Message-ID: <17317eli$9811190452@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: kellis Subject: {Kellis} "Hidden Journal: Florrie" ( MF) [2/2] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: 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 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 like me last night, didn't you, Harry?" "Oh, yes, Florrie. And I intend to make you like !" Her eyebrows climbed up her forehead. "Like ? Oh, god, Harry! I'll do 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 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 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 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 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, " 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." " dirty, Florrie? Don't be ridiculous!" I removed her hand with mine. She sighed, almost a groan. "You'll 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 , 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 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, " 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 !" "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." " 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. 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 ! 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 !" "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 the height of ecstasy, the best life has to offer. Plenty of people would 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 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 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 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 for her! Too much man! -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----