Horst Kepple - Dog Lover_s Diary

A Mother's Plea

Dear Harold,

Lord knows, as son-in-law and mother-in-law, the two of us haven't been exactly close over the years. That awful "bowling establishment" you insist on operating has been a thorn in my side for a long, long time.

Undoubtedly, our differences will always be too great for anything remotely resembling mutual respect, but… I am asking you now to put aside all your hatred of me, as I am disregarding my contempt for you.

What I have to say to you now is very difficult, not only as a mother, but as a normal, healthy woman with normal, healthy drives. It is an admission of failure as a parent. Total failure. I am glad Mr. Oliver is not alive today to see this letter, to read the horrible truth about his darling daughter, Polly.

The bound volume I have enclosed with this note is your wife's diary. I discovered it quite by accident while I was straightening up her dressing room at the studio. After you have begun reading it, Harold, you will understand why I swallowed my pride and contacted you.

Never, not in my darkest imaginings, could I have thought my own daughter capable of such… such criminal depravity. To be perfectly honest, Harold, I vomited after reading the first entry. But it does explain so much: her odd behaviour over the years, her moods, the long silences, her treatment of you… you poor, poor man. It even explains her fantastic success.

You must believe me when I say it was not out of spite that I sent this to you. I am not interested in rubbing your nose in it. But I knew in my heart of hearts that you, as a husband. as a man, would want to know.

I can only pray that after reading this revolting confession, you will for once in your life be enough of a man to do what's absolutely necessary.

Sincerely

Mrs. Ginger Oliver

October 14, 1966

Dear Diary: I've been looking at your first page for over an hour now.

Such a pretty page with pastel birds and flowers around the edge. Pretty and so blank, so perfect. I'm afraid to start, afraid I'll make some awful mistakes right at the beginning and ruin you.

I guess the truth is I don't know how to begin. I have a lot to write, I know that. A lot better stuff than that icky Jane Hawser. But the starting is a lot harder than I thought it would be.

It was that icky Jane Hawser who got the rest of the girls in Miss Meredith's seventh grade class interested in keeping diaries. She brought hers to school and let us pass it around during the ten-thirty "Nutrition" break. She has a real beautiful book, sort of Chinese-looking with a big brass lock.

"A diary is for a girl's innermost secrets," Jane Hawser said. "Things too wonderful to share."

Which got me to wondering why she let everybody read it. So, I took my turn flipping through the pages. It was full of stuff about boys mostly.

She's turned thirteen and her Mom lets her date. Even older boys. A lot of things happen on dates, according to her diary.

I wasn't surprised to find out that she let Billy Rodgers, who's in High School, touch her between the legs. I was surprised that she'd let everybody read about it in such detail, though. All that stuff about him slipping his hand into her panties, his finger going right in her pussy and coming out all wet. And how her face got real hot and flushed when he moved his finger around. Right in the balcony of the Meralta Theatre, too! Then he showed her his parts, how swollen they were. He told her she'd done it to him. Then, when she touched his thing, he said he loved her and wanted to marry her.

I guess that's the part she wanted us to especially catch.

I'd never let anybody read my diary. Nobody. What good is a secret if the whole class is in on it? And besides, the "hot stuff" Jane Hawser wrote about is pretty tame compared to what I've done. And I'm still only twelve.

Which brings me to another problem: my Mom. She's an awful snoop, always going through my things. I've caught her rummaging through my drawers and searching my purse, for what I can never figure out. Drugs?

Cigarettes? Who knows? She just acts like she's been sleepwalking or something and says, "Oh, goodness me! Now what was I looking for?!"

It's going to be hard to keep her from finding this diary. And I know she'd break it open so she could read it. God! I haven't even written anything secret yet, and my hands are shaking. If she ever found out some of the things I like to do, she'd kill me! I mean it. No, actually, what she'd do would be to tell my Pop… and let him kill me. Oooh, somehow, that makes it even more exciting, more dangerous.

I guess if I'm going to start, I should start right at the very beginning. The first time. That was when I was just a kid. Nine years old. With Fluffy.

Poor old horny Fluffy was a funny mixture of dogs, dachshund and poodle.

He had very short legs and was long in the body. His fur was curly like a poodle's and sort of a dingy beige… on a poodle it would've been called Champagne. He was so cute as a puppy but he grew up ugly.

Mentally, he never grew up. But I loved him anyway. He slept at the foot of my bed and followed me everywhere.

I got him as an eighth birthday present and by the time I was nine, Fluffy was as big as he was going to get in the height department. I didn't care. I wasn't very big either and it made him easier to play with.

Fluffy was always getting into something smelly… rolling in garbage or mud or on a dead cat. It was my job to keep him from messing up the wall-to-wall carpet, which meant doggy baths sometimes twice a week. It was at one of these scrub sessions that I discovered how much my Fluffy was growing in another department.

I remember real well: he'd gotten into some green paint that'd been left open in the garage and it'd taken three washes and rinses to get it out.

He was sitting up in the tub, all dripping wet, his long tongue lolling out, his brown eyes bright and deliriously happy despite his damp condition.

Like Mom insisted, I was only wearing my white panties, so I wouldn't mess up my good clothes. I'd just let the water out. As the water-line dropped and the dirty scum, sort of a greenish-grey, ran down the drain, I was shocked to see a strange thing on the end of Fluffy's wee-wee.

I leaned over the hair-littered tub for a better look. This "new" thing was red, long and shiny and wet looking, but a different kind of wet than from water. More like greasy. It seemed to be growing out of the end of his wee-wee. It was pointed at the end and kind of slid in and out of the hairy wee-wee holder as he breathed.

I wasn't scared or anything like that. I was just curious about Fluffy's "new development." I touched it just under the needle tip with the bar of soap. Instantly the red thing surged out from the furry sheath, drooping slightly. I jumped back, but when nothing happened I reached out and touched it again. Fluffy licked my face with his hot slobbery tongue. It was definitely a "thank you" lick. I remember how funny, how tingly it felt, just then, to have his tongue touch my lips.

I rubbed harder with the soap and the red thing grew longer and harder so it didn't droop at all but stood out straight and pointy. At the time I was pretty dumb. I didn't even know that it was his cock I was fooling with. Anyway, I worked up a good, thick lather on the underside of his cock, and I was amazed and delighted to see the silly effect it was having on him. His hips began to snap spastically and his eyes half-closed and his upper lip drew back from his teeth, just like when I itched him in a real good spot. He started to breathe funny, too. Like wheezing almost and he grunted every now and then. He licked me again and kept licking me on the mouth. He bathed my lips in his hot, doggy drool, pushing them apart in his eagerness. I opened my mouth a little and Fluffy ran his bristly lips across mine. Our tongues touched and my mouth was full of his doggy taste. I squirmed. A tingle raced from the tip of my tongue to the fork between my legs. The sensation was new and exciting.