318." I'm in 319, just across the hall. She went on
gratuitously, "I made him pull out. That's how I got so wet. But he
snatched up my panties and ran off."
"Why didn't you chase him?"
"He ran toward the office. I was afraid ..."
"Afraid of what?"
"These skirts are too short, in case you didn't notice. You ever try
to run with no panties?"
"No, I can't say I have."
She giggled. "Yes, you can!" Her mirth choked off at another
thought. "What in the world would a bellboy want with dirty panties?"
I thought about it a moment and suggested, "It's better than sniffing
glue."
"Huh?" Her eyes grew round. "He wants to <smell> 'em?"
I opened my mouth to tell her some boys like it, but she answered her
own question. "Yeah, he must."
"Why do you say that?"
"'Cause that's how it started."
"How what started?"
"I was scouring the bathtub in 318 where somebody bled, when he came
up behind me and licked me through my panties."
"Bled? Who bled?"
She shrugged. "Brown blood. You know. That time of the month."
"My god! Surely not much!"
"Only a few streaks. But you have to use disinfectant and really
scrub. If the purser finds any trace of <that> he'll --"
"Purser?" I grinned. "Who owns this place, some old merchant
seaman?"
She shrugged again. Her shoulders were very mobile. They could rise
above her ears. "It's what they call the boss of the maids. He's very
strict." Her expression changed to interest. "I thought it meant a man
who bossed girls, you know, with purses."
"It's what they call the man who's in charge of customers on a
passenger ship."
"Oh." She looked around. "If he catches me in here ..."
"Why shouldn't you be in here? You're cleaning up."
"Yeah. You're right." She bent and stripped the bed with one long
pull on the tangled sheets that neatly separated them from the blanket:
clearly an experienced chambermaid.
She carried the balled-up sheets across the room to her cart, waiting
at the open door. She bent to a shelf under the dirty bedclothes and
withdrew neatly folded clean ones. The skirt rose almost to her cheeks.
She stood up with the fresh sheets in one hand, pushing her skirt down
with the other as she turned to face me. She grinned slyly. "Did you see
me again?"
"No. But I looked."
She chuckled. "Course you looked. You're a man, ain't you?"
She stood eyeing me. I saw a slight smile. Also an invitation?
I said, "Close the door and let's discuss it."
"Can't. The cart's out there."
"So?"
"If he catches that in front of a closed door, I'm out on my ear."
"Well, push it to an empty room, unlock the door and come on back."
Her face brightened. "Guess I could -- No, I can't. What if he
comes looking?"
"Could you have gone to check on something?"
"What?"
"Something. Maybe you ran out of clean sheets."
"That wouldn't take long."
"How about a touch of diarrhea?"
"Diarrhea?"
"Yes. It would explain your missing panties, too. Maybe you thought
you had an extra pair in your car."
"No car."
"Well, your locker. <You> have to contribute to this story, too, you
know."
Her eyes were shining. "That's real smart." She advanced to the bed,
left the clean sheets, and turned back to the door, telling me over her
shoulder, "I'll be back."
She left the door slightly open. My rising anticipation hit a snag.
What the hell was I doing, proposing to screw a chambermaid with her cunt
already buttered by the bellboy? That, I understood, was why she even
entertained the idea. The bellboy, hurrying against discovery, had been
too quick to satisfy her. Here was my opportunity to catch what the
Vietnamese didn't give me. Not that I <had> to catch anything. She would
hardly rape me. But she likes to talk about it, I thought, and I'll never
pass up the chance to hear a woman tell her own sex stories.
She was longer returning than I expected. When she came through the
door, closing it softly behind her, I saw the reason. She'd detoured by
the coke machine at the far end of the hall. She extended the bottles
toward me. "Want one?"
"Yes, thank you."
She ducked into the bathroom, came out with two glasses. "I'd've
brought coffee," she said, setting her burden on top of the open listing,
"but the coffee machine is busted."
"That's all right. I prefer something cold."
She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Take off that necktie and you'll be
cooler."
"True," I agreed. While she poured the drinks I removed tie and
shirt.
She fetched a towel and arrayed it in the chair across from mine. She
looked at me questioningly. "You don't mind if I take my skirt off, do
you?"
She didn't wait for my answer. She was already pushing it over her
hips.
But I answered anyway, "No, of course not. I'll keep you company by
taking off my pants."
"I don't want to get it wet," she explained, laying the skirt gently
on the floor. Her odor had changed. The ammonia component was absent.
"Even though you washed yourself," I guessed.
"I wanted to smell better."
"Then why the towel?"
She sat on that item and crossed her legs. "Because I run."
"Run?"
"Leak."
"Good for you." I grinned at her. She sat in her uniform vest, naked
from the waist down, a thick tuft of pubic hair visible above the V of her
crossed legs. I sat in a white T-shirt, black socks and a stainless steel
wristwatch. Both our clothes lay on the floor. Neither of us had wanted
to commit the bed.
"I can't stay too long," she said softly.
"Do you want me to finish what the bellboy started?" I asked.
"I wish you would."
"What's your name?"
"Althea."
"Althea?"
"Althea Bessie Carver: A, B, C."
"'Althea' is very pretty. It rolls off the tongue."
She smiled. "I'm glad you like it. You're Mr. Harrison Stone."
"How did you know?"
She nodded toward the desk. "Your airplane ticket."
"Right. Call me Harry. But tell me, Althea, how much you love being
licked through your panties."
"Well, better without 'em. That's why I let the bellboy take them
off."
"I understand. Then something else could roll off the tongue."
She stared at me. Her hips actually quivered and she licked her lips.
The silence stretched, her eyes, large and intent, scanning back and
forth on mine. I remembered a cautionary maneuver from my nights in
Saigon. I fetched up my britches, removed my wallet, fished out a twenty
and laid it on the listing in front of her.
She eyed it. "What's that for?"
"Fun."
"Harry, I ain't a whore."
"I know that. It's just a present. If there's any reason I shouldn't
finish the bellboy's job, take it and let's get back to work."
"Any reason?" She thought about it. "Like a disease?"
"Any reason at all."
She grinned slowly. "All right. Thank you for the present." She
picked up the twenty and laid it back down near my edge of the table. "If
there's any reason I shouldn't let you, <you> take it!"
A minute later we were on the bed. She stopped my questing fingers.
"I don't need that," she reported. "Put it in -- unless <you> need it!"
Think I've mentioned here that I'm like a rabbit at first. On second
thought, I've seen rabbits. No man could be <that> fast! I'm pretty
quick, but at least it stays up. I can keep going, sometimes even to a
second shot, though it may take a while. I tried that with Althea but her
hips stopped almost immediately.
"Didn't you just come?"
"Yeah," I admitted, still plunging.
"Then what're you doing?"
"Finishing the bellboy's job. Come on!"
"Oh. Oh!" Her arms tightened around me and she began to kiss. What
a long tongue she has! It tickled the back of my throat. It wasn't long
before she climaxed, shuddering and moaning. I would've continued. She
understood.
She kissed my throat. "Let up, Harry. I need this job."
So I got off her while thanking her, telling her how sweet she is,
adding, "Can I meet you somewhere tonight?"
"You see these?" she asked, pointing to her heaving belly, streaked
with stretch marks.
"Yes."
"That's why I need this job. That's why I can't meet you tonight."
"I'm sorry."
She brought up her hand after rubbing herself. "Been awhile, has it,
Harry?"
"Too long." In fact I didn't see Daisy this weekend. I've been too
busy even to jerk off since I tanked her up the weekend before. Sometimes
I work too hard.
I didn't want to think about Daisy just then. I asked, "You didn't
marry him, did you, Althea?"
"Who?"
"The one who left that in you."
"He was a bum, Harry."
"Are you the regular maid here?"
"Regular?" She grinned, pulling a fresh sheet over our puddle in the
bed. "I don't regularly do what we just did, no."
"I mean, will you or someone else be doing this room every day?"
"This wing is my territory, unless I get sick." She grinned archly.
"You going to be here tomorrow, Harry?"
"Most probably."
"Well, then, we can do it tomorrow."
I nodded. "I love that about you, Althea."
"What's that?"
"Your directness. You say what's on your mind. No pretense."
She cocked an eyebrow at me. "You love it so long as it's what you
want to hear."
"Even if it wasn't, I believe you'd say what you think."
"Maybe so. What I think is that I'd like to do you tomorrow."
"I think that's mutual. I'll be here. Will you take my present?"
She eyed it. Clearly she wanted it, but she answered, "No, Harry, but
thank you just the same."
"Why not, Althea? You need it, don't you? Your baby needs it."
"Don't <say> that!" Her initial glare softened. "I won't take it,
Harry, because of you."
"Me?"
She had gathered up her supplies in her arms. She stood at the door
for a last glance. "I don't want you to remember me that way."
She popped out the door before I could think of a response. White,
black or orange, she is certainly one of the most generous women I ever
knew.
Within two hours of her departure I found the bug and returned to the
factory. Buzzano Machine Tools has its fix installed and running
successfully. My flight is now scheduled for 15:00 tomorrow, well after
Althea's visit at ten.
<Sunday, December 19, 1971>
Althea surprised me Tuesday morning. She slipped into my room at 6:20
with coffee and egg sandwiches, put them on the table, took off her
clothes and crawled into my bed. I woke up with my dick in her mouth,
jerking and spurting.
I recommend it. No alarm clock, with or without music, can touch it
as an eye-opener, full bladder and all. Althea was tickled at her coup,
making me tell her again and again how surprised, pleased, ecstatic she'd
made me. In fact only two other mouths have done as much: Daisy's and
her niece's, whose name I can't recall just now.
But that was just the beginning. Althea didn't have to punch the
timeclock until 09:00. Needless to say, I didn't complain about the
coffee. We ate, drank, screwed in two positions more satisfactory for
her, finally ending in each other's arms for a long chat. She was born in
this city 28 years ago and has never left it in her life. She is one of
eight children, all of whom grew to adulthood without the advice and
protection of a father. She has three children of her own, the oldest age
ten, but all of them have the same father, she says, who even comes around
once in awhile to make the next. The only work she can get is maid
service, either in motels or private homes, though the newly lengthened
arm of FICA is destroying the latter opportunities because individuals
won't fill out the government forms. Despite having a full-throated
singing voice, she was told baldly by a trumpeter who called on her mother
that she was too ugly to make it as a singer -- or even a prostitute.
"That son of a bitch!" I said with feeling. "Why would he tell you
such a lie as that?"
"Was it a lie, Harry?"
"I haven't heard you sing, but your speaking voice is certainly
musical. As to the latter, I've known some truly ugly whores. In that
profession looks only get a customer the first time. A willing, loving,
caring attitude brings them back -- and you've got that in abundance."
"Well, thanks, but now it's too late for both."
I started to contradict her but she did it for me. With a giggle she
said, "It's not too late for fun. Let's do it again."
"Never too late for that."
"I could do it with you a million times."
"That's a real compliment, my sweet. Shall we try Number Five?"
Again she wouldn't take a present. When she left, I got on the phone,
arranged an earlier flight and checked out of the motel at 09:45, before
her cart could reach this room. My last act here was to pin a fifty to
the tousled pillow under a note that read, "For Althea / Thanks a
million!"
I should also record one other snippet of our conversation. I asked,
more curious than concerned, my head resting between her ample breasts,
"You've had three, Althea. What if this makes number four?"
"Worried, Harry?"
"No. It's too late to worry. But I take responsibility for what I
do."
"I believe you, Harry. Could you marry a woman with three children?"
"A woman generous as you? Certainly."
She chuckled slightly. "Too generous, I reckon. But you don't have
to worry, Harry."
"The pill?"
"Not the pill. The fourth is already in there."
"Are you sure?"
"I've missed twice. That's only happened three times before."
Was she lying?
The note to her was scribbled on the back of my business card. Yes, I
know. But my heart is in my dick. That's just the way it is.
* * * *
Despite having avoided her for two weeks, I stayed away from Daisy
until this afternoon. From Monday to Sunday is six days. Gonorrhea has
an incubation period short as that. Syphilis can have one that short,
else it delays for years. I woke up this morning and urinated freely,
feeling only relief -- and a certain anticipation.
Daisy was very passionate. I wish I'd been awake when Althea sucked
me, the better to compare her mouth to Daisy's. Change that: I wish I
had made Althea do it again. Opportunity lost. But Althea hadn't known
to open at the first squirt. Her continuing suction is what woke me up.
Every added experience strengthens my appreciation of Daisy's skill -- and
that of her family as represented by the niece. Agnes? (I look back in
here; yes, Agnes.)
Lying together in the tangle of covers on Daisy's bed, recovering with
heavy breaths, she asked, "Who was she?"
I may have tensed just the slightest. What had given me away? Althea
had worn no lipstick. Some female odor? After five days?
Daisy raised up on an elbow and stared into my eyes. "Anyone I know?
Huh! I don't know anyone in that town, do I?"
"Now, Daisy, whatever makes you think I'd be unfaithful?"
"You're a man, aren't you?"
I couldn't help starting. Allowing for the difference in grammar,
Althea had said exactly the same words!
"What's the matter, Harry? You <are> a man! I'll vouch for that."
As she spoke her hand grasped the proof of it. She bent over my body.
"I'll ask him. Been in another twat, have you, hmmm? Did it milk you
well as I?"
Her fingers peeled me. She studied the results minutely. I don't
think I've actually ever lied to Daisy, but if she persisted ...
"Harry, how do you feel about such things? I make business trips,
too, you know."
"Ah ... yes."
Her eyes sparkled in the light from the bedside table. "Suppose <I>
said, 'whatever makes you think I'd be unfaithful?'"
"I'd ... tell you whatever made me think so."
She thought about it, her hand working my foreskin absently. "Harry,
in your opinion does infidelity between lovers require them to renounce
each other?"
"Most people think so. They think sex gives them ownership of the
other's body."
She nodded. "That's true. But I'm asking you: what do <you> think?"
"Well, I ... Daisy, that's a very hard question."
"Don't you have an opinion?"
"Of course I have an opinion. When did you ever find me without one?"
"Well, then?"
"The problem is, I don't know how telling you would affect your
opinion of me. I couldn't stand to lose you!"
She nodded slowly. "I think I can understand that. I'd hate to lose
you, too." She took a breath. "Then try this one: what if I asked you
in advance for permission to have sex with someone else?"
I made some kind of choking noise that is better left unspelled. When
I was quiet she added softly, "I could stand either answer to that one."
Was she playing a game? That question trembled on my lips but another
came out. "What if I wanted to watch?"
She grunted. Her eyes widened. "I can't believe you asked me that!"
In for a penny, in for a pound. "What if I wanted to take pictures of
it?" Her eyes got wider. "And direct the show? With another woman in
it?"
"Harry! You're kidding, aren't you?"
"The same as you, my dear."
"But --" She fell silent, staring. Slowly her face softened. She
took a deep breath. "Then I'll tell you. I think infidelity, done
properly -- that is, done discretely with healthy partners -- would only
strengthen the bonds between lovers because it would teach them more ways
to please each other."
I nodded. "Yes, I've heard that argument before. It sounds good, but
it doesn't counter the man's argument against it."
"What's that?"
I chuckled grimly. "It's very macho. It says the man's infidelity
doesn't matter whereas the woman's may be fatal. It runs as follows: A
woman is in some sense like a fine violin whose passion depends on the
skill of the player. Unlike a violin, however, she remembers. She may
refuse to be played by the lesser man, once a virtuoso has handled her.
That's the man's risk when his woman plays elsewhere: she may find a
better one."
"My god! Men actually fear this?"
"Of course."
"Despite all their swaggering confidence, they fear repudiation if
their women try another man?"
"Daisy, no matter how great he is, every man knows that somewhere
there's a greater."
She laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "Somewhere? It's worse
than that, isn't it? You're afraid she might prefer the next man over!"
"Well, dear, women are so hard to predict in such matters. And her
opinion is so important to him. Men depend upon women emotionally far
more than the reverse."
"What? That may be the most ridiculous thing I ever heard you say."
"It's not ridiculous at all," I retorted with dignity.
She shook her head impatiently. "And it's beside the point. Where's
your sense of adventure?"
"I've got one," I protested. "You want to explore the Amazon?"
"I want to explore Daisy and Harry."
I took a breath. "With Jack and Jill?"
She snorted, got out of bed and picked up the newspaper's opinion
section. On that unsatisfactory note our love play ended for the
afternoon. Over supper -- which she cooked: she's getting better -- we
discussed her recognition problem at Jansen while I told her about the new
girl at NSI, the artless one whose blouse keeps falling off her shoulder.
"Artless!" she repeated sarcastically. No further mention of infidelity,
past, present or future, but she obviously has it on her mind. She has a
trip on for London, of all places, just after the first of the year. It
might begin a lengthy separation. If that happens I'll grit my teeth and
try not to imagine the superhung stud whose shoulders her sweet calves
decorate.
In fact I don't care if another man plugs her -- providing of course
that she wants it and enjoys it. But I cannot <bear> the slightest
thought of losing access myself to that very loving mouth, silken skin,
sweetly shaped torso, superb mammaries, and all the rest! That thought,
unexorcised, could drive me crazy.
I can think of only one way to banish such images from the mind. It
involves hanging different sweet heels over my own shoulders. But will
they be even half so satisfying?
Good god, I haven't bought her Christmas present yet!
--
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