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Subject: {Kellis} "Hidden Journal: Mrs. Hollowell" ( MF mmf)
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Hidden Journal: Mrs. Hollowell
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 D9104143.ZEN
<Tuesday, May 30, 1972>
"Aw, come on, Cindy; let us feel of it."
"<It>! That's not an it; that's part of <me>!"
Realized I'd been hearing children's voices for some time. Had come
up for air in Heinlein's <I Will Fear no Evil>, where the old fart has
just calmed down after discovering he's transplanted into a woman. The
voices penetrated and of course riveted my attention.
The signals analysis program cleared Alpha Test on Sunday evening and
I have the week off, three days compensatory and two of vacation just to
round it out. I looked at my wrist watch: 15:37. No doubt school had
let out. For the day or for the semester?
In wheedling tones a third voice offered, "We'll let you feel of our
parts, too."
It was a warm day, but because you can still get cold nights here even
in early June, the super hadn't switched to air conditioning yet. So I'd
opened my den windows wide this morning. I got up and leaned close to
them, prevented from putting my head out by the screen.
"Do yours swell up like Joey's?"
The den is in the back of my apartment. Its wall faces the embankment
sloping up toward Pelton Street, where it's topped by a thick line of
boxwood hedges running beyond the whole length of the building. I know
how slowly boxwoods grow; these were huge and must have been growing here
long before the apartments were built five years ago. I had admired the
privacy they afforded. Someone else must have noted it, too. From the
sound of their voices the children were at the foot of the embankment,
probably near the rainwater drain against the apartment wall, invisible
from my position unless I removed the screen, which could hardly be done
silently.
"Sure, only bigger."
"Show me."
"You have to jack 'em."
"<Jack> 'em!" A soprano giggle. "Like jacking a tire?"
"No, like this. Watch."
A pause, then, "You're just pulling the skin back and forth. Wow! It
sure does stretch!"
"Wanna do it?"
"Sure."
The third voice was deeper, though not clearly masculine. "Wait a
minute, Chip. Cindy, you have to let us feel, too."
"Oh, mine don't stretch like that."
"No, but ... Yours goes <in> you!"
"Well, there's nothing <in> it!"
<It>? Hadn't she forbidden the pronoun? What was this: heavy flirt
protocol in the pre-teen set?
"How do you know? What have you put in it?"
No answer to that. After a few seconds the lightest voice remarked,
"It <is> growing!"
Deepest, though only slightly, said disgustedly, "Chip, if you let her
keep feeling, she'll never let us in."
The lightest, apparently Cindy, said with a smirk, "Chip's is bigger
than yours now."
After a short pause deepest conceded. "You can do mine, too, if you
want."
Another pause. Cindy breathed, "They do grow! ... If you still want
to, you can feel. But be careful. I tried doing a candle and it made me
bleed."
"A candle?" The medium voice, apparently Chip's, was incredulous.
Deepest promised, "We'll be careful, Cindy."
A long silence fell. Was there any possibility whatsoever they were
up to something else? I listened intently when their conversation
resumed.
Deepest asked, "How far did Mary put the candle in?"
"A long way."
"Can you see? Bend over more."
"What's to see?"
"My finger is in to the knuckle."
"Let me try," Chip demanded.
"Look, it didn't bleed," deepest announced. "But my finger's wet."
Cindy started to explain, "It gets anything wet that you ..."
"That you put in it?"
She didn't continue. Chip exclaimed, "Wow, it <is> wet!"
After a pause Cindy asked, "Does it get any bigger than this?"
Deepest replied, "It's big enough."
"Big enough for what?"
"To go in you. That's what it's for, you know."
Cindy retorted, "I know about fucking."
Chip: "Do you want to do it?"
"N-no."
"Why not?"
"You'll tell everybody."
Deepest: "No, we won't."
"<You> will, David! You told about you and Mary."
"<I> never told anybody! How do you know it wa'n't Mary?"
Chip: "You did Mary? When?"
Deepest, apparently David: "See, Cindy? I never even told Chip!"
Again a pause. Cindy conceded, "Well, all right. If you promise."
Two voices concurrently: "We promise! Cross our hearts!"
"Okay. Chip can do me."
David began a protest. "Why does he get to go ..."
First? Perhaps it occurred to him that second is better than nothing.
If the girl meant to limit the privilege to Chip -- David probably didn't
know how unlikely that was! -- David would have a powerful argument to
change her mind once Chip had taken her. I well recalled how important
blackmail is among children.
David was full of advice. "Get in between her legs... Spit on your
hand and rub it... Don't mash her flat, Chip; lean on your elbows."
Obviously the voice of experience, with Mary it seemed at least. But
silence fell and endured.
Each apartment in this complex has a balcony, as I may not have
explained before in these curlicues. Each building is three story and
contains four apartments, two on each side, with washer-dryers, furnace,
tool room etc. on the ground floor, which sometimes is a basement,
depending on the lay of the land. The balconies are special and
contribute to the premium rental. They are affixed to the ends and are
wider than the building's depth, extending a short distance past the front
and rear walls. Each has an iron railing. My apartment is on the ground
floor, which meant that the children were fully audible almost directly
below my windows. I realized on the extension of my balcony, just past
the rear wall, I would be able to see down into the space between wall and
embankment: that is, to see exactly what they were doing.
I stood up and turned toward the sliding glass door -- but paused.
Huh! What was this, Harry the voyeur? Watching others fuck unbeknownst
is clearly an invasion of privacy. But if they're fucking under <my>
window? And from the high voices, as well as the unsophisticated
conversation, these were all children. I never heard a law governing
relations between children; there may well be none in this state when all
parties are below the so-called age of consent. But should I let them
continue? A single shouted "What the hell?" would certainly stop it.
That is, stop it <here>. What if the girl bled again -- how would they
react? A dick, even one driven by a mere boy, is rougher than a candle.
I decided that I needed more information before deciding.
It was pleasant on the balcony, a bit cool in the low seventies, I
estimated. The sun was on Mrs. Hollowell's side of the building,
leaving mine in shade. I stopped at the end of the wall, knelt to
place my head below the top of the rail, and slowly advanced one eye past
the edge.
The three were on the large cement block containing the storm drain,
just as I had surmised, about forty feet ahead of and below me. Two lay
directly on the concrete, the other kneeling beside them. Schoolbooks
were stacked on the nearby grass. I could see only the lower half of the
two prone bodies. The legs of the one underneath were bare, knees drawn
up. Assuming that to be Cindy, her jeans had been removed and placed
under her buttocks. Chip's jeans, assuming he was still the one on top,
were lowered to his knees. The girl's arms were on his back under his
flannel shirt. His buttocks were rotating up and down, the cheek muscles
tightening rythmically. David had lowered his jeans to his ankle -- if
this was indeed David and not a spent Chip. One hand caressed the
junction of the two before him while the other moved slowly between his
own legs, suggesting that this was in fact an anticipatory David. He had
black hair on his head but little if any pubic hair. I guessed that he
was about thirteen.
Chip's motion came to a standstill. He strained forward, shuddering,
and soon backed off the girl.
"How was it?" asked David, eyes intent on the other's midsection,
still turned away from me. I could hear them clearly.
Chip's retort surprised all of us. "We shouldn't be doing this."
"What?" David demanded, mouth falling open.
"Why not?" asked the girl, rising on her elbows, flannel shirt open to
her neck, legs splayed apart. Chip turned his back on both of them.
Strangely, only the girl had pubic hair, tightly curled, matching the dark
brown locks tangled on her head. That is, it struck me as strange at the
moment before I remembered that girls mature first. I began to wonder who
really had called this little convention.
David explained, waddling around to take Chip's place, "He's just
come. Don't pay him any attention."
"I want to know what he means," the girl demanded firmly, closing her
legs.
"Darn it, Chip!" David complained, turning sideways to glare at the
other's back. His erect penis stood out quite respectably, I thought,
remembering my own at that age.
"Oh, go ahead!" Chip advised, pulling up his jeans.
"Not until you tell me," said Cindy adamantly.
Chip walked off several paces. David sighed. "It's the way some boys
are, Cindy, when they come. They wish they hadn't."
"Why ever not?"
"I don't know. It's just the way they are. Some of them. You
shouldn't pay him any attention." His hand went between her thighs.
"Are you sure he ain't sick?" she asked as her legs parted slightly.
He put his knee between them while his hand rose to her mound. "He
ain't sick. I tell you, he's just come, that's all."
Her legs widened and David sank upon her. Her hands went between
them. I had a clear view of her fingers providing guidance. She said,
"You're bigger than he is."
The response was muffled in her hair.
She added, "Are you sure he came? I didn't feel anything."
Hardly the little virgin she'd seemed!
"He don't squirt yet," David muttered, beginning the immemorial
motion.
"Then how can he come?"
"Lot's of boys come before they squirt the first time."
"Do you squirt?"
He was silent, moving a little faster. She lost interest in her
question. Her legs rose to clasp his hips. Their rhythm grew quicker.
As I watched both actors impressed me. The girl's hands had descended to
the boy's buttocks, pulling him tighter on each thrust. The sharp young
dick had been piercing her a good minute or more. Though admittedly
somewhat older, I had under similar circumstances, completely overwhelmed
by irresistible sweetness, inseminated my partner in hardly ten seconds.
Chip had turned to watch them, I thought, until I saw that he was
looking upward. I followed the line of his gaze ... to Mrs. Hollowell's
balcony projection at the opposite end of the building. There sat the
fortyish Mrs. Hollowell, left arm on her railing, chin lowered to that
hand, watching the events below in obvious fascination. She was wearing a
short-sleeved sweater and a plaid skirt. I have never seen her in slacks.
Her knees were splayed and her hand was under the raised skirt. The sun
behind her limned her blonde hair and the sweater threads at her
shoulders. It was too dark under her skirt to see what she was doing.
Not that it was in doubt. What I mean is, to my disappointment I couldn't
discern the details.
But Chip was watching her. Didn't she know it? My incredulous
question was answered almost as I thought it. She smiled at the boy and
stuck out her tongue. He immediately spun around with his back to her.
He said quietly, turning only his head toward the concrete, "Hurry up,
David. I've got to go home."
But the two there were definitely focussed inward. In fact they were
fucking like minks. (Never having seen minks fuck, I started to strike
that in the interests of verifiability -- but I thought it was spelled
<minx>. That word is defined as a wanton woman, which may be how the
cliche arrived, or so I prefer to believe. Let it stand.) The girl was
grunting with each thrust. When her grunts turned to soft soprano
screams, David delivered as Chip had done, straining forward and
shuddering.
That would have been an impressive performance for thirty year olds!
My god, today's kids are really something!
Why all the pretended innocence?
David backed off her but sat down, bare ass on the cold concrete, and
flopped onto his back. Semen glistened on his fast wilting dick and in
the girl's pubic hair. She rose on her elbow wearing an enduring smile.
A just-fucked female is pretty, especially if she smiles for the enjoyment
of it, which this smile clearly was, even if she's hardly thirteen. Or
less. Her face was that of a child, unblemished and unadorned. Her
flannel shirt, identical in style to the boys', was open further,
disclosing nipples without backing mounds. No brassiere. I'd thought
girls that age insisted on brassieres. In fact this one was no exception,
I learned as she gathered her clothing. A brassiere of tiny cups was
tangled with her panties in the balled up jeans. She donned it deftly
somehow by sliding it up the arm of her shirt. Functionally she's as
capable a female as my Daisy.
Mrs. Hollowell had raised her head. Both hands now rested on the
rail. For some reason at that moment she looked up. Perhaps it occurred
to her to verify their concealment. Her eyes widened, the whites shining
even at that distance, which must have been seventy feet. Her head came
forward to stare. At what, was clear enough. I stood up and waved, a
short gesture with my extended hand. Her mouth fell open. I spun on my
heel and returned inside, prefering that the children not see my
surveillance.
Waited beside the den window, wondering if the collusion between the
woman and the boys extended to informing them of their exposure.
I heard Cindy: "You've got my algebra book."
Chip, gruffly: "Here."
Cindy again: "Chip, what's the matter?"
"It's all right."
"Is it true what David said? Does coming make you sorry?"
I wish I could've seen whether he looked up when he answered. "Don't
worry. I won't tell anybody."
"Boys are weird!"
"I guess."
Her voice became sympathetic. "Maybe it'll get better when you really
<can> come."
She received only silence in return for that idea.
"Cindy, let's go," David urged. "You, too, Chip. Thought you were in
such a hurry!"
Silence. I couldn't resist returning to the balcony. Indeed they
were gone and the far balcony extension was empty.
An astounding affair! I sat in the den thinking it over. None of it
was my business. Or was it? These were children, fucking knowingly for
the delectation of an adult. And doing it under my window. Could
anything happen that would expose me to liability? Perhaps ... if anyone
could prove I knew about it but refrained from interfering. And Mrs.
Hollowell could prove it, even if her own credibility was vulnerable. You
damn fool, I cursed myself, why didn't you yell at them?
Because, of course, they took me back to my own early experience. The
human puppy is cute, especially fucking.
I found her number in the book and dialed it. When she answered, I
said, "What the hell, Mrs. Hollowell?"
"Is that supposed to be poetry?"
"I'm serious, Mrs. Hollowell."
"<Will> you call me Eunice?"
"If you'll tell me what's going on."
She took a deep breath. "You'd better come over here."
"All right, I will. Now?"
"Give me five minutes."
"Okay."
I hung up and on a hunch returned again to the balcony, peering with
one eye through the rails. I didn't have long to wait. David dropped
from Mrs. Hollowell's balcony extension onto the sloping bank nearby after
first throwing down his book bag. He ran up the bank and disappeared
through a small gap in the hedge. I waited a bit but Chip didn't show.
She admitted me on the first knock. Her red face was composed but her
breath reeked of booze. The sweater was gone in favor of a sleeveless
satin blouse, cut like a man's vest without buttons, above the same skirt.
She led me into her living room, which in my mirror image of her apartment
was my office, spun about and said, "Will you have a drink?"
Keep this friendly? "If you have scotch."
"I do, but not the best. I don't drink it."
She went into the back of her liquor cabinet and removed a bottle of
the cheaper stuff. She had no ice. I accepted it diluted with water.
She drank bourbon neat with me, sitting on the couch while I faced her
in an overstuffed chair. She said, "I guess you want an explanation."
"Frankly, ah, Eunice, I'm not sure what I want. Except not to be
liable."
Her gaze sharpened. "Liable? For what?"
"For letting children fuck under my nose."
She winced. "Do you have to use that word?"
"In this case, yes. And I'll use it again. They are certainly
children; only the girl has any significant pubic hair. They exposed
themselves and fucked like minks under my window and both our balconies.
You watched it. Furthermore they <knew> you were watching! -- the boys,
at least."
She cocked an eyebrow. "You watched all of it, didn't you?"
"Almost," I admitted.
"So why didn't you stop it?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do." Her lip curled. "You enjoyed the show."
"So did you."
She shrugged. "I admit it."
"You don't have to admit it. I saw how you watched them."
"At least I was more comfortable than you."
"Yeah. You had a frigging good time."
She tossed her head. "Did you crouch there for the whole show?" She
nodded toward my dusty britches. "On your knees, were you?"
I ignored that. "The girl's in on it, too, is she?"
"What do you mean?"
"Obviously you didn't care if they saw you."
"Didn't you notice how they laid her down? Her head was toward me.
If she saw anyone it was you."
"Actually I don't think she ever looked up."
"Of course not. Everything she wanted was in arm's reach. Did you
observe that it took both of them to finish her?"
"Yes, I noticed. I noticed a lot of things. What's your arrangement
with them? Eunice, are you fucking those boys?"
"Harry! What a terrible thing to ask!"
"I saw you stick out your tongue at Chip."
"Chip, Chip!" She looked away. "He just won't grow up."
"Well, are you?"
She looked at me thoughtfully. "I'm afraid they don't find a woman of
my age nearly as attractive as she finds them."
"So what <are> you doing with them?"
"Enjoying them. Helping them grow up."
I stared at her, thinking what she could mean. "Do you mean you
advise them how to seduce the girls?"
She nodded. "Sometimes."
"Hmm. Does your advice work?"
She grinned. "Always."
"It did this afternoon," I admitted.
"Huh! That Cindy is a little trollop, playing the innocent. She's
laid half the boys in school in higher grades than she is. And she's
older than David and Chip."
I nodded. "They played innocent, all right, the boys, too! Is that
how you train them?"
She grinned. "Of course. It's especially effective on grown women.
As to the girl, she seems naturally gifted."
"How do you know of her experience?"
"Teachers talk about their students. I'm a substitute teacher at
Christy High, you know."
I nodded, remembering. I had to chuckle. "You have an unusual
approach to extracurricular activities: Seduction one-oh-one."
"In fact, Harry, I do the children some good."
"Do you! Unfortunately the society we live in doesn't agree."
"I'm well aware of that," she snarled, actually gritting her teeth.
"But have you ever noticed how poorly they justify their condemnation?
It's all unfounded assertion." Her voice became mocking. "'Unpropitious
sexual revelation is devasting to the child.' Poppycock! They don't even
try to prove it, except in a circular way. The only harm pre-adolescent
consensual sex does to a child is the guilt and shame society visits on
him afterward, whether caught or not."
Her face had reddened further. I noted, "Those words sound familiar
in your mouth. You've argued this before, haven't you?"
"Yes, I have." She visibly calmed herself, continuing more quietly,
"Children are of course only too capable of excess. They need guidance
when they explore anything new, particularly when it's the most profound
sensual experience that one can have. I offer that guidance to the
discrete ones who might profit by it."
"I see," I said dryly.
"Do you?"
"I think so. I see you frigging like mad while you watch."
"Like mad? Surely not!"
"Once more, Eunice: are you fucking those boys?"
She raised her chin. "One's own body is of course the most convenient
blackboard."
I chuckled. "God! Surely you understand the risk."
She smiled slightly. "In my last job I was charged with contributing
to the delinquency of a minor."
"Were you! What happened?"
"One of my boys jilted his girlfriend. He talked too much. She went
to the boy's mother who called the cops. Of course they broke him down."
"No, I mean, what happened to <you>?"
She shrugged. "I denied it. My lawyer gave the jury an alternate
hypothesis, that the boys wanted revenge for heavy detention. They <had>
spent a lot of hours in special detention! The jury bought it." She
winked. "It's hard to convince people that a woman has harmed boys."
"It was an all-male jury, eh?"
"How'd you guess?"
I grunted. "I can hear the verdict now: 'Lucky little shits! Not
guilty.'"
"In just about ten minutes." She grinned in satisfaction.
"But you did leave town, didn't you?"
"Well, yes, I had to. You have no idea how venomous boys' mothers can
be!"
"So you continue to run at least that much risk."
"It's worth it." Her gaze was level.
"If you say so. Unfortunately I don't have your advantage with a
jury."
"You don't need it so long as --" Suddenly her eyebrows went up.
"Say, Harry, you're not interested in young boys, are you?"
"No. I have very little use for males in any capacity. If I did --
you are aware of this, aren't you? -- a man with young boys is worth 40
years in this state, regardless of the jury composition."
She chuckled. "I've heard something about it. How about young girls?
I see 'em in droves. If she had a half-way decent father, a young girl
almost always finds a similar man totally irresistible. With a little
effort you could be the younger version for a lot of them."
"Thank you, I think," I conceded, taking another sip of my drink.
She smiled coquettishly. "Are you going to turn me in, Harry?"
"No, probably not. But children fucking under my window worries me."
"The trick is simply for you to know nothing about it." Her eyes
narrowed. "I see. You're concerned that I might testify against you if
it should come to that."
"That was the thought," I admitted, "that propelled me over here."
"Huh! I meant to ask you, what are you doing home today?"
"Had the day off."
She grinned. "Do you have any idea how startled I was to see your
face between the rails?"
I chuckled. "Your mouth actually dropped open."
She cocked her head at me. "It's not as if you don't get enough.
What happened to the little fatty who recently cut me dead?" [See
"Hidden Journal: Florrie."]
"She'd had a hard time, Eunice."
"So I heard! I saw her with a bag of groceries the next day but not
since."
"So you heard?"
"We had a little chat. She pumped me for information."
"About me?"
"Of course. I told her very little. I know more about your girl
friend than you. Where's fatty now?"
"Gone home to papa."
"Not your type, Harry?"
"More the other way, I gather. She decided I wasn't for her."
"Too demanding, was she?"
"Maybe. I was surprised you didn't mention her to Daisy."
"None of my business," she retorted, shrugging.
Of course she's met Daisy here several times and talked with her. It
was Daisy, I recall, who reported Eunice to be a substitute teacher.
"My point isn't just gossip," she continued. "You have quality female
company. You don't need to watch my children for gratification. But you
didn't answer me about the girls. D'you have a yen for pubescent girls,
Harry?"
I laughed. "Since we seem to be exchanging privacies, I'll admit to
you, Eunice, that I have a yen for any female human who wants me."
"That's hardly news. You're a man, aren't you? But what of little
girls?"
"I was going on to say that no, I don't feel comfortable with the idea
of poking little girls. I can't defend it; it's inconsistent, I know.
Almost any pussy is capacious enough for male attention. I've actually
seen three year olds raped without permanent physical damage. But <I'll>
never do it! I want a girl who at least comes to my shoulder, preferably
one with unmistakable mammaries, if you don't mind."
"How typical!"
I spread my hands. "That's just the way I am."
She looked thoughtful. "Prefer mature ones, do you?"
I reverted to the original subject. "How often do you expect to have
kids fucking behind that bank?"
"It's hard to say, now. School's out next week. David and Jay --
Most of my boys are going away, one place or another, for the summer.
Chip will be here, but he's not reliable."
"You don't coach girls?"
"'Coach!'" She chuckled. "Thank you, Harry. That's a good word for
it. No, not just at present. I'm a bit ambivalent about girls. I'd like
to counsel them, but I've never found the formula to shut them up!"
I chuckled too. "Yes, I understand that's a general problem. So what
will you do this summer?"
"Instead of welcoming boys, you mean?" She studied me pensively. "I
don't know. I might take a cruise."
"On a substitute teacher's salary?"
"Huh! Do you think I could afford this apartment on that?"
"I suppose not."
"I don't need their money, Harry. I need their children."
"What is your personal situation, Eunice? Not married, I take it."
"Divorced. With investments. If I need funds, Harry, I clip a
coupon."
"Good for you. But you can't buy kids, at least not in the U. S.
You're choosier than I am."
She cocked her head. "So that any penis -- excuse me; <cock> --
won't do? Is that your point?" She shrugged. "I say, any port in a
pinch. It's just that the older it is the less interesting. A different
slant, Harry."
"Why less interesting?"
"Less of a challenge to get it and hold it."
My eyebrows rose. "Challenge? Do women think of it that way?"
She grinned. "Isn't it permitted?"
I snorted. "It's seems that women are permitted anything they dare."
"How true!" She stood up. "Keep your seat, Harry. I'll be right
back. I want to show you something."
Looked around the room. Vanilla female: crocheted antimacassars,
matching arm covers on couch and chair, glazed ceramic nymphs and satyrs,
each two inches high, standing on most horizontal surfaces. Two
landscapes of sylvan glades, fleurs-de-lis wallpaper. No personal photos.
Typical after a divorce? The carpet was thick. Everything was clean, at
least enough to satisfy a man.
The woman returned to the room, saying "Look at this." She put a bit
of metal in my hand, a ring with a green stone the size of a BB.
Curiously the bottom of the ring had separated and folded back.
"Odd ring," I noted, bouncing it in my palm.
She grinned. "Rather odd use for it, too."
"What's that?"
Her arms went up, hands descending behind her. In a moment they
reappeared, grasped the upper parts of her sleeveless blouse and pulled
the whole thing forward and off her body. I'm always amazed at how
intricately and effortlessly women manipulate their clothing. Though I've
heard them express the same sentiment about neckties.
Anyway that removal exposed her unrestrained tits: female but not
exceptional, small nipples surprisingly dark for a blonde, puckered. An
exhibitionist? The blouse fell to the couch and she extended her hand for
the ring. She passed it over her left nipple, where it stuck as the hand
departed.
I got to my feet to examine this phenomenon. The folded part had been
closed <after passing through the fleshiest part of the nipple>! The ring
was now impaled into the protrusion intended for a baby's mouth. Through
the fog of my astonishment I began to believe she had a nipple <pierced>
as most women pierce their ears.
"But you didn't <just> pierce it!" I breathed.
She was chuckling, staring at my expression. "Oh, Harry! For a
moment I was afraid your eyes would pop out and roll on the floor."
I bent to study it. "Is it actually through the flesh?"
"Take it in your hand. Pull on it."
I did as directed. It was certainly firmly attached. "That doesn't
hurt?"
"Well, if you pulled hard enough it would. But, no, I didn't <just>
pierce it. It's been there eight years. I have to put the ring in every
day to keep the hole open."
"Why do that?"
She purred, "Don't you find it striking?"
"It is that!"
"The other is also pierced. Wait till you feel them on your chest."
I deliberately cupped the entire breast. Indeed the stone tickled my
palm. "It's different," I admitted. But aside from the novelty, good for
about five minutes, I have to note here that it was more a distraction
than a stimulus.
"I have another ring, Harry, that may interest you more. It's also an
emerald. The ring itself has an oval shape when it's closed. Which it is
now."
"Implying that it's on your body somewhere," I noted, "presumably
elsewhere than your ears." Her earlobes were pierced by small emerald
studs.
She grinned, her eyes shining. "It passes through the vestibule of
the vagina, just under the urethral opening. Its stone is not faceted as
these; instead it's been ground very smooth. Wait until you feel it
slicing you."
"Slicing?"
"Not painfully, Harry. I'm told it feels rather like a dull knife to
the male, especially when he pulls nearly out. To me it amplifies the
clitoral sensation."
"It's in you now?"
"Oh, yes." She took my arm. "Come along and I'll show you."
I admit the idea intrigued me. At both ends. I had to reach down and
adjust my erection before I followed her into the bedroom. I had an
impression of tables full of ... photograph albums? -- and a huge
king-size bed. My clothing hit the floor while she inserted the other tit
ring, admitting that this one gave her trouble because its hole tended to
close up in only a day or two.
Her pubic hair was black, trimmed away from the groin. Apparently
this woman is a bottle blonde.
She was right: it felt a bit like a dull knife, scaping me
lengthwise. And I was right: the sum of all three was a big distraction.
After a bit I decided this might actually be an advantage. It certainly
slowed down my rabbit. Was that the point? Very possibly. Young boys
atop their early women are also notorious for rabbithood. I had poked
Daisy on Sunday and been celibate since, long enough to generate
respectable pressure, but now I was a lo-o-ong time coming, as the song
says. I resolved if we were to try another, at least the bottom ring must
come out.
Based on the moans, grunts and heaving breasts, she'd been climaxing
right along -- if that word can be applied to a continual process! But at
my first squirt she astounded me by very suddenly rolling out from under
me and gobbling my dick into her mouth. Most of my fluid went there, as
much as I could stand. Here's another who knows not Daisy's trick. When
I had to back out, she surprised me again. Her head came up under mine,
obviously seeking a kiss. I allowed it; it would not occur to me to
refuse a woman I'd just splashed. Her tongue entered my mouth followed
by a perfect gob of bland liquid. I was a moment understanding what she
had done.
She was laughing through her nose, her mouth still glued to mine. My
tongue simply pushed her gift, most of it at least, past hers and back
into her own mouth. Then I raised my head. I heard her throat work as
she swallowed, but her mouth flew open and braying with laughter, she
sprayed the remnant into my face.
I got off her and off the bed after wiping my face on her bedsheet.
She was still chuckling. Her hand went between her legs. The fingers
disappeared inside her. She watched me watching her. "How do you like
your flavor, Harry?"
"A bit tart," I retorted.
She laughed. "Oh, I don't know. Fresh seminal fluid is nearly
tasteless. Typically it has just a hint of musk. But give it a few
minutes." She brought her fingers up to her face for inspection. "You
left a deposit there, too." The fingers went into her mouth.
"Perhaps I was referring to the manner of delivery," I explained.
"You didn't like my little gesture, Harry? And I thought you were
such a quick study! You gave it back without having to be asked." Her
chuckling ceased. "Did you think I spit it all in your face? I'm sorry
for that; it was done unconsciously."
"I heard you swallow," I admitted. "Tell me: do you tease your boys
this way?"
"No, no, Harry. Boys are far too squeamish. They fear their own
product. Let one ejaculate in your mouth and he'll never kiss you again.
Rarely will he even return. Which is too bad. The younger the semen the
healthier."
"I suppose so."
"Oh, definitely. And the taste is superior, although that may only be
a consequence of the delight in taking it from new testes."
"A psychological evaluation?"
"I think so. Truly the flavor seems to depend mostly on the
distention of the bladder. Best is obtained about fifteen minutes after
complete evacuation."
"You have reached this conclusion after more than a few experiments, I
presume?"
"Thousands, Harry."
"Excuse me?"
She chuckled. "If you call on me occasionally, so that I can
determine if you're trustworthy, I may tell you how that happened." She
added, "Though I'm sure you can guess with very little thought. Still,
you should find the details interesting."
"If you'll talk."
"Oh, I'll talk to my lover." She grinned slightly. "Did you get the
point?"
"What point?"
"What I said about challenges."
"Oh, I'm easy, I admit. Didn't you claim you were divorced?"
"Do you doubt me, Harry?"
"I'm surprised a husband would tolerate your experiments."
"He was also my ... agent."
"Your pimp?"
She shrugged. "That describes any good agent. Look on the second
table. Do you see the large gray album?"
In a moment I found it and returned to her bedside. She sat up,
ignoring our nakedness, and turned on the light, patting the bed beside
her. "Sit and look, Harry."
It was stuffed with photographs, all black-and-white, mostly eight by
ten glossies. This was frank pornography of the kind you'll never see in
Playboy or Penthouse. The adult bookstores carry magazines with similar
subject photos, but few with such clarity and dramatic lighting. In all
except the low closeups Eunice's face was visible. I pointed to an
extreme closeup of two dicks side-by-side in the same vagina. "Who's
cunt?"
"I'm in every one of these pictures, Harry. Otherwise the picture
wouldn't be here."
"Incredible quality," I murmured.
"I take it you refer to the camera work. They should be. If I told
you his name you'd probably recognize the photographer. And a very rich
man now owns the negatives. If he isn't dead."
"No color?"
"No. This photographer claims color has no drama. And look at this
one. Do you think color would help it?" Eunice, visible from the tits
up, was turned sideways in medium closeup, brightly backlit, a very weak
light on her from the camera side. Her blonde hair gleamed around her
head. Enough of her face was edge lit to be certain of her identity. Her
arms were extended out of the picture before her. A large erect penis
entered from that side to within two or three inches of her face. A loop
of brilliant semen hung between the tip of her tongue and the head of the
dick, bright strings dangling from her lips, spots of it on her nose and
cheeks. The backlighting made the loops of semen the highlights of the
picture. Powerful! Words can't do it justice.
"All that came from one dick?"
She chuckled. "That guy was a gusher. If you like to see juice, look
at this one."
She had three dicks in her mouth. I guess it was barely possible.
Her head was slightly thrown back, eyes closed. She was so coated in
paste as to be almost unrecognizable. It puddled in her eye sockets and
streamed from her nostrils. The three dick heads seemed to be floating in
it in her mouth.
"How'd they get the camera in?"
She studied it. "Had to be a telephoto shot from the crane. The guy
in front probably had to lean back."
"When were these made, Eunice?"
"Look at this one. See any veins in that face?"
"No. Makeup?"
"Youth. That was twenty years ago."
I thumbed through them slowly. "You have a treasure here, Eunice. I
don't suppose you'd let me take some home."
She regarded me curiously. "What is it? D'you want to masturbate
while imagining all those penises are <your> penis?"
"I ... What if I do?"
Her hand enclosed me gently. "Wouldn't you rather have company?"
"I could look at these all night."
"Who's going anywhere? I'll even fix you supper, though if you want
me to keep peeling you, you'll have to come to the kitchen."
"You can cook, too, Eunice?"
"Enough to get by. If I was really good, guess I'd be fat."
"What is this? You want to keep a dick around, is that it?"
"Next you'll tell me to get a dildo. I want a man attached to it.
Even one that talks obscenely. I wish you wouldn't, Harry."
I had to chuckle, pointing at a picture of her, smiling over a dick in
each hand. "That's an interesting request from the queen of obscenity."
"You think so? I knew exactly what I was doing in every one of those
pictures -- and at every moment this afternoon, too. The trouble with
speaking obscenely is that it becomes a habit. You'll forget and do it
when it can hurt you."
"Ha! You push that line on the kids, do you?"
"Of course."
I nodded. "Right. And only the girl said 'fuck.'"
"Thank you for noticing."
"Too much, Eunice! Instruction in fucking with good grammar on the
side."
She smiled. "Ms. Hollowell's school for young gentlemen."
"Everything but sucking their dicks."
"Oh, I'll fellate David just before he leaves. That's a delicious
child."
"You'll risk losing him?"
"Give him a three month break and he'll get over it. Probably."
"Only 'probably?'"
"Children fill each other with such nonsense! He may decide sex is
evil. I've seen it before. Or that I'm evil. Chip is already partly
convinced of that! You noticed Chip's little problem? When their sexual
tension is released, young boys often recall their social conditioning."
"David had no difficulty."
"He'll likely fall in love with some skirt that bats her eyes at him
and lets him feel her up. That always happens sooner or later. In that
game age and wisdom is no match for youth and beauty."
"Well, youth and beauty is where it's at, as the kids say." I cupped
a decorated breast. "But these are still beautiful."
"You're kind, Harry. They're sagging. I never had a child, so they
never got the fat cells to carry them through. I have to lean forward to
make them noticeable, but when they dangle so, they're too thin."
"You can still bear a kid, can't you?"
"I was clearing twenty grand a year when that was real money.
Naturally I had my tubes tied."
I studied her. "You don't <want> a kid, do you?"
She chuckled. "Of course I do. I'd fuck his brains out."
"Eunice, you hypocrit!"
"I'm sorry, but for such flagrant incest no other word will do. Hmm.
Do you <like> for a woman to talk so? I'd swear your organ gained a
quarter of its erection when I said that."
"I do like it. In a chaste mouth it sounds more honest."
She leered at me. "A <chaste> mouth? You use words strangely."
"I know: a mouth that's sucked a thousand dicks -- hey! Catch that
phrase! Sure beats 'A face that launched a thousand ships.'"
"I find it hard to match your enthusiasm. You were making a point?"
"Such a mouth is hardly chaste, though good grammatical English
fosters the illusion."
She smirked. "Vulgar pasttimes don't require vulgar references."
Was her studied vocabulary and grammar a kind of compensation?
I found a different picture, a partly frontal view of a small boy,
lips parted in evident fascination, standing on a stool such that his tiny
erect dick was at the same level as the relatively monstrous erection of a
hairy fellow standing beside him. The young Eunice knelt before the pair,
eyes contemplating them from a foot away, a hand turned palm up,
fingertips lifting each set of balls. I said, "You started early, didn't
you. This one is dangerous, Eunice. A prosecutor would love to show it
to a jury."
"I'd forgotten that one. That child's a grown man now."
"You know him?"
"No, but I did then. That's his father beside him. Don't you love
that picture, Harry?"
"Why should I?"
"The contrast! What a sausage on the father! To think once it was
the same as the boy's!"
I suggested dryly, "Maybe I'm not equipped to appreciate it as well as
you."
"Too bad." She grinned at me.
I closed the book reluctantly and gestured at the table. "You made a
lot of photographs."
"A lot of those are my erstwhile friends. This is the only album
that's entirely mine."
I cocked my head. "Looks like snapshots in the one on the end."
"Polaroids, Harry. The invention of the instant camera has done more
for private pornography than anything in history."
"You're still making pictures? I get it. With your boys."
"Yes." Her eyes sparkled.
"How do you do it? Remote shutter?"
"Sometimes. Do you know photography?"
"A little. I use a Polaroid, too."
"I have several cameras, Harry, including a Graflex with the Polaroid
film pack. But the most interesting are handheld shots the boys take
themselves."
"Boys can operate your equipment?"
"Oh, yes."
"May I see some pictures?"
Her hand tightened on my dick. "I'd rather you didn't, Harry. One of
the difficulties a prosecutor faces is proving the relationship of
photographs to subjects. Your testimony would help him immensely."
I thought about that. "You mean everyone wears a mask?"
"When faces have to show, such as oral scenes."
"What do you do with the peeled backing?"
"On the Polaroids, you mean? Into the fireplace, of course."
I had cut Florrie's negatives into many parts with scissors! But I
don't use my den fireplace.
She allayed my pique at denial of the boys' pictures by showing me
others. We stood beside the table, her hand retaining my dick. I took up
album after album as she directed. I saw many remarkable photographs,
most of very high quality, including the best known sex symbol of all time
in a Greek sandwich. [Editor's note: Several familiar names have been
removed from this paragraph.] Many of them contained world-famous faces,
both male and female, mouthing dicks. When I remarked on it, Eunice
retorted that the male organ rather insists on such attention, exactly
like a lollipop, red head and all. My failure to appreciate it, I gather,
is sheer bigotry.
I ate supper with her. Hamburgers. She was right again; she's an
indifferent cook.
We had another interesting fuck before I said good night. The vaginal
ring may indeed do something for her. A few strokes with the tongue were
enough to set her off, though the displayed intensity was not up to
Florrie's or Daisy's standard. Again at my climax she squirmed around to
capture most of it in her mouth, but she didn't offer to kiss me.
As I stood with a hand on her door knob, she said, "Harry, we can do
each other a favor this summer."
"Such as?"
"Most of my boys will be gone, as I told you. I know you only see
your steady on weekends, which may leave you ... at loose ends. Whenever
you feel a bit randy, well, here I am."
"Thought you were taking a cruise."
She grinned at me. "Perhaps not."
I grinned back and said with pretended sheepishness, "Aw, shucks, Mom,
you mean I don't have to masturbate any more?"
That produced a snort, then an overdone righteous smile. "We can whip
this thing, Son, if we stick together."
We certainly can!
Odd how things turn out. After all the uproar last Fall over blocked
drains -- blocked with Polaroid ash? -- settled only when she paid my
plumbing bill, it seems she regards me favorably after all. What a mixure
of hot tomato and cool cucumber!
What an asset in a next door neighbor!
--
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