Prick Van Winkle
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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
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
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
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
Well, this time, those heights of passion were reached, and in a lot less than
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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-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 maternal ancestor, 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 girl's 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.
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
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
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
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.
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