Prick Van Winkle

 

 

Prick Van Winkle

By Robert Lubrican

Original Uncensored Edition

Copyright 2010 Robert Lubrican

License Notes

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen

Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-one | Twenty-two | Twenty-three | Twenty-four

Twenty-five | Twenty-six | Twenty-seven | Twenty-eight | Twenty-nine | Thirty | Thirty-one | Thirty-two | Thirty-three | Epilogue

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Chapter One

It all happened very innocently, but also very mysteriously. It happened on a spring day in 1950, when Bob Winkle took a nap.

It was a Saturday, and he and his wife had already celebrated their third wedding anniversary by a long, sweet lovemaking session when they first woke up. They pretty much had to do it then, since the children would prohibit both opportunity and affect the mood, later in the day.

As he sat, he had a glass with him, an anniversary present from his older brother, who lived in Kentucky, back in the hills, where no one bothered him. His brother had a taste for homemade whiskey, and a talent for producing it as well. The recipe for that moonshine was a closely guarded secret that his brother claimed to have inherited from their grandfather, and which produced the best amber-colored bottled lightning around. That golden fluid was aged for years in gallon sized oaken casks, (quality, rather than quantity was the goal), and slid down the throat smoothly. His brother knew that Bob appreciated a good toddy too, and sent him a bottle from time to time. A note had come with this gift, saying that this batch was made with the last of his special European ingredients, was "almost magical", and that Bob now owned the last bottle of it.

Being in a good mood, and having completed all his chores for the day, Bob had poured himself four fingers of his brother's "magical" whiskey, and sipped at it happily as he sat in his brand new Barca Lounger. That chair was another anniversary present, this one from his wife, Valerie, who decided on that gift because it had leather upholstery. He smiled to himself, feeling the whiskey seeping into his veins. Who had decided that leather was the right gift for a third anniversary? How silly was that anyway? He felt his eyes begin to droop, and decided he had time for a short nap before Valerie called him to dinner. She had said she was making meatloaf to celebrate. That was his favorite dish. She made it every anniversary as a tradition.

Valerie was very traditional about things like that, and, as it turned out, about other things too ... like taking care of her family.

Valerie Winkle was extraordinarily happy with her life up to that point in time. Bob was an energetic and cheerful home-bringer of the bacon, so to speak, not to mention his energy in the bedroom. He had kept her pregnant, if not barefoot, ever since slightly before they got married and she now had three beautiful girls to remind her to pay that special little attention to him when he came home at night. She really wanted a boy or two. She had a wonderful home, nice neighbors, pleasant, if distant in-laws and all the sex she could ever hope for. Bob was as highly sexed as she was.

The first clue she had that her life might change was when, after making her traditional meatloaf dinner for her loving husband, and getting the three girls fed, the youngest of which eased the slight pain and pressure in her swollen breasts by sucking lustily at both of them, she went to wake up the love of her life.

Except that he didn't wake up.

It was only puzzling at first. He was warm to the touch, and breathing ... snoring softly, in fact ... but he wouldn't wake up. Puzzlement led to discomfort as she spoke to him in increasingly louder and louder tones and shook him until the new chair began to creep across the floor. Discomfort morphed into real fear as, in desperation, she upended a pitcher of water on his face and chest.

Nothing worked. He slept on.

Eventually she called her Father-in-law, Percy, who appeared and was just as puzzled, uncomfortable and then fearful as she had been. In the end they called an ambulance, not knowing exactly what to tell the attentive attendants when they arrived. There were no wounds, and no known drugs involved, other than an empty glass on the end table, and a bottle that was missing only a few ounces. He was removed from the house on a gurney and carried off to the hospital in the ambulance. A sobbing Valerie rode with him, while Percy arranged for his wife to come watch the children.

There was no fear at the hospital, much to Valerie's astonishment. Vital signs were taken by a young resident, who pulled the stethoscope from his ears and addressed the crying woman.

"He's fine," said the resident in that voice that young doctors cultivate to get people to believe they're actually older and more experienced than the two or three years of actual medicine they've practiced might suggest.

"What do you mean, he's fine?" asked Valerie. "If he's so fine why won't he wake up?"

"Well ... er ... I don't know exactly," admitted the twenty-four-year old young man who was supposed to know everything. "But he's fine." His face got earnest. "I mean there's no indication that he's in any pain, or has anything wrong with him. His respiration and heartbeat are completely normal for a sleeping man. I don't think he's in a coma, because his reactions are all wrong for that. I'll talk to the attending physician and see if we can do some tests."

There were, in fact, tests done. Then there were more tests done. Pretty soon there were eight full fledged doctors examining Bob. They poked and prodded and drew blood and made x-ray images until they had no more tests to do. Then they sat around and were ... puzzled.

Three of them wanted to say he was in a coma, since that was a quick and easy solution to the problem, and would result in fewer people questioning their expertise, something they were now worried about.

That suggestion went down the tubes when another doctor, idly flipping through the chart said "Can't be a coma. He got an erection while the nurse was giving him a sponge bath."

"Well we could call it a coma," said one frustrated physician.

"No we can't, because it's not a coma," insisted another.

To avoid making a decision about this admittedly strange case, they put him in a room and had nurses take care of him as if he were in a coma. Then they forgot about him ... or tried to.

The next crisis concerning Bob was the first clue that something exceedingly strange was going on. The doctors, in their haste to distance themselves from a man they couldn't cure ... couldn't even diagnose, for that matter, neglected to order the kinds of things that people in comas routinely get ordered to undergo. Such as a feeding tube and a catheter.

The nurses, not having an order to do these things ... didn't. They knew it would be a problem eventually, but nobody was telling them anything about their patient. When the head nurse finally corralled the Internal Medicine doctor who was listed on Bob's chart, and informed him that the patient wasn't being fed or evacuated, there was panic. That's because an entire week had gone by.

That crisis was un-resolved in much the same way as his initial appearance and problem was ... un-resolved. When the doctor examined him, there was no sign of dehydration, and his bladder was completely normal, except that it was empty.

The doctor, knowing that no one would believe him, elected to simply tell the nurse to continue monitoring the patient, and to notify him immediately if there was any change in his condition.

The nurses shook their heads, as nurses often do when communicating with doctors, and did the things they didn't have to have a doctor's order to do. Namely, they moved him around in his bed, gave him sponge baths, and ... monitored him.

By the time the Internal Medicine Doctor realized he had something of significant scientific importance on his hands ... mainly that a man who wouldn't wake up somehow needed neither food or water to survive ... he was in the prickly position of having to admit that he had denied the patient both of those commodities.

And he couldn't do that ... now could he?

So, the timid doctor gave a pass to something that, had he pursued it, might have made both Bob and himself famous beyond measure. He did share this information with Valerie, who was properly astounded, but cautioned her not to tell anyone, lest they want to do an autopsy to find out what was going on.

"But he's not dead!" squeaked Valerie.

"Exactly," said the doctor darkly.

It didn't take long for Valerie, eyeing mounting hospital bills, to ascertain that soon, she would be a pauper.

Bob had always handled the finances in the family. He had a den, and an old roll top desk that had been his great grandfather's, given to him, oddly enough, in 1935, when Bob was only fifteen years old. The old gentleman had been over a hundred at the time, and insisted that the heirloom be passed down to Bob. His actions had been tossed off as those of a senile, but friendly old fellow, who died not long afterward. Bob's parents used it until Bob got married and moved out, at which time he took it with him.

That old desk had so many nooks and crannies in it that it took Valerie two weeks to go through everything, trying to get a handle on what she needed to do ... or even could do.

The last cranny she inspected, as is quite often the case, turned out to be the most important one in the desk. It contained an insurance policy, in the name of Bob Winkle, and insured him against the loss of income due to "accident, injury or infirmity" which caused him to be unable to continue working. Unknown to anyone currently alive, with the possible exception of Bob, who was ... and was not, exactly ... alive, he had taken out this policy on the insistent advice of the very same great grandfather who had bestowed that roll top desk on him when he was only fifteen.

"You get yourself one of them insurance policies that pays if you can't work," the old man had said in his raspy old voice. "It's important."

"But Gramps, I'm in the best shape I've ever been in in my life," objected Bob, who, at fifteen was sure nothing could ever happen to him. Besides, he had only been actually getting a pay check at his part time job for a month, and had much better uses for his money than giving it to some insurance company.

"You listen to me, boy," said the old man imperatively. "There's things you don't know about ... things we'll talk of later maybe ... but you get one of them policies. They didn't have that sort of thing when I was growin' up and I sure could have used it."

"I didn't know you were ever out of work," said Bob, who, like many grandchildren, never learn much at all about their ancestors or how they grew up.

"There's a lot you don't know," said the old man in a crotchety voice. "You just do as I say and do it quick. You unnerstand? Now, I'm tired and I want to rest. You run along now and take good care of that desk. It's been in the family a long time. And it's important, too."

Bob had not, in fact, bought the policy right away. But, when the old man suddenly died, only a few months later, his last command niggled at Bob's conscience and he then purchased the policy. He was surprised to find that, since he was so young and fit, it wasn't nearly as expensive as he expected it to be.

But, as has been said, there were lots of things Bob didn't know about at that point. In the grand scheme of things, He thought that probably didn't really matter. Had Bob and his great grandfather been able to talk more, it might have made a huge difference in the way things went.

But the old man died, and so what he might have told Bob was lost ... until Bob figured it out for himself.

That would take a shade more than fifty years.

In fact, three other people would figure out what had happened to Bob before he did. They were quite sure no one would believe them at first, so they kept it a secret, but that will be discussed later.

What was important then was that Valerie, Bob's loving wife, had him sent home, to rest in his own bed, in his own room, and collected on the insurance policy. The insurance company tried to weasel out of it, naturally. They pronounced that he hadn't had an accident, and that he wasn't injured. It was the "infirm" part they couldn't find a way around. Bob was the very definition of "infirm".

So they had to pay off. Not only that, to the the eventual horror of the broker, it was discovered there was no clause in the policy that said how long they had to pay off. That would cause problems later on, but Valerie had plenty of time to research laws and contracts and every time she threatened to take them to court they caved. She had help, from a number of researchers who found Bob's condition irresistible.

So by now you're wondering where this is all going, no doubt. The fact is that you needed to know every bit of information I've already told you ... and more ... but you'll learn that in a bit ... assuming I don't kick off like Bob's great grandfather did. If that happens this will be one of those annoying stories that got started, and then languishes, with the notation of "incomplete and inactive".

We don't want that, so I'll forge on ahead and get the rest of the story on ... paper ... more or less.

There are lots of details, but we'll skip by some of them and just say that Valerie, who still loved her unresponsive husband, provided him with the care, little though it was that was needed ... and the years went by.

Valerie was aware that he needed neither food nor water, though she did have to shave him occasionally to keep his face clean. She eventually had to give him a haircut too, but that wasn't needed all that often.

But she knew that if anyone else found out that he stayed alive and healthy without eating or drinking, things would become ... difficult. So she made sure that it looked like he had an IV tube firmly in place, and ran a tube out from under the sheet to a collection bag that always had a yellowish liquid in it, though it wasn't urine.

For the first two or three years lots of people wanted to study Bob.

But after everybody looked at him and measured him and asked their endless questions, they all shook their heads and went away. She wouldn't let them use shock therapy on him, and limited the number of times he was hooked up to an EEG or EKG, all of which indicated he was completely normal and should be awake.

Eventually, Valerie was left alone with her husband.

Now, you have to understand that Valerie Winkle was quite normal, even though her husband was not. She was, at the time he took his ... nap ... all of twenty-one years old, two years younger than Bob. They had married when she was eighteen and, during those three glorious years she had become accustomed to not only pleasing her husband after a long day's work, but to being pleased herself. While she didn't know it, Bob was, as the saying goes, hung like a horse. He had even, in Junior High School, endured the nickname "Donkey Dick", which name was given to him in the locker room after gym class.

He endured it, that is, until his father sent him to Karate lessons. His Sensei strongly preached non-violence and self defense only. But his Sensei didn't have to listen to boys (and some giggling girls) calling him "Donkey Dick", and since his feelings were hurt, Bob felt no compunction about defending that hurt. It was semantics, a word he didn't even know at the time, but he was justified in defending his feelings at the time. He parlayed the reputation he got from that into a football career in High School, earning the new nickname "Grinder" for his ... enthusiastic ... tackles.

The only reason all this matters is that Valerie, who had never had a man other than her football star husband, was used to a donkey dick on a regular basis. Now, not only did she not get to talk to the love of her life, she didn't get reamed good and proper, in the manner to which she had become accustomed.

Valerie was a chaste woman, and she took her wedding vows seriously. People, as time went by, probably would have looked the other way if she'd have decided to dally while her husband lay unresponsive in her house. One of her friends, a woman of somewhat less than sterling repute, even provided her with a "life-size" rubber replica of the very organ she no longer had access to. She blushed for days afterwards, and for months every time she saw the woman.

But she tried it. There came a night, when she had sat and talked to Bob, like the doctors had suggested, even reading to him from his favorite books, and had reached the end of her emotional rope. She retired to her own room, pulled out the dildo and managed to get it inserted, almost crying from the shame of it all.

It wasn't, shall we say, a thing that took her to the heights of passion. After fifteen or twenty minutes, she threw the thing in a drawer of her nightstand where it never saw the light of day again until a daughter found it while they were cleaning out her things after she died.

It was when she talked to Bob about that fiasco, that things improved, at least to some degree, and at least for Valerie.

It happened while she was giving him his sponge bath, and when she got to the part of him she had been trying to replace, she told him about the abortive attempt to satisfy herself.

"Bob, it was just horrible!" she exclaimed, moving the sponge over his abdomen and across his pubic hair. "It wasn't warm, like you, and it was so small! I could hardly feel the stupid thing. It wasn't like you, my darling. Oh, I miss you so much. I miss what we used to do in bed."

By now she had his penis in her hand. No one had thought to tell her that he had become erect during a sponge bath. The nurse who reported that little detail neglected to mention that she had done just a tad more than wash the massive thing she had found under the hospital sheet. And Valerie had always been prim and proper while she bathed him.

This time, however, she took just a little longer, holding that part of him that had so pleased her in the past. She rambled on until she suddenly stopped, shocked to find that what was in her hand was a completely serviceable erection, of the proportions to which she was accustomed. And ... it was nice and warm.

Valerie looked at Bob, expecting to see his eyes open and a smile on his face as he yelled "surprise!"

But he slumbered on, just as before.

Then she looked around, as if she expected to find someone else in the room. The girls were in bed, and of course no one was there. She looked back at the penis her hand was suddenly sliding up and down and licked her lips.

It wasn't as if he were dead or anything. He was still her husband. And she needed him so badly.

It took her only seconds to drop the robe she had been wearing and, blushing like a virgin bride, she climbed up on the bed, straddled her husband and...

Well, this time, those heights of passion were reached, and in a lot less than fifteen minutes.

She talked to him as she rocked back and forth, full to the brim of warm, thick, firm and living cock. She told him how wonderful he felt, and how much she loved him and, then she realized that the heights of passion were clearly in view again, and she moaned for a while.

She stopped eventually, panting.

"You never went this long with me before this," she said, her voice amazed. "I so wish you were awake to enjoy this with me."

Then she went again. He was still hard, and she was still horny, and it was during her fourth orgasm that she felt the wet heat deep inside her that rang the clarion gong in her mind that he had just completed his passion with her.

She rose off of him, staring as his thick white spend dripped out of her gaping pussy and fell back onto his now softening prick.

"Ohhh Bob!" she squealed, throwing herself down on top of him and kissing his face over and over.

Alas, his lips were not as responsive as his lower body had been.

Valerie was still euphoric, though. So much had happened in so little time that had made her life so much better that she couldn't be sad about his lack of returning her kisses. Instead, she promptly began cleaning him up again, this time without the sponge, like she had so many times before they had gotten married.

She smacked her lips when she was done, no longer ashamed to be naked with her unconscious husband, and kissed him lightly on the lips.

"Good night, my darling," she said softly. "You made me very happy tonight. Please wake up." She stood, looking down at his limp body.

In the morning she thought it was a dream. She worried about it because she knew it wasn't a dream, but somehow wanted it to be a dream. Her embarrassment was back. She was distracted and put coffee in June's cereal. June was only three, but she knew the difference between coffee and milk immediately and cried.

That upset Valerie more and she put her husband out of her mind to take care of her children.

When they went down for a nap, however, she couldn't put him out of her mind any longer.

She returned to his bed and, filled with trepidation, lifted the sheet from his nude body. More to prove that it wasn't true than anything else, she manipulated the object of her desire.

"Bob, something happened last night and I don't know if it was real or not." she said. "Are you in there Bob?"

His staff rose like a young bamboo shoot, growing visibly in her hand.

She stepped back from the bed, her mouth open, her breath frozen in her lungs.

That lasted about fifteen seconds. It's truly amazing how much can race through a human brain in a mere fifteen seconds. Valerie reached "acceptance" of the situation in only nine seconds. The other six were spent on seeing just how fast she could slip out of her dress, and bra and panties.

Then, like Annie Oakley, she rode, yipping and hooting until five year old Martha, holding her three year old sister's hand, stepped into the room to find out what was wrong with Mommy.

"What are you doing Mommy?" whined Martha, watching as her mother's breasts bounced up and down while she sat on top of Daddy, who didn't talk to anybody any more.

"I'm taking care of Daddy sweetheart." was her reply. At this point she wasn't concerned about appearances. How much would a five year old remember in a year anyway?

Well, the fact is that a five year old can remember an awful lot ... especially if she continues to see something happen year after year after year, which is exactly what Martha, June and Betty all did as they grew up. Quite frequently they got to see Mamma ... taking care of Daddy ... who one day would wake up and thank her profusely, Valerie was quite sure.

The fact that the three girls were presented with new siblings ... all boys, interestingly enough ... made an impact on them too. Even back in those days girls, when they got around twelve or thirteen, were able to figure out what sex was all about. By then, Valerie was so used to making love to her almost-but-not-quite-non-responsive husband, that she didn't even try to hide it from the girls any more. Instead, she taught them everything that was needed to run the house and take care of their father, with the exception of that one thing she reserved for herself. Language is very important, in terms of good communication. A very good example of this is that she told all her girls, "This is what Mommy does to take care of Daddy. Some day you'll get to do this, too."

She didn't mean with Bob, but the way she said it was interpreted by all three girls as exactly that. Some day they would do with their father what their mother did with their father.

Thus it was that, when Betty was thirteen, and Martha was fifteen, and their mother contracted one of the diseases that we laugh at nowadays, but which killed people quite frequently back then, Martha just naturally assume the matriarchal role in the household.

It would astonish us now, but back then, if you were well behaved, and showed an ability to cook, clean and wash the clothes, the relative who came to stay with you while your mother's body was laid to rest might actually go back home and leave you to raise yourself. It all depended on the relative. Both Bob's and Valerie's parents had passed on, and there were no really close relatives living nearby. The girls had access to the bank account, because while she was ill Valerie had instructed Martha in those matters and gotten her signature registered at the bank. They had an income, and went to school, and knew how to get medical care. So the distant cousin who stayed with them for three weeks went back home and the girls and their brothers faded from the radar of their relatives. Everyone was busy and had lots of other things to think about.

So Martha took care of her sisters and brothers. It just seemed natural to continue taking care of her father too. And since Valerie wasn't there to try to wake him up by jumping up and down on his penis ... Martha decided that "some day" had arrived.

She hadn't been much impressed with things the first time she sank down on her father's stiff prick, like she had seen her mother do so many times before. Whenever her mother did it, the penis looked wet and slippery. But when she tried it, it wasn't that way at all. In fact, it wouldn't even go inside her. She knew to play with it to get it hard, but once it was hard it just bent as she tried to sit on it. It was June who came up with the solution. She got a stick of butter and rubbed it all over their father's penis. This time, when Martha notched it in the opening of her fifteen year old pussy and sat down, the donkey dick seemed to stab upward and she was impaled. It is probable that, had she been able to climb right back off, it all would have ended there.

But her legs were more or less paralyzed by the pain of losing her maidenhead and, by the time she got her legs under her, her vaginal canal had already adapted to the point that, when she leaned forward to position her feet to stand up, and her little unused clitty pressed deliciously against Daddy's rock hard prick, she decided that maybe ... just maybe ... she'd stay there for another minute or so ... just to see if it got any better.

It did, of course, and her two sisters watched in awe as Martha began jumping up and down excitedly, eventually getting her own belly stuffed just as full of Daddy's virile spunk as Mommy ever did. And, since Martha was now the "woman of the house", she made it known in no uncertain terms that the other two girls were too young to ... take care of Daddy.

That lasted all of ten months, after which Martha wasn't as comfortable with a thick prick stuffed up inside her, since there was a baby taking up most of the room that prick used to fill. On a sunny day in 1962 Martha gave a last convulsive push, and had her father's daughter. It had been a long, hard labor for a sixteen year old girl, and Martha was a bit peeved at her father and the baby for causing her all that agony. On top of that, she couldn't think of a name for the baby. She, being tired, and it being a sunny day, she just named the girl ... Sunny.

It was while Martha was in the hospital that June, now fifteen herself, usurped the duties of ... taking care of Daddy. She had been jealous of Martha for months and months, even when Martha's belly swelled like she'd swallowed a basketball. Now that Martha couldn't do anything about it, June commenced to lose her own virginity. She remembered the scream, followed by the sobs, followed by the moans, finally followed by the joyous bouncing around Martha had done and, not being stupid, June eased herself onto her daddy's prod with much more care.

June had also shoved several things up inside her during the last year, since mean old Martha wouldn't let her use the real thing. So her defloration was, for the most part, only slightly painful, mostly because of the stretching. She sat quietly for a few minutes and began to rock like both her mother and Martha had. She had a good time from the very beginning. She had such a good time that, when Betty wandered in to watch, she insisted that Betty try taking care of daddy too. She wasn't stingy like her big sister.

Betty, always having been the youngest, and always feeling left out when her sisters got to do things before she did, was quite happy to join her sisters. She had to wait until the next day though. June's pussy was dripping with great globs of thick white stuff that Daddy had shot off inside her, but no matter how much they played with the penis that had just put it there, it wouldn't get hard again. By the next day, when they tried again, whatever had been broken had repaired itself.

Betty had a much rougher time of it. She was only fourteen and Bob really was much larger than average, in the penis department. Betty worked hard to get a little more in, and then a little more after that, and a little more after that. When she felt the head of his penis pushing at something up inside her that just wouldn't move, there was still an inch of him left outside of her. But that meant there were six or seven inches inside her, and as she began raising and lowering her tightly stuffed pussy up and down, it began to feel better and better and better. She was able to feel better for a long time until she suddenly felt something happen up inside her that was warm and felt wet too. Then her father's penis softened and, as she stood up, she too had long strings of white goo dripping out of her pussy. It was delicious for her to be like her older sisters.

So, by the time Martha got out of the hospital and back home, the cat ... or pussy, as it were ... was firmly out of the bag and firmly impaled by something long and strong that spurted regularly enough that it could have been called "Old Faithful".

After that all three girls took turns taking care of Daddy.

As things go, it was June who delivered her own sister next, in the summer of 1963. She went into labor while she was at a movie theater, which could be why she named her daughter Gidget.

Betty wasn't far behind, giving birth to her daughter before she reached her sweet sixteenth birthday. Her water broke while she was curled up in a chair reading Pollyanna to her father. Being as unimaginative as her sisters, she named the girl Polly.

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Not much has been said, thus far, about the girls' brothers. That's because there really isn't much to tell. The girls took care of the boys just like they took care of their own offspring. These days folks would be amazed at that, but back then it wasn't all that odd. Part of that was because there were fewer people around to begin with, which meant there were fewer people around to poke their noses into other people's business. There was also less government "regulation", meaning the government didn't poke its nose into people's business either. If you were well behaved and didn't draw attention to yourself, you'd pretty much be left alone. And by the time the boys went to school, Martha was old enough that nobody thought it was odd that she was in charge of a boy whose parents were marked as "deceased" on the forms.

Add in there that, at that time in American history, there were no video games to keep a boy in his room for hours. Boys went outside and played with each other. They formed impromptu baseball teams and rode bikes and climbed trees and secretly explored junk yards. The boys were busy being boys, and that's all that really needs to be said at this point.

Well, I suppose it should be pointed out, just for clarification, that the boys were not privy to how Grandpa was being taken care of. Grandpa was boring. All he ever did was sleep. Nor did the girls ever develop any interest in the other penises in the house. They got all the dick they wanted from Bob.

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What with the insurance from dear old Daddy, and the life insurance from their mother's untimely death, the girls did fine, even though every time they got pregnant from taking care of Daddy again ... they had boys.

It sounds like the girls had no thought for anything other than riding their father's boner. But that's not true. They did become a bit more circumspect about their daily ... and nightly ... attempts to make sure their sleeping Daddy was happy and would be happy when he finally woke up. The fact that they were getting all the stiff prick they wanted ... when they wanted it ... and that the man giving them all that stiff prick didn't argue, or fart, or snore or tell them they were stupid, made them treasure all that quality time with their father. They also learned in school that incest was frowned upon by the community at large, so they kept their activities quiet, both from the community, and their brothers, who grew up, moved out and started families of their own.

As such, they made sure their own children ... who, like their mothers, were also Bob's children ... were not aware of what went on in the room where Grandpa was sleeping.

By the time Bob's granddaughters, Sunny, Gidget and Polly, got to be to the age where it was more or less natural for them to ask their mothers who daddy was, and why nobody had ever seen daddy, the three women simply explained that, during the sexual revolution of the sixties, things like that happened. To divert attention away from fathers, the girls were encouraged to read stories to their grandfather so that, when he finally woke up, he'd be happy.

The girls, however, could think of a lot of things to do that were more interesting than reading to a sleeping man, things that didn't involve the sleeping man at all, and they usually did those things. Thus it was that after the "grandchildren" were all in bed, their mothers went the extra mile to ensure Bob's happiness themselves. They had, by now, learned to use birth control, else Bob's "grandchildren" number in the teens.

Eventually, first Sunny, then Gidget and finally young Polly went away to college, followed by their brothers as the years went by. Their mothers, who had raised their children in the big old house - sort of a mini village kind of concept - finally had a chance to find a place of their own. June and Betty found cheap houses not far from the homestead and Martha stayed with Daddy. All three, however, kept taking care of Daddy, who slept on. Almost everyone in town was impressed (some positively and some not so much) with how Bob's daughters had all forgone a lot what most women wanted - a husband - in the pursuit of taking care of the old man, who somehow didn't look old enough to be a grandfather. But then again, everyone knew that sleeping kept you young, and that's all he ever did. Besides, while the women didn't have husbands, they obviously had round heels, as evidenced by all those babies they'd had without all those husbands. Many a man in Circleton wished he could have been one of the fathers of some of those children ... or the next one. But their advances were rebuffed, and in a nice way that didn't make the men feel dirty. Basically, Martha, June and Betty were well liked by everyone in the neighborhood.

Sunny, Gidget and Polly did all the things girls everywhere do. They met boys, loved them, hated them, and met more. They studied, had sleepovers, went to parties and lost their virginities in ways completely different than their mothers had. Though, not to put too fine a point on it, Gidget lost her virginity to a professor who actually looked older than her grandfather did, so one could suppose her experience was close to that of her mother's. The man "prepped" Gidget during several of their heavy petting sessions, making sure that she could take two fingers before he skewered her with his academic member.

Sunny succumbed to a smooth talking assistant football coach when she was a 19 year old cheerleader at Crampton University. She was quite sure she could marry him and live happily ever after. When she told him about the happy news that they were going to be parents, he was less than enthusiastic about it, but agreed to "do the right thing." She named the little girl she bore him Valerie, in honor of her grandmother, the baby's great grandmother. She found out fairly soon that despite "doing the right thing" her husband was a louse and divorced him when little Valerie was only five. She graduated and became employed, and went on with life. She never remarried, having decided that men were more trouble than they were worth.

Gidget managed to parallel her cousin's story remarkably closely. She went to a different university where she became the victim of another educator, as described before. He swore he was going to divorce his wife as he was spurting deep inside Gidget's unprotected pussy, and it only took her two or three months to figure out what kind of asshole he was. She broke it off, changed colleges, and had the asshole's daughter in 1982. She was named Rebecca, primarily because the professor who had knocked her up was also a closet anti-Semitic and she knew that giving his daughter a good Hebrew name would hurt him more than anything else she could do.

Polly, determined not to make the same mistake as her two cousins, shopped around until she found a man who was sensitive, caring and polite in the extreme. He also didn't push her into anything, which made her feel better, if not a little superior to her cousins. In fact, she managed to remain a virgin until 1983, when she was every bit of twenty. She was both amazed and delighted that, when she proposed, to the man who she finally awarded her virginity to, he not only accepted ... he helped her plan the most beautiful wedding she could have imagined. He also helped decorate the house and made baby clothes for their daughter, named Francine, born in 1984. He was better with a sewing machine than she was. Her only complaint was that her perfect husband didn't seem to have much of a sex drive. That was because, as she found out in the nineties, when it was okay to admit these things, that her husband was, and always would be, a flaming homosexual. He had married her in an attempt to "fit in". Still, he was as much fun to be around as any of her girlfriends, and they stayed together ... as friends.

As fate would decree, all three cousins ended up right back in Circleton, so named, supposedly, because a group of settlers who made it all the way across the prairie and the mountains without incident, had to circle the wagons to fight off a band of roving Paiute Indians when they finally got to the West coast. The settlers had actually won the day. They stayed there and built a town, figuring that if the Indians wanted it enough to fight for it, there must be some reason. No gold was ever found in those parts, but by then everyone was pretty much tired of moving.

At any rate, there they were, in sleepy, backwater Circleton, leading their separate lives, while their mothers took care of Grandfather, who slept on, just as he always had.

There was a natural inclination for their daughters to band together. While their ages were disparate, they were cousins, and that counted for quite a lot. It didn't hurt that their mothers, who were technically cousins, had been raised in the same house and thought of themselves as sisters. The younger cousins played together, went to school together, got in trouble together and basically acted like sisters themselves, even though they lived in separate houses.

They also spent what some folks might call an inordinate amount of time standing beside their great grandfather's bed, staring at him. Their young, fertile minds and young fertile imaginations came up with scenario after scenario of what was wrong with Great Grandpa Winkle, what he was thinking as he lay there, and what would happen when he woke up (they all just knew he'd wake up).

While their mothers had little interest in the old man ... who didn't look at all old to the girls ... his great granddaughters learned from their grandmothers that he enjoyed being read to, and liked for people to tell him stories, and describe their day to him and all that sort of thing. No one ever told them how it was actually known that Bob liked that, but then kids will believe most anything a trusted adult tells them.

So they did that. And, at the odd moment when the other two weren't there, each young girl talked to the only man they felt like they could confide practically anything to without worrying about what he'd say back, or who he would share those secrets with. They talked about all kinds of things they'd never have talked about with a man who was awake, including, as they grew older, how they felt about certain boys, and what their bodies felt like sometimes when they touched themselves certain places ... or when a boy touched them in those places ... things like that. In short, he got told a lot of these kinds of secrets.

Great Grandpa Winkle was a very good listener.

Of course it wasn't all sugar and spice for Bob's descendents. There came a time, in 1970, for instance, when a man from the insurance company came, saying that the company had been paying disability for too long, and demanding to see the beneficiary. He was duly taken into the room where Bob Winkle lay. He didn't believe it was Bob, since the man in his files would have to have been at least fifty-five years old. This man was obviously only in his early to mid twenties. A court case ensued, which was resolved by the taking of Bob's fingerprints, which proved that he was, indeed, the same Bob Winkle that the insurance company was indebted to. Heads were shaken, but a court ruling is a court ruling and all the people involved were too busy with making money to seek further into Bob's condition. Once again, he was forgotten by all except his daughters, and their granddaughters.

And so, life went on. Martha, June and Betty had settled into a rotating schedule in which they cared for their father, who was still ensconced in the family home which Martha lived in, even though the papers on the deed still listed her father and mother as owners. Each of the women, now in her early fifties, mounted his sleeping form with great regularity, sighing and moaning as they gently rocked themselves to sweet orgasms, and welcoming into their bellies the warm spurts of his not so sleeping issue. He had given each of them a beautiful daughter, and several sons. His sons ... or grandsons, depending on how you look at it, had all become successful at various pursuits and were pillars of their respective communities. While his other daughters, or granddaughters, again depending on how you look at it, had been somewhat less successful in their pursuit of true love, they were, for the most part, well adjusted and carried on with little more pain in their lives than anyone else would experience.

***************

 

It was a sunny morning in May, 2000, when Betty shuddered, her pussy clasping her sleeping father's prick tightly as waves of pleasure swept over her naked body. At fifty-two, Betty was still a healthy and well preserved woman. She would like to have lost fifteen pounds, and she mourned the loosening of the muscles that had held her generous breasts up for so many years. She observed this as she held up those breasts, one in each hand, squeezing the fat brown nipples that perched on their tips. She had to hurry. Her granddaughter, Francine was due to arrive in half an hour for a birthday shopping trip. Betty had already had one orgasm, and was tempted to go for another one. She decided she didn't have time though.

Over the years she had learned that she could make her father's long hard prick spurt whenever she wanted it to by using her pussy muscles just so ... by rocking just this way ... and making him cum was a habit by now. She and her sisters had decided long ago that Daddy deserved to cum as part of his "care". She began to do what she knew would get his prick to spurt.

Her father, as usual, made no sign or movement, but she felt his wonderful long penis swell a bit and then the warm wetness she loved so much filled her deep inside. She leaned over, as she had done so many times in the past, kissing his slack lips softly.

"I love you Daddy." she said softly. It was something she had been saying for so long that it was a routine statement.

It was the same general routine that she had carried out, as had her sisters, for almost forty years.

It should not be hard, therefore, to imagine the level of her surprise when her father's eyes opened and stared up into hers.

Betty's first reaction, the most normal of reactions, was shock. Part of that shock was because his eyes were brilliant sky blue. She had never seen her father's eyes, or at least couldn't remember seeing them. He had, after all, gone to sleep when she was still suckling her mother's breasts. Part of that shock was because, while she "knew" that this man was her father, his youthful appearance belied that fact. He looked like a man in his early to mid twenties. While she had been young, that hadn't seemed notable. But as she aged, and he stayed the same, her mind had begun to rebel at the notion that this handsome young man could be anything other than what he appeared to be ... just a handsome young man.

It was very conflicting, because she loved the concept that he was her father, and while she had only nice memories of the man who had impregnated her four times, it was still difficult for her to fully grasp the idea that he really was her father. Maybe that was one reason why it was so easy for her to have let herself be impregnated by him. Who knows? It was, after all, an unusual situation.

Another part of her shock was because he took a deep breath and let out a long sigh, part of which was probably due to the fact that his prick was right in the middle of spurting her full of semen. She had neither seen nor heard him do anything other than lie there quietly. And, of course, part of the shock was because while her sisters had always stubbornly claimed he would wake up some day ... she secretly didn't believe it.

But, her sisters were right. Today was that day. He had awakened.

Betty's next reaction followed closely. She was suddenly intimately aware of how she was dressed ... or rather not dressed ... and, despite the fact that she had done this very same thing with this very same man, literally thousands of times, she was acutely aware that she was engaged in having sex with a stranger.

Her face was only inches from his, her body frozen as if she were made of stone. She stared into those endlessly deep blue eyes. His penis gave two more convulsive spurts and stopped.

You could literally have heard a pin drop.

Chapter Two

Bob Winkle returned to consciousness in much the same manner as a man who has been sleeping through a thunder storm, and suddenly awakes to find a tornado is in the process of ripping his house to shreds. There was a lot going on, and his mind couldn't seem to center on any one thing. Among the various different stimuli vying for his primary attention were thoughts, some unconscious, such as the fact that he was twenty-three years old, that Valerie had said she was going to fix meatloaf tonight, and that his Barca Lounger was so comfortable that it felt like he was actually lying in bed.

He was also aware, on some level, that he was in the act of making love, though the circumstances were strange. He felt his penis ejaculating, which was something that couldn't be mistaken for anything else. But the woman on top of him - that, in itself was strange ... no woman had ever been on top of him before - was a complete stranger. That didn't bode well for him at all. No wife has the capacity to understand why, on her third wedding anniversary, her husband has sex with a complete stranger.

He remembered hearing the word "Daddy" as his consciousness returned, and he knew he was a father, with three children, but the voice hadn't sounded like that of a child.

He was also hungry. Famished, in fact. And thirsty too, so much so that his mouth felt like cotton.

As his mind began to disregard some things and tune in to others, the woman sitting on top of his just-finished-spurting prick got top priority. Not unusual, under the circumstances.

"Hello." said Bob thickly. To be honest, he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Daddy!" squeaked Betty. To continue being honest, she couldn't think of anything else to say either.

"Daddy?" rasped Bob.

"Daddy!" Betty repeated. Her mind still hadn't adapted to the situation. Her statement was both a simple repeat of what she'd said, in answer to his question, and a shout to herself that this really was Daddy ... her Daddy ... her awake Daddy. At the same time, while part of her mind was telling her to do something!, another part of her mind simply said: "Okay, we have an emergency here. We're not trained for this kind of emergency. Shut down all systems and restart to see if that does anything."

Bob was still trying to figure out what "Daddy!" meant, coming from this woman's mouth, when her quite lovely blue eyes rolled up in her head and she flopped limply down on top of him. He had fleeting thoughts that her breasts were warm and soft on his chest, and that her hair smelled good, and that she was heavy.

He had another fleeting thought that Valerie might walk in at any moment, and that she would not understand or appreciate what was going on here.

Then his mind screamed "What is going on here!?"

He pushed the woman off of him and she flopped bonelessly beside him on the bed.

On the bed.

He was in a bed ... not in his Barca Lounger. His head swiveled as he sat up. The woman's right leg was still lying across his thighs and they acted as ballast to help him sit up in the soft bed. Yet another part of his mind whispered that he needed to get a little more exercise, since it shouldn't be that hard just to sit up. His muscles felt slightly weak for some reason.

He could tell he was in his bedroom. Or at least it was very like his bedroom. The bed was the same ... his bed ... and some of the furniture was exactly the same, though it had been moved from where it had been when he'd decided to take a nap ... fully dressed ... in the living room ... in his Barca Lounger ...

Bob looked at the woman curiously. He moved her leg and it plopped down as she rolled the rest of the way onto her back. She looked to be about his mother's age and there was something eerily familiar about her. He examined her face, and was sure he must know her from somewhere, though he couldn't for the life of him remember seeing her anywhere. Women her age didn't travel in his circles all that much. His eyes strayed to her breasts, which were trying to fall off her chest, but were held there by tightly stretched skin. They had more the appearance that they were slightly drunk, leaning, but not quite falling to her sides. The nipples stuck up as if they were erect. He had the sudden urge to pinch one, to see if it was as hard as it looked, but didn't. His eyes went naturally downward to a smooth patch of brown pubic hair that lay flat on her mons above full sperm-covered labia.

Sperm-covered labia.

His mind remembered the feeling of orgasm as he awoke and he looked in his own lap at his shrunken, messy penis. It was sperm covered too. He had just had sex with this woman.

It was obvious, but crazy too, in that insane way that jars the mind and makes the world twist suddenly ninety degrees off true. He couldn't remember getting into bed with her, much less having sex with her. It was like a dream. Like his mind was playing some trick on him.

His mind began to play more tricks on him. He had vague, gauzy memories of this happening before ... many times before ... of orgasms while he slept ... of voices speaking to him ... telling him things. As the memories swirled in his brain he tried to pin them down and examine them. He had fleeting images of stories being read to him, of people asking him questions ... and telling him that they loved him. The only thing he could center on was that all the voices were female. One memory popped in his mind like a soap bubble and the suddenly remembered voice of a woman saying "June! Again?! You're insatiable!" and another female voice responding "I can't help it. He's so hard and it feels soooo good. Oooooo he's cumming Martha! He's shooting in me Martha!"

Then that memory vanished and he was left to wonder who June and Martha were. He had children named June and Martha, but these had been the voices of women, not toddlers.

His eyes returned to the naked woman's face. She looked vaguely like Valerie, his wife. He looked longer. Yes, the jaw, the eyebrows and the cheekbones! They were what his wife might look like if she were older than she was. He stared, seeing his wife's face suddenly aged twenty or thirty years.

He shook his head. This was insane. Something was wrong. He had to find Valerie and find out what was happening to him.

Leaving the unconscious woman on the bed - he was so distracted that he didn't even cover her up - he swung his legs down off the edge of the bed. He felt weak and staggered as he stood, having to help himself up by pushing on the bed with his hands. He stood, weaving drunkenly as he got his bearings, and looked around for his clothing. Not seeing anything in plain sight, he stumbled over to the dresser and opened his underwear drawer.

It was full of T shirts.

He held one up. It was obviously too small to fit him.

He opened other drawers, finding all kinds of women's clothing, but nothing of his. His brain was beginning to hurt from the strangeness he was experiencing. He'd find Valerie. She'd know what was happening. He began stepping toward the bedroom door.

***************

 

Francine breezed through her great aunt's front door as if she lived in the house. She'd spent enough time in this house that she knew it up and down. Sideways too, for that matter. It had developed as a hangout for her and her cousins, when they wanted to get together, but not under the eyes of their parents. Great Aunt Martha (sometimes just Aunt Martha) was pretty cool for somebody her age, and left them alone, for the most part. Fran and her cousins, Becca and Val, had spent hours and hours together in this house. When they were younger they had played, sometimes with dolls, sometimes board games, sometimes other more active games, like hide and seek. As they grew older they spent more time talking. They talked about everything from their favorite TV shows to fashion, to why the man called their great grandfather, but who looked about twenty, slept in that bed in the other room for all these years.

At first they hadn't believed that the man had slept for years. But as their own years piled up, and they never saw him wake, he became another fixture in the house. They watched their grandmothers read to the man, sitting beside the bed with their reading glasses on, reading a chapter or two from some book to the sleeping man. Eventually they took turns reading to him too, the only difference being they read things they thought were good, rather than things they thought their sleeping great grandfather might like. It was difficult for them to believe that he would ever awaken, or that he could hear them.

Still, there was something calming and nice about reading to him. That led eventually to saying other things to him, and asking him questions. All three girls began to think of him as some mysterious power who heard their complaints, and dreams, and wishes and somehow could do something about them. After a camping trip all three young girls would troop in and tell him all about what had happened, and what was fun, and what was not. Individually, as they grew into adolescence, they told him other things, secret things, things they didn't even tell each other.

Then one day, while Val was fourteen, Becca was twelve and Fran was ten, they were playing hide and seek in the house where their great grandfather lay sleeping, something happened that changed their lives. They didn't think about it that way, but it changed the way they thought about things ... so it changed their lives.

As the youngest, Fran was "it" first, of course, and had to hide her eyes in a corner and count to a hundred slowly while Val and Becca hid somewhere in the house. It was a big house, with both a basement and an attic, so their games were both long and instructive.

On this day, Val, whose grandmother owned the house, decided to hide in the attic. She had hidden there before, and there was one place she'd eyed for a long time, but had never used. There was an old roll top desk against one wall. It was rumored to have belonged to the very first Winkle who came to America way back in 1899 or some such thing. It was made of some dark, almost black wood which was very hard, and beautiful in a dusty sort of way.

The girls didn't know it, but this had been Bob's favorite piece of furniture, the very same one in which Valerie had found the insurance policy ... the desk that was a gift from Bob's aged great grandfather. Bob had used it as a home office, with its myriad of cubby holes and little drawers and slots in which a whole life's worth of bills, correspondence and important papers had been stored. It was his very attachment to it that caused it to end up in the attic. Valerie, when her husband refused to wake, went through several phases of grief. During one of them, she moved everything that reminded her of her sleeping husband's normal life to the attic. Some of it had come back out again, over the years, but the desk, weighing hundreds of pounds, sat there, still full of papers that were now thirty or forty years old.

There was a hole under the desk, for a person's knees, and a bulky old wooden desk chair that filled that hole. It was Val's opinion that, if she removed the chair, got in the hole and then pulled the chair back in behind her, no one would think to look for her there.

She was right in that. She was so right that she sat in the hole, under the desk, for almost forty-five minutes, once seeing Fran's skinny legs walking right by where she was hiding. The stakes in this game were high, since whoever stayed hidden the longest would be exempt from the next session of helping Great Grandma Martha, or Great Aunt Martha, depending on who you were, wash dishes. The admittedly sweet, but also slightly odd old woman seemed to have this equally odd idea that washing dishes together by hand was a bonding experience that all young girls should participate in frequently.

So Val sat patiently, waiting for Fran to come around and announce defeat to the room in general, before going on to announce it all over the house. And, as she sat, trying to get out of more "bonding" with her great grandmother, Val got bored. And, as she got more and more bored, she did the only thing she could. She examined her surroundings closely. And, as she examined things around her closely, she observed something singularly odd.

She knew there was a drawer in the desk that was right above a person's lap when they sat there. She had been in that drawer numerous times, looking for treasure, and at the odd things that were in there. For instance, there was an odd silver thing that looked like pliers, but was used to punch a single hole in a piece of paper. She and her cousins had figured out that much, but couldn't figure out why anyone would want to do that in the first place.

There were other interesting and strange things in that drawer too, but that wasn't what got her attention. What got her attention was the fact that that drawer was only about a foot deep. Yet, as she looked at the underside of the hole, she could see that the drawer could be ... should be ... twice that long. And ... there was a square of wood visible, with four edges, in the space that wasn't being used by the drawer. It looked a little like a trap door, with a slot in it, and a little metal bulge in the middle of the slot. She reached up and fingered the little metal bulge, more out of idle curiosity than actually trying to make anything happen, but the results were both interesting and surprising.

There was a squeak and the bulge moved. One edge of the square dropped down slightly, like a trap door trying to open, and then stopped.

Val reached for that edge and pulled gently. The little door opened wider, until it hung down at a forty-five degree angle. She couldn't see into whatever was exposed, because it faced the chair. She pushed the door back up and pushed the chair out, scooting out after it. She wriggled around, her fourteen year old body being cramped in the small space, until she could reach and pull the door down again.

What was revealed to her was a compartment, about a foot square, and perhaps four inches deep. In it rested a dusty book about an inch thick.

Holding her breath for some reason she wasn't thinking about (and couldn't have identified if she had been thinking about it), she reached gingerly for the book. When she pulled it down she saw it was leather bound, the surface smooth and deep brown under the dust covering it. She brushed at the surface of the cover with her hand and blew away a cloud of dust. Dim gold colored letters in a line across the surface were revealed.

Backing out now, because it was too dark under the desk, her desire to hide had vanished. She sat on the floor, the chair pushed back further, examining the letters. They looked gold, or what had once been gold colored, and were impressed into the surface of the leather somehow. She recognized it as Old English lettering, which was hard for her to make out, both because of its faintness, but also because the letters were so embellished, with extra whorls and lines in them.

The first letter evaded her completely, it was so ornate. The second was an "a" and the third looked like a lower case "n". Then there was a short space and another outrageously ornate capital letter, followed by what was obviously an "i", another "n" and possibly an "h".

"Gotcha!" shouted Fran, who had Becca with her.

Val was so startled that she dropped the book when she jumped. She felt a flash of anger at having been found by the younger girl, and her adolescent mind snapped to that problem.

"I wasn't hiding any more!" she announced. "You took too long to find me and I came out."

"Oh horse puckey." snorted Fran. "That's not the rule and you know it. I got you fair and square."

Becca, less intent on ending the game or winning, which she already hadn't done, was the first to notice the odd posture that Val was in. The fact that she was sitting on the floor wasn't so odd. It was where on the floor she was sitting that seemed strange. It was almost like she had pulled out the desk chair and then sat down on the floor instead. Becca saw the book lying in Val's lap.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing.

"Oh!" squealed Val, remembering the book and forgetting to continue arguing that she hadn't lost the game after all. "I found it while I was hiding. It was in a secret compartment of the desk!"

This was an announcement of great import to her cousins. They had all examined the desk and its contents in the past, as they dreamed and imagined of finding treasure or secrets. All they had found were old papers and things, some of which they still hadn't figured out what were for. They had gone back again and again, searching for just such a secret compartment, sure that it existed, and sure that it contained something of great value.

They had eventually given up on that dream.

Now it was suddenly reawakened, and visions of secret bank accounts, or maps to buried treasure leapt into the girls' minds.

"It looks like a book." said Becca, her fingers itching to touch it.

"Of course it's a book." muttered Val disgustedly, brushing her lap off and standing up.

"What's in it?" asked Becca eagerly.

"I don't know yet." said Val, clutching the find to her burgeoning breasts. "I was looking at it when you two scared me half to death."

"Well open it!" shouted the excited girl.

"I will." said Val, suddenly sensing the power she held in her hands. Her cousins wanted to see what was in the book, and she controlled that right now. She wanted to see what was in it too, of course, but one woman's power over another cannot be easily dismissed. "I was trying to figure out what's on the front of it. I'll open it in a minute." she said. She watched her cousins to see if her power had been recognized. She was gratified to see both girls tense and squirm. Power is so delicious to wield.

"Hurry up!" squealed Fran, young enough that she didn't realize she was playing right into Val's self satisfied little power trip.

Then, in a flash, Val's appetite for being in control was satisfied and her own eagerness took the fore.

"Look at the letters!" she said, thrusting the book out, the cover facing the other two girls.

"I can't read them." complained Fran, still bouncing around, wanting to open the book and be stunned by what was revealed inside.

Little did she know how stunning the contents of that small book would be.

The girls tried to puzzle out the letters for a minute or so, but the suspense was too much, and finally Val turned the cover, lying it flat on the old desk's surface.

Spidery script was revealed. Long lines of it, closely spaced, covered the first page. It, too, was difficult to read, being both tiny and faded. More pages were turned, looking for anything that they could easily recognize.

But the whole book was the same. They turned at last to the last page, where a signature flowed almost halfway across the bottom. It was that signature that caused them to take the time to figure out what was in the book in later days. It was that signature that made their hearts burst with curiosity, and awakening as to how special their family was ... how exceptionally special their great grandfather was. It was that signature that changed their lives forever.

In flowing script, in letters large enough for them to easily read, was the signature that they knew could completely overturn their lives, and the lives of all those around them. That signature exploded in their minds with the effect of a nuclear explosion.

Just twelve little letters turned their game into something that would affect them both immediately, and for the rest of their lives. Those twelve little letters were:

Rip Van Winkle.

***************

 

Every child in 1970 had heard the fairy tale of Rip Van Winkle, the man of Dutch extraction, the man of no account who had gotten drunk on magical liquor one day and then fallen asleep, to awake twenty years later. The tale was originally told to encourage sobriety and a good work ethic in youngsters of the early nineteen hundreds.

But it was only an old fairy tale. Everyone knew that.

Now, to these young girls, however, there were some obvious questions, and some equally obvious indications that no one in their family had ever mentioned. The name of the man sleeping just downstairs ... Winkle ... for instance. And the fact that he had been asleep for as long as anyone could remember. As unlikely as it was that no one in the family had ever considered those two clues together, it was just as unlikely that three intelligent girls could fail to notice those clues, with that book, and its mysterious signature in their possession.

After their intuitive leap that somehow their great grandfather was related to Rip Van Winkle, the next thing that burst upon their new consciousness was that everyone else in the family obviously knew about this ... and had kept it secret from them. They didn't stop to think how hard that would have been for anyone who knew the "truth". They didn't think about the fact that, had anyone known, money could have been made off that fact, or that doctors would be constantly in attendance of the man, or even that he probably wouldn't even be in the bed downstairs if the family, or the public at large knew he was associated with, or related to the fabled Rip Van Winkle.

Instead, all they thought of was that they had discovered secret, hidden knowledge, which they obviously were not supposed to have, and which they would make a blood oath never to reveal. They even cut their fingers to exchange blood in the old Indian way as they made the solemn pact. It was something that came to adolescent girls easily, and the romanticism of what they had found, and the secret they ... secretly shared ... kept their bond for them, even up until the day he awakened.

To be fair, as the girls got older and older, they came to the understanding that the secret knowledge they had probably was not known to the adults in their lives. By then, though, it was too late to proudly produce the amazing little journal and chirp "See what I found Mommy? Isn't it interesting? See the old English letters on the front that say Van Winkle?" No, by then their secret was so dark and so buried that they still could not bring themselves to tell anyone about it. Besides, by then, they were jaded enough by the world to assume that no one would believe them OR the journal either, even if they brought it out into the light of day.

But they believed it was true.

Much time was spent poring over the spidery writing, which detailed the account of what happened to Rip, their great great great great grandfather. They eventually all became expert at deciphering his cramped writing in the thin book, and all three of them read the account of his life, as recorded in the journal.

For that is what they had found.

They had found the journal he had kept after awakening in the Catskills, where almost none recognized him, nor believed he was who he claimed to be.

Rip had been lucky enough that old Peter Vanderdonk had recognized him and supported his story, describing a supernatural group of boatmen who were rumored to return to the mountains every so often to play ninepins. He himself had heard their thunder in the past. At last Rip was allowed to be who he was, though few actually believed it.

Rip had moved in with his daughter and resumed his old lifestyle, living to a ripe old age, again a normal man.

Still, the story of the crazy old man who claimed to have slept for so long skittered around in the dark of night in towns and villages not so far away, who had heard the legend. They used it to frighten children into behaving themselves, and to turn drunkards away from the thing they loved so much.

He told how he was found, years after he woke, by a man named Diedrich Knickerbocker, from New York City, a man who was researching old Dutch customs, and he told Knickerbocker his story, loaning him the journal for a span of weeks, so that the lessons he had learned by his harrowing experience could be passed on to others. At the time, his tale had been all but forgotten as succeeding generations put less and less credence into the truth of his ramblings. He mourned, in the journal, how his grandchildren, proud to be a part of the new America, changed their names, dropping the Dutch "Van" so that they would no longer be associated with the doddering old drunk who told the crazy tale of little people and magical drink and a long long nap. He mourned the fact that even he had to use the name Winkle in his new life, for his old name was too well known after Knickerbocker wrote his tale and he was harassed by sensation seekers.

He told of how his new life was much more successful than his last, and how he had given up strong drink. He talked of new children, though he never listed a new wife, and it was unclear who the mother of his new children was.

His last entry told how he had adjusted to his new life, and that he was putting his old one away. He wrote how he planned to secret the journal in the desk he had brought with him from England when he crossed the big ocean on a sailing ship so long ago. Then he said his will would demand that the desk, with its secret contents, be passed down to the elder males of the line. He was worried that what had happened to him might happen in some way to others of his line in the future, and he wanted to warn them.

No hand had touched that journal since then, they believed, until Val pulled it from its hiding place.

Oddly, while they talked with each other frequently about the information in the journal, the level of secrecy that surrounded the journal prevented them from telling even their sleeping great grandfather what they had found.

Chapter Three

Over the next six years, the girls matured and their relationship with their great grandfather deepened in a way that, to an outsider would have been fascinating and strange. It would have been strange to their mothers too, who had basically ignored the sleeping man in the bed, since their mothers did all the taking care of him ... in more ways than one.

Martha, June and Betty, knew that the day would come when they could no longer care for their father, and they knew that their daughters had no real connection to the man. They also knew that, had Sunny, Gidget and Polly known the facts, they might have felt a lot more connection to their grandfather ... who was actually their father ... and the father of all their brothers too. But that was a family secret, and though telling Sunny, Gidget and Polly the actual identity of their father was discussed on more than a few occasions, it was always agreed that no good could come of that. Their daughters had enough problems with men as it was, and didn't need anything else to upset their worlds.

But, some day, someone would have to take over the care of Bob Winkle.

And so the grandmothers chose their granddaughters as the persons to eventually pass that particular torch to. They planned on waiting until the girls had finished college. Then, perhaps, they would be mature enough to take over. There were hot debates between Martha and her sisters about just how much would be told to the three young women. Those debates had never resulted in a clear decision as to exactly what ... care ... would be described ... and prescribed. They all knew that if the man didn't wake up soon, it would be taken out of their hands. Once he went over a hundred, someone such as the insurance people would take notice of his history, and they would no longer be able to keep a lid on things.

Val, Becca and Fran had no grandfathers, in the normal sense of the word. Only Fran had a father she knew and talked to, but his dad was dead. Sunny had no contact with her ex-husband's family. It would have been confusing to an outsider, or even an insider who hadn't grown up knowing the situation. Bob, on the surface, was their great grandfather, when in reality he was their grandfather. Or maybe he was both. It was easy to get confused. But it was also easy to encourage everyone in the family to just call him Grandpa. Everyone knew exactly who you were referring to if you just said "Grandpa".

So they taught the girls to read to him, and encouraged them to talk to him as if he could hear them, like any grandpa would listen. It was a mission of mercy and love, which was easy for the girls to understand when they were under ten years of age, if a bit harder to believe as they grew older and began to doubt.

But the finding of Rip's journal changed all of that. Now the girls knew that he would wake up some day ... just like Rip had. And, since Rip had slept only twenty years, it stood to reason that Bob would wake up soon. He was, at the time of the finding of the journal, already twenty-four years overdue to come out of his slumber.

Rip had talked at some length about his theory of why things had happened to him the way they had. His level of scientific knowledge was severely limited, and a lot of his rambling had to do with overtones of divine punishment, or the winds of fate, or maybe even witchcraft ... all unscientific explanations for what had happened to him. But he also predicted that, whatever it was that had happened to him, it might happen to another member in the family. It was for this reason, he said, that he wrote the journal.

The girls, as they decoded and read about his life, had the benefit of a good American education, though, and as time went on they postulated a genetic flaw, or capability, depending on how you looked at it, that was recessive, and so didn't repeat itself very often, and which caused the sleeping "sickness" they witnessed. They had no idea how close to the truth they were in that hypothesis.

It was the deepening of this bond between three young girls and a man who had never said a word to them that caused them to begin to confide in him their most secret feelings. He suddenly had a magical quality about him, and being with him made them feel like some of that magic might just rub off. In a strangely familiar way - one could argue about their genetics - they reacted to him in much the same way as their great grandmother had when she gave him that sponge bath that had such a profound impact on her and her daughter's lives.

Not that they were taught to give him sponge baths. Their grandmothers still reserved that right for themselves.

But they were growing adolescent girls.

And they were as curious about men as all adolescent girls are.

As such, when they were alone with him, they had an opportunity that few girls have to assuage that curiosity. They explored. All of them lifted the sheet and stared for long minutes at his manly equipment. And all of them eventually touched that wrinkled worm that they had been told - at least so far as the ones on boys - would get long and hard and was supposed to go in a girl's vagina.

Val and Becca touched it longer than little Fran did, and discovered, almost as their great grandmother did, that there was life in that odd looking lump of flesh.

As she began to date Val ... practiced ... on the sleeping man the things she felt the urge, or was requested to do with the boys she went out with. This, she kept secret, even from her cousins, but as she tried each new thing, she talked to her sleeping relative, telling him what she wanted to do ... asking him if it would be okay for her to try it on him ... telling him she hoped it was as much fun for him as it was for her, and wondering why his penis seemed to be so much longer and larger than any of the ones she saw on boys her own age.

Her specialty, as it turned out, was masturbation. She soon learned that it was messy, but a girl at school told her the solution was to catch it in a towel or washcloth. You could then fold it up and the mess was controlled. It also kept you from having to fight the boy off in case he wanted to do other things with his penis. Val perfected it on great grandpa who produced a lot more sperm than the boys on her dates. That, for the most part, was all she ever did, either in the bedroom with the sleeping man, or on those dates.

Becca did virtually the same thing, also keeping it secret, except that the girl she talked to said to take it in your mouth. Then you could either swallow or spit to control the mess, and the boys just loved it. The first time she tried it, she handled Bob's cock until it was long and hard and then tentatively put her lips over the sheath-covered head. She pulled off quickly, making a face and trying to taste something that, it turned out, just wasn't there. It felt strange in her mouth, but there was no bad taste, like she had expected. She skinned the foreskin down and tried it again. This time everything that touched her mouth was smooth and hard, and she liked it much better. So she kept licking and sucking the thing, finding that it was very exciting to do so. She was only sixteen at the time, and the sudden rush of salty/sweet fluid in her mouth not only surprised her, but it completely unnerved her as well.

While she knew that something came out of that amazing thing, she hadn't ever been able to tell when it was going to happen. Usually it happened after she stroked it a lot, maybe fifteen minutes. When she put her mouth on it, it exploded in less than five. Then her mouth was full of something she suddenly didn't want to taste. But, by the time she got to the bathroom, her stomach heaving and her hand keeping her mouth closed, the emergency seemed to have passed.

She did spit, but she didn't upchuck, and the lingering taste of his spunk didn't seem so bad as it first had. By the time she got back to clean him up, she decided it hadn't been bad at all. The next time she got some time alone with him, she repeated her experiment and this time she savored his offering, swirling it in her mouth and swallowing it down.

She had done so countless times since, making that a special little ceremony she did with him. She learned the hard way that the spunk of different men has different tastes, some of it not so good, and while she eagerly drank her great grandfather's spend, most of the other, when she was aware it was about to come out, she let fly into the air, watching in glee as the boy groaned and cried out and promised her anything at all if she'd just leave her mouth on him.

For Fran, the discovery that Great Grandpa Winkle had what she secretly called ... his winkle ... was a thing of more innocence. Curiosity led her to look, and touch, and look a lot of times in the future. She had no idea how that was supposed to go inside a girl. It just lay there like an old, soft banana. But she knew where it was supposed to go. And she played with that part of herself while she stared at his winkle, squeezing an amazing number of orgasms out of her young clitty as she told her ancestor what she was doing. In her mind, the thing she stared at, and which gave her so much pleasure, would someday go inside of her and she would magically understand all the things she wasn't sure about now.

Well, perhaps not this winkle, but one like it, most certainly.

She found that highly erotic and immensely satisfying, and couldn't wait for her sixteenth birthday, when she would be able to go on dates and explore men, like the stories she heard from her cousins. Until then, she'd just have to make do with Great Grandpa Winkle while he slept. She had only recently tried what she had heard all boys liked a girl to do, stroking her hand up and down the sleeping man's penis until, just like she had heard, it stiffened and lengthened and then erupted in streams of thick silvery stuff that made a horrible mess. She'd had to run and get a washcloth to clean him up, terrified that someone would come in and find out what she'd done. Though she didn't yet know it, she had done something that came as naturally to her, if a bit later in life, as it had come to her two older cousins.

Which was why, on that lovely morning in the spring of 2000, when Fran walked into her Great Aunt Martha's house to collect her Grandmother Betty, so they could go shopping for her sixteenth birthday present, she was, shall we say, overcome by the sight of the man she knew to be Great Grandfather Winkle, walking upright, stark naked, down the hallway directly toward her.

She knew it was him, because she had gazed at his face for hours on end. She knew it was him because of the thing dangling between his legs. It was as recognizable to her as her own hand, because she had gazed at it for hours on end as well.

But she had never seen him either awake or walking, and because he was both of those things at the present, her brain, being suddenly under great pressure, instructed her vocal chords to relieve the pressure instantly.

She screamed.

Then, perhaps because of another genetic similarity between her and her grandmother, she fainted.

***************

 

Bob was having a rough day, and that day, at least the part he was awake for, had only been five or six minutes long. First he had awakened from his nap, in his Barca Lounger, to find himself in bed instead, with a woman who reminded him of what his lovely wife Valerie might look like at some point in the future. Not only that, but this lovely woman had just ridden him to ejaculation. Then, before he could ask her who the hell she was, and what the hell she was doing, she promptly fainted on him.

Now, when faced with a much younger woman who was the spitting image of his lovely wife Valerie when they had first met, she had screamed and fainted as well. He hadn't even had time to draw breath to ask her who the hell she was, and what the hell she was doing in his house.

He stood, looking down at the girl on the floor. She was a cute little thing. He noticed that she was wearing an oddly designed top that, while it covered her breasts, had no shoulders, and didn't cover anything else. It had a strap that went from one side of the front up and around her neck to the other side. As he moved her from her crumpled and uncomfortable looking position, he saw that there were buttons on the front, like a shirt might have. It was as if someone had taken a shirt, cut most of it off, added the neck strap, and called it ... something.

The girl moaned softly and Bob looked at her face. The resemblance between her and Valerie was astonishing. But this girl was only in her mid teens, and his wife was twenty-one.

He felt sudden pain in his bladder, the insistent kind that suggests that if you don't find a urinal or handy bush, you'd better plan on changing your pants. Since he wasn't wearing any pants, he stood up and turned for the bathroom.

It was right where it was supposed to be, and it was exactly as he remembered it ... except it was totally different.

The walls had wallpaper on them, whereas when he'd gone to sleep there was only white paint. The stool was exactly the same, but the bathtub, with its clawed feet was gone completely. In its place was a gleaming white thing that formed not only a tub, but ran up the walls as high as he was tall. There was a nozzle sticking out of the wall, about the height of his head, obviously a shower head, but it was like no shower head he'd ever seen. It was a monstrosity of plastic and metal, with images on it of different kinds of water drops.

He felt his penis leaking as his bladder screamed and found that he had to go so badly that he was erect. He sat down on the toilet and, when he finally got a stream going, held his cock down so he wouldn't pee between the seat and the porcelain of the toilet.

He looked around.

Gone was the white metal cabinet that had been on the wall where he had stared into the mirror while shaving. It had been mysteriously replaced with something made of beautiful wood, with a line of large round light bulbs projecting from the wall above it. It had two doors on it, rather than the one on the old cabinet, and each door had a mirror. There were cubby holes on either side of it that had all manner of things sticking out from them. He noticed something that looked like a gun lying on the counter, which was also new, along with the sink installed in it. The gun was made of plastic, and had a muzzle as big as a golf ball. It also had a cord coming out of the handle. He blinked, trying to figure out what such a gun would shoot, and how it could be powered by electricity. There were tubes, and bottles of all sorts sitting on the counter top. He reached to pick one up and read the label: "Vaseline Ultimate Care".

Vaseline he was acquainted with, but it came in a glass jar, not a plastic bottle. It took him two full minutes to figure out how to get anything out of the bottle. There was a cunningly hidden cap that flipped up, revealing a small hole in the top. How was someone supposed to scoop out any Vaseline through such a small hole? He tipped the bottle and a greenish fluid squirted out of the hole as his fingers accidentally squeezed to hold the bottle up. The stuff went everywhere and he dropped the bottle in his attempt to stop it.

His head hurt. Everything was so similar, but so completely strange. He got up and opened the door of the new cabinet. He saw what he recognized as pill bottles, brown, but not the right color of brown, and made of plastic, instead of glass. He sifted through them, reading words he'd never heard of before, with directions on how to take the medicine inside.

Aspirin! Bayer Aspirin! He knew that name. He took the bottle down and stared at it. Plastic. Everything seemed to be made of plastic! He turned the cap, but nothing happened. He turned it again, and again, unconsciously growling. He could see it turning, but it wasn't coming off. Where was he? This was his house ... but it wasn't his house! Everything looked different.

He felt fear for the first time.

That was a preview of Prick Van Winkle. To read the rest purchase the book.

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