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Subject: {Kellis} "Hidden Journal: Florrie" ( MF) [2/2]
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Hidden Journal: More Florrie
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 D9104142.ZEN
<Monday, May 15, 1972>
I awoke to a knock on my bedroom door and the odor of frying bacon.
At my acknowledgment Florrie opened the door in the housecoat from last
night, still barefooted but hair up in the ponytail. She said, "Breakfast
is ready."
"Give me a minute."
She nodded and gently closed the door. Having thrown a robe over my
hairy nakedness, I appeared in the kitchen to find the table set with two
plates, silverware, napkins, condiment shakers, my lone sugar bowl,
tumblers of orange juice and coffee cups as yet empty of coffee. She was
just ladling sunny side eggs from a frying pan onto the plates. A rasher
of bacon sizzled beside a bowl of steaming hash browns.
"Good god!" I exclaimed in amazement. I cannot recall breakfast ever
being cooked in this kitchen during my tenancy. As I've mentioned in the
open diary, I seldom eat breakfast at all.
She grinned at me. "Surprised?"
"You bet I am! Where'd you find the bacon and eggs?"
"I went for a walk."
The May sun was shining between the houses across the street. The
corner market had been open 45 minutes.
"How much do I owe you?"
"Huh! Did you forget I'm out of money?"
"Then who did you flash?"
She looked puzzled but only for a moment. "Flash!" She actually
laughed. "I found a ten dollar bill in the box marked 'sugar.' And I put
on my jeans first. Did you think I went like this? I wouldn't show
myself to another man, Harry."
Ironic! I recalled Daisy slipping the ten in the sugar box to remind
me it needed refilling when she cooked a pie here last month.
"I'll flash you," she announced, jerking the housecoat open for a
second before closing it up again. I had a peripheral glimpse of the
remembered lushness, but her smile of little-girl delight was so
attractive my eyes failed to scan.
"Thank you. You mean you came back and took the jeans off?"
"Bacon splatters so. This old housecoat is ruined anyway." She
blushed slightly and looked down. "Besides, I wanted to remind you." Her
eyes rose anxiously. "You <did> like me last night, didn't you, Harry?"
"Oh, yes, Florrie. And I intend to make you like <me>!"
Her eyebrows climbed up her forehead. "Like <you>? Oh, god, Harry!
I'll do <anything> for you!"
"Is that the same thing?"
She looked puzzled. "Isn't it?"
"We'll see." I regarded the eggs. "Can you cook?"
"As you said, the proof is in the pudding."
I sat down. She immediately advanced with my coffee pot, bought for
Daisy to use, steam rising from its spout. "Do you like cream and sugar?"
she asked.
I put my hand over the cup. "None for me, Florrie."
"None?" Her eyes went wide.
"I can't stand the taste of coffee." I got up, took a spare glass
from the shelf and a coke from the back of the refrigerator. "This is my
choice in caffeine," I said to her.
"I would've got it," she murmured, abashed, pouring coffee in her own
cup.
In half a minute I knew she had cooked marvelously. "What did you put
in the eggs?" I asked around the second mouthful.
"Some of your spices. Did it work?"
"It's delicious, Florrie. Sit down and try it yourself."
In her seat she observed, "That's why you had so little coffee. I'm
glad I didn't buy more."
"We'll buy more. For you."
When we had cleaned the plates, I rubbed my belly through the open
robe and asked, "Where'd you learn to cook so well?"
"In that Indiana commune I mentioned." She grinned sheepishly.
"That's where I put on most of this weight."
"I meant to ask you about that. You don't look three months
pregnant."
"Don't I?"
"Well, I didn't see you three months ago, but your belly doesn't look
out of proportion."
"It's because I'm fat."
"Say 'plump.'"
"Because I'm plump, then. The clinic says I am. My last period was
in January."
"January? Hmm. Wouldn't that make four months?"
"Yes. I'm missing the fourth one right now."
I nodded. "Florrie, anyone who can cook, let alone cook like a French
chef, can get a job."
"I know." Her whole face sagged. "Do you want me to help pay the
rent?"
"The rent? Huh! D'you mean to say, after fixing a meal like this,
that you don't enjoy cooking?"
"I hate it anywhere else." She bit her bottom lip.
"Why, Florrie? It doesn't make sense." I gestured at our leavings.
"I hate to do personal things, Harry" -- her ready blush appeared --
"except for my man."
"I see. Can you think of cooking as just a kind of chemistry? In
fact that's all it is, you know."
She laughed indulgently but cocked an eyebrow. "Can you make good
French fries, Harry?"
"Who, me?" I remembered an incident in high-school chemistry. "I
can't melt sugar without setting it afire."
"Then why do you call it 'just chemistry.' It's physics, too, and
careful measurement and scheduling and a lot of things. But in the end
it's for people to eat. It's personal service, Harry."
"'Physics, too,'" I repeated. "What kind of commune was that in
Indiana?"
"I told you: free love. But they had a good library."
"Then you <have> learned more than just what pleases a man!"
"Not really. Cooking pleases him best."
An interesting point, considering what last night revealed about her
preferences. I started to suggest that in fact it wasn't true before
realizing that I could hardly speak for all men. I knew only that it
wasn't true for me. I can appreciate good food, such as this, but it
cloys quickly and the satiation can take days to dissipate. Lechery, on
the other hand, is renewable in hours, often in minutes.
She asked, "Harry, do you clean up?"
"Clean up?"
She waved. "This place."
"No. A maid comes every Friday."
"She's not been doing a good job for you."
"Hasn't she?"
"Especially on the bathroom."
I shrugged. "No one has used the guest bathroom in months."
"Still she ought to dust it."
From the unbacked housecoat I surmised an expectation of further
frolic in her bed. If so I disappointed her, though she concealed it
well. I saw only a slight widening of the eyes when I stood up,
complimented her for the tasty breakfast and told her I was getting
dressed.
After my ablutions I called her into the bedroom while clothing
myself. "Florrie, my business card is on the telephone stand. It has my
extension and the lab extension at work. If you need me don't hesitate to
call."
She stood near the door in her housecoat, watching me tie the necktie.
"I can do that," she announced.
"You know the difference between a full and a half Windsor, do you?"
"Huh?"
"And a four-in-hand?"
"Those are knots?"
"For neckties."
"No." She sounded subdued. "I never knew a man who wore one to
work." Eagerness returned. "But I can learn."
"You don't need it, Florrie. Did you understand about calling me?"
"Yes. When will you get home?"
For the first time in years that question was important to someone
besides myself. It was an odd feeling. I said, "About six. If not I'll
call you."
She waited beside the front doorway, leaning forward on the balls of
her feet, as I approached with my briefcase. So of course I paused to
kiss her. Her hands cradled my neck as she pulled our lips together. She
tasted of toothpaste despite her hearty breakfast. Again I smelled
distantly cooking meat. This woman's natural odor could make a man
hungry, though not necessarily for her. Did that contribute to her belief
in the superior gratification of good food?
When I raised my head she said tentatively, "Harry ..."
"What?"
She sighed, large pale eyes fixed on mine. "Have a nice day."
I smiled politely. Again she reminded me of a doting daughter, as she
had last night in far less appropriate circumstances.
* * * *
The signals analysis system is in the last phase of alpha test, the
deadline is approaching fast and therefore the bugs are the ones farthest
under the rock. According to military test rules, I, the coder, can't
look over the testers' shoulders -- how stupid! Do they think testers can
record all the subtleties of a bug's emergence? -- so when the testers
came on duty at 17:00 I had to go. I was home at 17:45. I had totally
forgotten Florrie until I opened my front door.
There she stood in the same housecoat, barefooted, hair in a ponytail.
But now her face was very pretty: eyebrows lined, eyelashes brushed,
lipstick and rouge lightly applied, shineless nose, even a touch of
mascara -- and a smile of welcome.
This time she was not holding the housecoat closed. I set down my
briefcase, slipped my hands into the garment under her arms and around her
back, and squeezed her against me, covering her lips with my own. Her
lips parted and her eyes closed. The skin of her back was velvet. I
smelled soap with an overlay of cologne.
"What a great surprise!" I exclaimed when we broke.
She returned my smile. "I took a bath."
"I can tell."
She hesitated, beginning to blush. Her eyes fell. "If you wanted to
...
I'd be ready."
"Aren't you hungry?" I asked.
"I can wait."
"Well, I'm not sure <I> can! After that big breakfast I kept
postponing lunch till finally the cafeteria closed."
"You've had no lunch?"
"No. How fast can you get dressed?"
"I have a pizza ready to go in the oven and the oven's hot. I can
serve it in twelve minutes."
"A pizza! Where'd you get it?"
"It's my recipe. Five different cheeses. Oh! You mean -- I spent
the rest of the ten. Except for 37 cents."
I chuckled slightly. "Florrie, what will you do next?"
She turned slightly sideways in my arms, pushing a large nipple into
my palm. Her eyes danced. "How's that?"
Of course I squeezed it, keeping in mind that this girl had exhibited
no sign whatsoever of pleasure in our first and only sexual encounter.
But she grinned hugely when I ostentatiously licked my lips.
"Let me go put the pizza in," she requested. "Then I'll help you
undress."
I shook my head, releasing her. "You don't need to do that, Florrie."
But I said it to her back.
The den looked different somehow as I passed through on the way to my
bedroom. The newspapers I'd left on the floor, including the double copy,
less science fold-in, of yesterday, were stacked neatly on the bar. The
magazines that had lain under them were missing, presumably returned to
the rack. The hardback copy of <Ringworld> I'd left open, face down, on
the end table was still there but closed with a bookmark protruding from
its pages. Most remarkably the accent cushions Daisy threw at me a month
ago, which had vanished behind the couch, were restored in their rightful
spots at either end.
I braced myself before entering the bedroom. Indeed it was
unrecognizable. The bed, never made except by the maid on Friday, was
made neatly with my lone alternate bedspread, the one that matched the
curtains. Friday, Saturday and Sunday's clothing was missing from the
floor. The mixture of Daisy's bottles, my previous pocket change,
business cards and old photographs were geometrically aligned atop dresser
and chest of drawers. The headboard bookshelf was neatly stacked, again
the previously open books closed and bookmarked. The closets were closed.
I opened one. The clothing was ordered longest items to the left,
shortest on the right. The coat hangers were untangled. The military had
taught me to align them the same way, hooks pointing inward, presumably so
that clothing could be snatched up with one sweep of the hand. Florrie
seemed to have a different objective; all the hooks pointed out. To keep
a tornado from sucking them away?
The carpet seemed to be a shade lighter. The stain of old spilled
beer that had marred it near the door was gone. I knelt and felt of it;
it was damp. Had she even scrubbed the carpet?
I looked into my adjoining bathroom. It has never been so spotless.
Daisy's bottles were ordered, tall and slim to short and fat, on one side
of the sink. My utensil holder faced them on the other side, now actually
holding utensils: toothbrush, comb and razor. The mirror reflected my
wondering gaze without a blot, the bathtub gleamed, a box of tissues stood
ready to be plucked atop the toilet, and an extra roll of paper waited
beside it.
Florrie approached through the open doors behind me. As she drew near
I pointed to the dangling end of the toilet paper, formed into an
isosceles triangle. "Were you ever a maid in a motel, Florrie?"
"No. But I like that folding. It shows no one has used it since it
was cleaned."
I grunted. "Shows no <woman> has used it, maybe."
"I mean, shows no one has sat on the toilet. Don't you want to take
off your tie, Harry?"
I turned to face her. She reached for my briefcase, still dangling
from my hand. I let her have it.
"Don't you want this in your office?" she asked over her shoulder,
returning to the bedroom. She set it at the foot of the bed and faced me.
"I'll take it in there. Come on. I'll put your clothes away."
"Florrie, have you spent the day cleaning this apartment?"
"Oh, no. I'm fast when I get started."
"You even scrubbed the carpet in there."
"Just the bedroom. But it was filthy."
"With what?"
"A scrub brush. I found your maid's supplies in the front closet."
"On hands and knees?"
"It only took an hour or so, Harry, nothing to it. I love to care for
nice things. And you have nice things."
Nice? I looked around and nodded. "Nicer now than this morning."
As I undressed she took the outer clothing from me, emptied my pockets
onto the dresser and hung jacket and pants on the same hanger. She folded
the white shirt and deposited it in a yellow clothes basket in the same
closet. I continued with T-shirts and shorts, which she took without
remark and transferred to the same basket. While I sat down on the bed to
remove my socks, she took a robe from the closet and a pair of slippers
I'd worn once or twice. She arrayed the slippers before me and held the
robe open when I arose.
"Thank you," I said. "What about your pizza?"
"It's not ready."
"How do you know?"
"The bell hasn't rung." I'd forgot my oven had a timer.
"Florrie, this is very nice, a pleasant way to get comfortable, but
it's totally unnecessary."
"But isn't it easier than doing it yourself?" she asked with an
expression of concern. "And isn't it neater?"
She had a point. Had I been alone, all would now be on the floor.
But I normally would've removed only jacket and tie. Still ...
"I don't want you to think you have to do this every day."
"Okay," she said, tossing her head. "Would you rather have beer or
coke?"
"There's beer left?"
"I found six bottles in the pantry this morning. They should be cold
by now."
"God knows how long they've been there." I remarked.
The kitchen, as I was coming to expect, was immaculate though she had
apparently built a pizza from scratch: no mixing bowl or stirring spoon
was evident. The sink was empty. The table was already set, curiously
with four plates though only two knives and forks. She had even found two
cloth napkins. I dimly remembered buying four when I moved in here.
The bell went off and was silenced. A large pizza came bubbling and
steaming from the oven, was sliced into wedges and distributed among all
four plates, solving the mystery of the extra two. My mouth watered at
the aroma.
She bade me sit while she decanted beer into pilsener glasses, again
that I'd forgotten I had. I think "decanted" is the word for such gentle
pouring. She raised no head in either glass. I sipped it and verified
that beer keeps very well in a cool, dark place.
I raised my glass. "Here's to a marvelous cook and housekeeper."
She smiled while I took a swallow, then raised her own. "And here's
to a man who's worth every bit of it."
Of course I smiled, too, as she swallowed. She added, "Thank you,
Harry. I wondered if you really noticed."
"Oh, yes: den, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. I haven't made it to the
other rooms yet. What did you do in my office?"
"Just straightened it a little, and dusted."
"Florrie, I hope you didn't fool with those flowchart sheets. That's
a problem I'm working on."
"I straightened them, that's all. They're in the same order."
"I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but don't do the office
again unless I'm in there."
She sighed. "All right, Harry. I'm sorry. It was so dusty. I guess
you'd rather I stayed out of your safe, too."
"My safe!"
"Yes. The nail had pulled loose on the picture it's behind. I found
it when I dusted."
"Is the picture down?"
"Oh, no. I put in a larger nail."
"Thank you. But don't worry. You can't get in the safe."
Her eyes fell. "Harry ..."
"What?"
She blushed. "I straightened it up, too."
"You what?"
Her eyes rose to mine anxiously. "And I think you ought to know,
you've got more cash in it than your ledger claims."
"I do? How much more?"
"Your ledger claims $12,440 but you actually have $15,630."
She was probably correct; I'd not recorded the proceeds of the last
stock sale. Through my shock I demanded, "<How> did you get in it,
Florrie? Don't tell me I left it open."
"No, you didn't leave it open. But you or somebody wrote the
combination on the back of the old folks' picture on your desk. Are they
your parents?"
I nodded dumbly. Good god!
"The jewels are pretty," she observed, cutting the tip off a pizza
slice. "But some of those yellow coins are tarnished, Harry. I thought
of polishing them but decided I should ask first. I'm surprised. I
didn't think gold would tarnish."
She tucked the bit of pizza into her mouth, chewed briefly and
announced around it, "It's cool enough now, if you want to try it."
Did she know that private ownership of gold is illegal? A collection
of coins is allowed, but only to a registered hobbyist, which I am not.
And the stain on that gold is blood, not tarnish. I decided to say
nothing about it. If she knew I was breaking the law, why would she even
mention it?
She noticed my hesitation and frowned. "Harry, I'm not such a rube
that I don't know to stay out of safes. I'm sorry. I don't know why I
was so curious. That's not true. The better I know my man, the better I
can help him. But I won't go in it again."
The blood is Artie's, of course. Sentiment is one thing, but that
blood will surely get me in trouble yet. I said, "Florrie, I want you to
go in it one more time. I want you to take out those coins and scrub them
thoroughly."
Her eyes widened. "Will brass polish work?"
"Soap and water will work. You're right. Gold doesn't tarnish. That
stain is something else."
"I'll do it tomorrow," she promised, taking another large cut of
pizza.
I followed her example. The food was delicious, its aroma filling my
head as only good pizza can. But I didn't appreciate it as well as I
might have. What to do about this? Best to ignore it?
We ate in silence for a few minutes until she announced, "My father
called here today."
"I'm glad to hear it. I gave him the number last night. How did it
go?"
She studied me. "Why'd you call him?"
I returned her gaze levelly. "My father threw me out, too."
"He did?"
"A bit younger than you. For stealing beer in a supermarket."
She stared at me. "What did you do?"
"Learned how much I needed him. But fathers can learn, too, Florrie.
What did yours say?"
"He wants me to come home."
"Good. What did you tell him?"
"That I'd think about it."
"All right. Make sure you do."
"I will. They ... they apologized, Harry. He put Mom on the
extension. They were both crying."
"I don't remember if you told me: do you have brothers or sisters?"
"I'm an only child. They wanted to know what happened to my baby."
Her face was pensive. She took another pizza slice.
I asked, "Did you tell them you have another coming?"
"No, but I thought of it. They actually sounded disappointed that I
had aborted the first one."
"Maybe they'd like to be grandparents."
She nodded. "I think they would."
"Well, Florrie, I hope you're as glad about this as you ought to be.
You finally have a safety net under you."
She smiled slightly. "Maybe I am. Harry, thanks for calling them.
You're an unusual man."
I grinned. "You ain't seen nothing yet, Babe."
She shook her head. "I've seen a lot. That's how I know you're so
unusual."
We ate the whole pizza together; nothing is thin about this girl's
appetite, either. I sat and watched her clean up afterwards. Her
efficiency was remarkable. I saw no waste motion. In fifteen minutes she
had everything washed, dried and put in its proper place, with only the
cloth napkins saved for the clothes hamper. Finally she brought scrub
brush, soap solution and dishtowel to the table itself. I raised my
elbows while she attacked the Formica top.
"What're you doing, Florrie?"
She answered while scrubbing, "Table tops get very dirty. They can
harbor more germs than any part of the kitchen."
One of my aunts had been notorious for washing money before she would
handle it. Was Florrie that kind? I understood that Aunt Nettie had been
awfully hard to live with.
The room Florrie had shared with Marshall, while lined in faded
wallpaper, veneer peeling from the furniture, had been spotlessly clean --
aside from the large greasy spot that was Marshall himself. I was
beginning to understand that Florrie did not tolerate dirt very well -- in
her surroundings, at least, though her man might get away with it. I
wanted to find out what else she considered dirt.
She put her cleaning tools away then came and stood before me. "Are
you going to work in your office tonight?"
"I don't think so." I took the edges of the housecoat and opened them
slowly. She let her arms dangle at her sides while I studied her. The
ready blush appeared on face and shoulders. "Unless you call this work."
"Huh! Work!"
"But it is for you, isn't it, Florrie?"
"Work?" she repeated in puzzlement.
"To you it's just something that men have to do, isn't it?" My hand
had slipped between her thighs. I stroked the sweet flesh, allowing the
web between thumb and forefinger to impact her tiny clitoris gently.
"It's their nature," she noted, watching me.
"It's also yours, Florrie."
"I know. It's nature's way to make babies. But we don't have to
worry about that just now."
"Have you never gotten pleasure from this?"
"A few times I've thought if they'd just keep on ..."
"What would've happened?"
"Other girls have told me that it's ... better than anything. I don't
know. It's ... like being scared, a little."
"Like being scared?"
"Sort of the same feeling, in your chest and your stomach."
"Hmm. I think that's just the beginning of it."
"Maybe. It's as far as I ever got."
I pushed back my chair and patted the table edge in front of me. "Sit
here."
Her eyebrows rose. "Sit on the table?"
I had to grin. "I didn't ask you to spit on God, Florrie."
"What god!" With obvious reluctance she lowered her buttocks onto the
table edge, the robe between her and the Formica.
Excuse me Mr. Goldwater, but I couldn't resist. "Atheism in the
kitchen is no vice," I intoned solemnly as my face parted her thighs.
"What do you --" She interrupted herself as her hand on my forehead
stopped me. "Harry, that's dirty."
"<You> dirty, Florrie? Don't be ridiculous!"
I removed her hand with mine.
She sighed, almost a groan. "You'll <hate> me, Harry!"
"Why in the world would I do that?" I asked, my breath disturbing the
hair.
She squirmed just the slightest. "You will. I know it."
My tongue spread the lips and stroked upward, doing its best to
imitate a feather.
"It's where I ... where ..." She shuddered. "Oh, god, Harry!"
I realized I should've shaved. But I was committed now and she had
ceased to protest. I tried to keep my chin away from her as I stroked in
circles around the clitoris. When I touched it again, it had grown to the
size of a pea, the first encouraging sign. I let the pressure on it
increase but not too much. Daisy had warned me about the extreme
sensitivity of the seldom touched organ, and if Florrie had told the
truth, this one would likely take the left-alone prize.
I continued the same pattern: circles for many seconds, then a few
flicks on the tip of the button. Very gradually I began to give it more
attention, increasing duration first then pressure. She began to twitch,
tiny random jerks of her hips. Her thighs closed on my head then suddenly
parted in belated awareness. I put my arms under her legs, urging them
onto my shoulders. Her angle of presentation changed as she leaned back,
supporting herself on extended hands. I was aware of a compelling aroma,
a mixture of the seashore and hot piney woods.
My tongue was tiring. I began to concentrate on the clitoris with
brief excursions across the urethra to rest my tongue. Fluttering thighs
muffled my ears; nevertheless I could hear her gasp for breath,
synchronized with the twitching that had progressed from hips to belly.
Then my tongue regained its strength because I knew she was about to
<come>, by god! Or by Harry.
It lashed her mercilessly. Her gasps became shrieks as her heels
drummed on my back. She struggled erect, wailing like a siren, enclosed
my head in both hands and forced it away from her before falling backward
onto the table, which her head struck with a dull thump.
Her hands gripped the table sides as her hips writhed. I wiped my
mouth on my robe and rose up carefully, letting her thighs slide down my
chest but retaining her ankles on my shoulders. The sopping vagina was
just the right height. Perhaps because my dick had cooled, hanging out of
an open robe, she felt hot as a furnace inside. What a difference! Dry
and tight last night was now wet and loose. She cried out as the head
bumped past the cervix. In this position a woman gets everything a man
has to give.
Every slow, long thrust produced a soprano cry. I could feel her
sphincters squeezing and was pleasantly surprised to endure even a dozen
strokes. As I flooded her, shuddering at maximum penetration, she
screamed, crossing and uncrossing her legs on my chest. Short as it was,
god, what a fuck!
I stood quietly, remaining in her, until she had mostly calmed. Her
hands were covering her face. Backing away I took one of them and pulled
her up off the table and onto her feet. Her face was red and tears were
streaming from her closed eyes.
I took her in my arms and held her wet cheek against mine with a hand
behind her head. "What's the matter, Florrie?"
Her arms went around my neck but she buried her face silently in the
hollow of my shoulder. I could feel her uneven breathing. Indeed she was
bawling, though silently.
What the hell? All I could imagine was that I had come too soon, the
story of my life. Holding tight to her, I guided her out of the kitchen
and into her bedroom. I knew we'd soil the bedspread, stretched tight in
geometric perfection, but after all it was my property.
I took her under the knees and though I'll admit here it was a bit of
a strain, I lifted her onto the bed, threw off my robe, and let myself
gently down upon her. As I believe I've mentioned, my dick is hard to
defeat. It was still game. Back into the fray it went.
Her hips began to move immediately. Her legs came up and enwrapped my
hips. And she continued to come, as indicated by grunts, groans,
delirious moans and vaginal clipping. I've hardly ever known so
passionate a display so long enduring, as if all the orgasms she'd been
denied were visiting her at once, one after the other. God, it was great
to know <I> was the instrument that drove her to these heights!
Eventually I began to feel concern. There was enough light in the
room to see that her entire body, even the knees raised nearly to my
shoulders, had reddened in a general flush. She was gasping for breath in
time with my fast thrusts and I realized that she was trying to speak. I
listened closely and heard, "If ... you ... don't ... stop ... you'll ...
kill ... me!"
But my second was finally rising. I didn't stop until it was empty.
She felt even that weak one. The cervix must be as sensitive to
ejaculation as the clitoris to a breath. Or perhaps it is the sudden
increase in moisture. She screamed again, even louder than the first
time, and suddenly relaxed entirely. Her clenched arms and legs fell away
from me. I might've thought her dead, extremities limp, eyes closed, if a
dead person could pant for breath.
Not that my own breath was so easy. I lay beside her, rubbing her
heaving chest but avoiding the still-puckered nipples. After a bit she
raised up, threw the robe off her shoulders and arms and lay back down
with her back to me.
"You don't have to rub me," she said, her voice muffled by the tangled
bedclothes. "I'm so hot and sweaty."
Indeed her meaty odor was making me hungry again. I said, "<I> made
you hot and sweaty. I love that."
"Don't play games, Harry. I know you hate me."
I raised up to look at her face. Her eyes were closed. "Hate you,
Florrie? Why in the world would you say that?"
"I know how it is when somebody comes in your mouth."
I almost laughed. I said, "When did a woman come in your mouth?"
That got her attention. She turned slightly to look at me. "A
woman?"
"A woman came in my mouth just now and believe me, Florrie, it was
about as far from hateful as you can get."
"It was?"
"Why'd you think I would hate it?" I suspected her reason but wanted
to hear her say it.
She grunted. "You think I'm a fool, I guess. Didn't it ... stink?"
Her eyes searched mine.
I chuckled. She had managed to surprise me again. I'd expected some
reference to male emission, of course.
"You don't stink, Florrie. Ever. Anywhere."
"Yes, I do." I saw a tiny smile. "But I'm glad you don't think so."
She got tiredly out of bed. Her body gleamed, a stirring sight. She
turned to look at me. "I could do that for you, too," she suggested.
"What?"
"Make you come in my mouth."
"But you don't like it, do you?"
She stood quietly for several seconds, looking at my remaining
half-erection. "In the commune when they had too many pregnancies, they
stopped allowing ... regular sex."
"In a free love commune? Ha! Babies are what you expect."
"Not if men come in the mouth or ... rectum."
"And you didn't care for that, am I right?"
"I never did the mouth. The other hurts."
"It doesn't have to. I don't understand, Florrie."
Her eyebrows rose. "You don't? Well, it hurt <me>!"
"No. I mean, didn't you just offer to take me in your mouth?"
She took a breath. "Yes."
"Why, if you hate it so?"
"I ... owe you."
"No, Florrie." I stood up beside her and put my arm around her back.
"Never feel that way about it. Sex between you and me is for one reason
only: fun -- my fun, yes, but also your fun, just as much."
Her eyes searched my face. "Then what we just did ..."
"Was wonderful, Florrie. I can't believe you don't agree."
"It was wonderful."
"Can't you say that with a little more enthusiasm?"
"It's the way you always want it?"
"Of course."
Her eyes fell. "It s-scared me, Harry."
"<Scared> you?"
She sighed. "I ... never felt anything like it. I was just ... just
a puppet and you were pulling all my strings."
"'Pulling all your strings,'" I repeated. "That's cute."
The look on her face was strange. It reminded me of a fawn I once saw
in my headlights. She stepped away from my arm. "I need a shower,
Harry."
"Not really." I hated to let her go.
"Yes, I do. May I?"
I had finally to acquiesce. So I took my robe and went to my office.
After an hour of scribbling these curlicues, long after her shower had
ceased to run, I went to check on her. She was in bed, apparently asleep,
though it was only nine o'clock.
I am disappointed, of course, that her initiation into the joy of sex,
magnificent in every way, should only have put her to sleep. What did I
expect, a parade? The answer, I guess, is some show of gratitude. "You
were pulling all my strings." Is that all I get?
Though it's actually quite an admission, one I never heard before. I
guess I can live with it. For now.
<Tuesday, May 16, 1972>
Florrie woke me again this morning with breakfast: ham and cheese
omelets, by gum! And past the gums is where they went. Delicious! This
could become a very pleasant habit.
When she bent to fill my plate, I noticed a brassiere. So I pulled
open one side of her housecoat. Panties. I said nothing, of course, but
I'll admit my disappointment. She seemed subdued, saying little. Again I
was disappointed. I would've thought that after coming until she feared
for her life, she'd be at least as exuberant this morning as I. Clearly
that was not the case. She claimed to be missing her fourth period just
now. I wondered if a woman gets gloomy when her period is due, whether
she bleeds or not.
I kissed her at the door and went to work, but I didn't forget her.
Over a late lunch I put through a couple of phone calls and made an
appointment for her. I left a bit early, having shot the bugs of my own
the testers found last night and helped Tommy with one of his -- worth
mentioning because he coded X when he meant Y and thereafter corrected it
in his mind, without realizing it, every time he scanned the listing.
Only another reviewer can find such a well-hidden bug as that. Shades of
<The Purloined Letter>!
She met me at the door again, smiled and turned her lips up for a
kiss. But today she wore jeans and a blouse. My arms around her felt the
straps of a bra. Before I could ask her why, she said, "I could find only
two TV dinners. Will they do for supper?"
I snapped my fingers. "And you're out of money. Why didn't you take
some from the safe?"
"Oh, no!" She drew back. "I took the coins out, as you said, and
cleaned them." Her eyes flashed at mine. I could just imagine the
"tarnish" turning red as it was rehydrated. "But I wouldn't touch that
money." She smiled slightly. "Money in the kitchen I figured was meant
for the kitchen. Was I wrong?"
"You were absolutely right. We'll sit down tonight and work out a
household account for you."
"I ..." Her eyes dipped, then rose to mine again. "Do you want to go
out?"
"What's in the TV dinners?"
"Meat loaf."
"I'm a bit tired, Florrie. How about just heating them up. Also,
I've got some news for you."
"I've already heated the oven, but they're still frozen. They'll take
half an hour."
"All right. I'm not in such a hurry tonight."
I followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the door jamb,
watching as she opened the boxes. "I'll help you undress in just a
minute," she said without looking up.
"That was fun yesterday, but I don't really need help, Florrie. Tell
me: how fast can you type?"
She looked at me inquiringly. "I could do sixty words per minute when
I finished the bookkeeping class."
"I've got an electric typewriter you can use for practice."
"Why? Do you have something you want me to type?"
"Not me. Clanson Associates does. And Harvey Clanson was in the army
with me. He needs an assistant bookkeeper who can also type up
engineering reports."
Her eyes widened in a smile. I added, "They'll pay two eighty to
start and train you on the job. They want to see you tomorrow morning at
oh-eight hundred."
"Two eighty!" she breathed. "Just to start?"
"That's what he said, but I bet they'll go for two ninety. You can
afford a small apartment on that, Florrie."
She stared at me. Her smile faded. She turned and slid the dinners
into the oven. When she turned back her face was stony.
"Aren't you pleased?" I asked. I'm sure my astonishment showed.
"Harry, I know I'll seem like an ungrateful pig, but ... There's a
Greyhound leaving tonight at ten-fifteen that'll have me home by morning.
I told my father today I'd be on it."
I stared at her. Most likely my mouth fell open. She was blushing
again but the pattern was different: two large red spots had appeared,
one on each cheek. The rest of her face had turned pale.
She took a breath and added anxiously, "That is ... I can't walk to
the station before ten because I don't know how to get there from here.
And if I did, I don't have the money for the ticket. And I have no place
to leave my things." She spread her hands. "I told you I'm no good,
Harry. If you've got the sense I know you have, you'll throw me out right
now."
I pulled out a chair and sat down, still staring at her. She stood,
somewhat slumped, blinking, her eyes brightening with tears.
"Why, Florrie? What's the matter? What happened?"
"Last night happened."
"Last night! My god, that was glorious!"
"I wasn't kidding, Harry. It really scared me. I thought I was going
to die."
"Florrie ... Good god, honey! That's how it's supposed to be for a
woman, when it's really good. That's what your girlfriends meant by
'better than anything.' I can't believe you didn't enjoy it!"
She nodded slowly. "I did enjoy it. But it wasn't <me>!"
"Florrie, I have envied women their endless orgasms ever since I first
discovered they could do it. And last night you had as long a string of
them as I ever saw. Everyone but you considers <that> the height of
ecstasy, the best life has to offer. Plenty of people would <kill> to
trade places with you!"
She heaved a powerful sigh and said quietly, "Maybe so, but it's not
for me, Harry. I just can't stand it."
"Well, of course, sex doesn't have to be that intense <all> the time."
"Oh, I know that," she admitted, smiling slightly. "Except it does
with you. I could tell: you didn't much like our first time."
"No, I didn't. You felt nothing. I'm ashamed of doing so little for
a woman. That's what <I> can't stand!"
"But I didn't mind!"
Could it be that such a passive role is in fact her preference? I
didn't want to ask her that. I didn't want to hear my answer confirmed.
I shook my head. "All right, Florrie. I'm beginning to think you may
be doing the right thing ... for you."
Her eyes grew large, like a child's. "You are?"
I recalled an unused pack of film for the Polaroid. I said, "I'll go
buy a suitcase for your things, take you to the bus station and get your
ticket ... if you'll do something, one other thing, for me."
She was starting to smile but it froze. "Do what?"
"Pose for some pictures."
"Some pictures?"
"Nude."
She blinked. "You won't ... lick me?"
"No, Florrie. I won't touch you. But do you recall what I said about
the statue? I want the picture at least."
"When?"
"Right now."
She gestured at the oven. "What about supper?"
"Forget it. Turn the oven off. We'll stop for a bite on the way."
We shot eight Polaroids, the entire pack, with my office bookcase as
her backdrop. And I did touch her again, trying to massage out the red
marks of her too-tight bra, which finally required a bit of her face
powder. She put on the housecoat for three of them, holding it open and
trying to recreate the expression on her face of that first time. She
didn't quite succeed, of course, because of her innate honesty. The first
time she was truly grateful to me. Now she wanted only to get away. She
looked often at my britches to see if sight or touch would arouse me. God
knows what she'd've done if I'd sprouted an erection.
I have to say this looking at these photographs: she is the most
classically beautiful woman I ever fucked. Yet the modern world considers
her merely a "fat broad." The world's loss should be my gain. And would
be, except she <prefers> to be merely a fat broad! As the man said in
response to the advertisement, "Accounting for Women:" there is no
accounting for women!
I made sure she had my business card with two twenties pinned to the
back. She took the money reluctantly, only after I pointed out that the
housecleaning alone was worth more than that. She promised vaguely to
give me a call. I hope she will, even if it's only to -- I started to
write, "touch me," meaning borrow a few bucks, but I think it's foregone
that she'll never touch me again.
I was "her man" for one day and it was quite an experience. Florrie
takes very good care of her man. I miss her already. One consolation
remains. She as good as said it herself. I was simply <too much> for
her!
Too much man!
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