3 comments/ 27090 views/ 14 favorites Love in a Time of Insanity Pt. 01 By: rikkitampa2014 A Suburb of Tokyo, 1945 This fragment of a young Japanese woman's diary, chronicling her incestuous relations with her father over a several-week period during the final months of World War II, was originally found in the rubble of an apartment building. Banned for decades, it was recently rediscovered in Japan's War Museum archives. This is its first English translation. 5 June I have always been terrified of thunder storms. It may seem strange, or ironic, given the almost daily bombings Tokyo has suffered, that a mere thunderstorm, an act of nature rather than a murderous act of man, would upset me so, but it does. In truth, I thought it was another bombing raid at first last night. But then I saw the crackle of lightning behind the blackout curtains. Besides, by now big raindrops were pelting the windows. It was merely a summer rain storm. Merely, I say. Gathering my nightgown up around my knees, I crept into the adjacent bedroom where my father slept. As quietly as I could I slid under the covers onto his mat. But either the claps of thunder or my frightened presence had awakened him as well. He put a welcoming arm around my back and settled me in beside him. I rested my head on his left shoulder. Almost immediately I could feel my anxiety dissipate. I felt safe. Or, if the worst must happen, I felt content. Resigned. As I lay there in the dark I could hear daddy's heart racing. I could hear my own as well. It was a kind of muted music inside our two bodies, competing with the pelting raindrops and the occasional, but now more distant, thunderclaps. I wondered if the fierce storm would scare the bombers away tonight. Would anything ever scare them away? Was there no end to them? I also lay there thinking about daddy and me, and how we had nothing left in the world but each other. My mother had left him for an army officer some time ago, and she'd moved away with him after he got transferred. I hadn't heard from her in months. Was she still alive? Did she lie awake at night and think about me, her only child, as I often thought about her? My own husband, whom I had married at age 19 and barely come to know, had been missing in China for several years now. I kept waiting for confirmation from the government, one way or the other, but month after month none ever came. I assumed the worst, of course. Who, if he were still alive, would not write a letter to his beautiful young wife? And what kind of government did we have, that could not account for their own soldiers? To be honest, in my own heart, it was as if he'd never existed. I barely knew him. We'd only had sex three times before he shipped out. And so daddy had no wife and I had no husband. And neither of us had intimate friends. Lovers, I mean to say. I had not had sex in over four years and I was sure it was the same for my poor daddy. For at least a year before the divorce, and probably much longer, he and mommy had slept in separate bedrooms. In fact, the room I now slept in, since my return home, had been mom's. I don't know how exactly it happened—it was certainly unintentional—but with my body snuggled against his and my head still resting on his shoulder, I at one point shifted my position and my knee, my left knee, grazed daddy's penis. It was hard inside his pajamas. An awkward pause followed before he said, softly, I'm sorry. I didn't know if daddy meant by this he was sorry because the presence of his daughter's warm body had made him hard, or if he was sorry because a part of his body had gotten in the way of a part of mine, as if we'd accidentally bumped together in a crowded market. His back arched, however, when I slipped my hand inside his pajama bottom and took firm hold of him. Don't! he cried, attempting to pull my hand away. Why? Don't! It's wrong to do that! Why's it wrong? It's wrong. It's illegal! I giggled. Illegal? Who's going to know, daddy? We're alone in our own house in the dark. Bombs are falling. No they're not, he scolded. He then changed his tack, but with far less outrage, perhaps because I was now gently stroking him. I'd only experienced a man's bare penis three times in my life, and my husband, however briefly he was that, had not even allowed me to touch his. It's unnatural..., daddy said, sounding like a man who'd conceded the argument. I sensed his head rolling off to the side, away from me, as his back once again arched. He remained silent, however, as my left hand pumped the seed out of him. Oh god, he said afterward, what have I done? I lay there in the dark imagining, envisioning, a tiny little white pool forming on daddy's belly. Some of his semen had gotten on my stroking hand as well. My husband, not wanting to get me pregnant before he left for China, had pulled out of me all three times. He would fuck me briefly, while I lay on my back (we only did it in this one position), then he would pull his hard penis out, glistening with my juices, and stroke it over my abdomen. I would raise my head off the pillow and watch as the thick white semen shot from his body onto mine, sometimes reaching as far as my breasts. As soon as he was through he would zip up his pants and leave the room, in apparent disgust. I, however, liked to lie there in my privacy and marvel at this magical fluid, this seed, that someday might, after the war ended, who knows, produce a child in my belly. My fingers toyed with it. It had a strange clean smell, and a subtle sweetness to the taste. It was human fruit. It was like some exotic green tea, whose fragrance and flavor were subtle to the point of near-nonexistence. I would lie there dreamily licking my fingers until nothing was left but the drying residue of my husband's wasted seed. I'm going to lick you clean, daddy, OK? I said last night. No! his back arching again. Please, darling. Stop this. We've gone far enough... But I had already rolled onto my hands and knees and taken his now-flaccid penis in my mouth. After sucking it clean I moved up his belly, running my tongue through his hair to his deep navel, where some of his semen had pooled. I licked and sucked and kissed it—kissed him, his taut flesh—until I could find no more. Then I pulled off my nightgown, wiped my mouth with it and wiped daddy's belly and penis dry. Afterwards I tossed the gown on the floor. I would wash it in the tub in the morning and then hang it out to dry. It would float on the breeze like a flag. A flag of sexual liberation! Now naked under the cover, I resumed my position with my head on daddy's shoulder. His body felt rigid and his heartbeat had slowed. Mine was still racing. The rain had fallen off to a patter. I lay there listening to it over the discordant gallop of heartbeats. I felt no guilt. Tonight I had produced, and tasted, the seed of my own conception, from some 24 years before. I was in a state of bliss. Love in a Time of Insanity Pt. 02 6 June No thunderstorms last night. I could hear distant bombs exploding, however, in the center and more eastern parts of Tokyo. None of the bombs came close enough to set off the airraid sirens, thankfully. I can't help but wonder when our turn will come. An old man in our apartment building says they will bomb us until we surrender. And if we don't surrender they will bomb us until there is nothing left but ocean. Another person—Mrs. Yamato—says that the American bombs are an act of final desperation. The war cannot be going well for them, she claims. (I am not sure I understand Mrs. Yamato's logic.) While someone else claims our ally the Germans have surrendered. And without Germany to fight the Americans can now turn the full might of their military on our little island nation. What chance do we have against such awesome power? I fear for each and every one of us. Around ten o'clock I entered daddy's bedroom. With the blackout curtains drawn, he was hunched over to his right trying to read a book by oil lamplight. I felt sorry for him. Daddy had once been a professor, and a great scholar. Now there was barely enough light to read a book. I stood over him, at the edge of the mat, and removed my nightgown. I wasn't wearing panties. I wanted to make him hard before I joined him in bed tonight. I smiled at him as he watched me undress. He marked the place in his book before he set it aside. Then, surprisingly, before he turned out the lamp, he pulled his pajama bottoms down under the covers. This is so wrong, he said in the dark, tossing the covers back. As I had the night before, I got on my hands and knees. Only this time it was not merely to lick up the afterwards of sex, it was to produce the desired effect. I took daddy's hard cock in my mouth—the same cock that had penetrated my mother's vagina so many hundreds of times. He didn't resist. In fact he said, after a time, and somewhat breathlessly: Fondle my balls. I looked back at him, wiping my mouth. Mommy used to fondle your balls? Yes, he replied. In the old days. Yes, it was wonderful. She had this great...ability. I'd never fondled a man's balls before. As my lips returned to his hard cock, which I held, at its hairy base, with my right hand, my left closed around his testicles. It was an odd thing. They seemed so vulnerable, hanging down between a man's legs unprotected. I'd heard, with a swift kick, you could reduce a man to helpless tears. You could drop him to his knees. As my head rose and fell I fondled them respectfully, gently. Again, it was odd. They were like two small plums enclosed in a thin, hairy sack. But however tender, and vulnerable, they were the unlikely source filling my mouth at the moment. Once again daddy had cum silently, without warning, with an arched back. This time there was no mess. I received it and I swallowed it, in stages. The subtle sweetness this time lost—engulfed—in my saliva. I swallowed and swallowed, until there was nothing left. I tried to kiss daddy afterwards but he avoided my lips, twisting his head to the side. Did I do OK? I asked. Thank you, he said, distantly. (Why are men such strangers after they cum?) As good as mom? Daddy patted my naked hip. I was lying on my left side now, head again on his chest. You are my dream, he said. I wondered what he meant by this. Was I real for him? A mere flesh-and-blood fantasy? He was close to sleep, I was beside myself with passion. My juices were flowing. Had I been wearing panties they would have been stained with my desire. My willingness. Bombs were exploding in the far distance. I wanted a man inside me! Once I'd read a bawdy joke. I forget where. It said, in so many words...In times of war, if your man is not around, marry a cucumber! What? daddy said, stirring from sleep. What? What's so funny? Is it me? Don't be so insecure, I thought. I stroked his head. It's nothing, daddy. Go back to sleep. I, however, couldn't. As daddy snored I got up and peeked out the side of the blackout curtain. Portions of downtown Tokyo, in the far distance, were burning. It was horrific. But it was also, strangely, from an esthetic point of view, beautiful. Thrilling. Like a painting by that English artist Turner. I watched for sleepless hours, fingering myself. Love in a Time of Insanity Pt. 03 8 June The night before I'd again entered his room wearing my long gown. As I stood there smiling, daddy glanced over from his book and, rather sternly, looked me up and down. Is it winter? he asked. His tone was cold, imperious even. That of a stern father? As I bared my body to him I could not help wondering: is this how men are? By the third time they take it for granted that you exist to perform sex with them? Whenever they want it? That you're little more than a domestic geisha? Even when the man in this case is the father and the woman his daughter? I assumed he held his erection by its base as another offering to my mouth. But as I fell forward to it he gave my left hip an awkward tap. A second tap, even as I took his stiff flesh in mouth, was accompanied by a tug of my right thigh. Straddle me, he finally said. I looked back as he maneuvered my knees into position, on either side of his chest. His hands then rose to my buttocks, which he began to knead, as if my body were so much dough, even as his even as his open mouth rose between my plump thighs. With a yank he brought my ass lower, and his tongue parted my wet lips—the lips of my sex—as mine slid back down the shaft of his sex below me. His puckered lips soon found my clitoris. He sucked at it. Then his tongue played with it. It was wonderfully pleasurable. And it was hard to keep focus on the cock in my mouth while I longed to open it and express my pleasure with a cry. But soon enough my mouth turned salty-sweet and the pleasure ended, abruptly. It was as if you'd let the oil run low in a lamp and, without warning, and with a final flicker, the room went dark. Last night, having learned my lesson, I entered daddy's bedroom naked. In fact I played a little game. I opened the door and leaned in just far enough that he, looking up from his book and over his left shoulder, could see my bare breasts. I smiled coquettishly. He smiled too, his mood far different tonight, and beckoned me inside. As he marked the place in his book and set it aside, daddy said: I want you to do something different for me tonight. What's that? I want you to straddle me like you did last night, only this time...You'll see. He held out welcoming arms as I climbed on the mat and once again placed a knee on either side of his chest. Only this time, as I leaned forward toward his half-flaccid cock (was the mere sight of his naked daughter's body not enough to make him hard anymore?) he clawed at my buttocks, which were still sore from last night's kneading. No, sit up this time, he directed. I want you to sit on my face. I love it this way. And your little pussy is so fresh and so clean. Sit back, darling. Smother me with it... As I lowered my wet vagina to his face he squeezed both my thighs and made a pushing motion, then a pulling one. He wanted me, I gathered, not just to lower my vagina to his face, but to rub it against it. For me, the sensation was pleasurable—but not nearly as much as the night before, when he so expertly plied his lips and tongue against my little nascent sex organ. I'd experienced masturbation, of course, and intercourse with a man, but that had been the most pleasurable sensation of my life. My sexual life, at least. As I rubbed against daddy's face, smearing his moans and watching his cock grow stiff against his belly, I thought to myself: if I ever marry again I'll ask my husband to perform that on me every night—No! I'll ask him in an intimate moment before we marry. That way, if he says no, I too will say no, I thought with a giggle. After several moments of this daddy slapped my buttocks and pushed them away, upwards. Below he gasped for air as if he'd just surfaced from near-drowning. His face, from his dark eyebrows to his bearded chin, glistened with the residue of my juices. His hands were frantic. He made a twisting motion with my hips and shouted, once his breath was back, Sit on me! Turn around! Sit on me! I pivoted on a knee and arrived astride his hips, now. Below, his hand stood his stiff cock straight up at me. Sit on it! he said. But when he couldn't find entry I took hold of it, below me, and guided it in as I sat. This is different, I thought, experiencing his cock in my vagina, and deep in it, for the first time. In my few times before I'd only experienced intercourse while lying flat on my back. Daddy gave my hips a lifting motion. Ride me, he said. I love it when a woman rides me. I thought: a woman. Not I loved it when your mother used to ride me like this, but...a woman. How many had ridden him this way? And who? And when? Mom had left him for another man, true. But had daddy had other women during their marriage? College students of his, perhaps? As I played cowgirl, to his horsey, he reached up and felt my breasts. Then he rose up on his elbows and took my left nipple in his mouth. Then he sucked in the whole of my little left tit. I thought about how my husband had pulled out of me those three times, wanting to ensure I would not get pregnant. Not knowing any better I assumed this is what careful men did. I was bouncing above him now. This was fun! Some new and wonderful pleasure was building inside me. I raised my hands to my bath-slick hair. I made fists. I said, almost as an afterthought: Just don't cum in me daddy, OK? But his head had rolled off to the side, mouth open. And as I rose up in my ride, his penis, gone half-flaccid, fell out of me. I lowered myself into the slop of sex. Rising again, but now unconnected to his body, I looked back between my legs and watched a lone drop of semen run down the inside of my left thigh. Like a translucent white tear rolling down a cheek. I'm sorry, was all he said. I hurried to clean myself up. For the first time I cleaned myself before I cleaned him. All his seed had poured out of me, yes? One couldn't get pregnant after making love this way, could she? Is this why daddy chose this position? Moments later, after I nested my head on daddy's left shoulder, and I cupped his limp penis in my hand, he repeated: I'm sorry. Though I couldn't tell if he meant by this, I'm sorry I just had incestuous sex with you; I'm sorry I came in you; or I'm sorry I failed to satisfy you. His chest heaved with a single, short laugh. Your mother used to say, he said, I was too quick on the trigger. I brought my hand up and played with his chest hair. Is that why she left you? After a pause daddy said, The answer to that is very complicated. It's for adults. I'm an adult. Yes, but an inexperienced, naïve one. I pulled my hand back. I resented his condescending attitude. The attitude of a self-proclaimed intellectual to a mere woman. If an American bomb fell on our apartment building tonight I would die just as assuredly as he was. Although, as a woman, I lacked his degrees, I was just as much a human being as he was. Never mind that he, the supposed wise man, had just deposited his semen in my womb... Anyway, I finally said, mom left you for another man. True. These things get complex. People, married people, get tired of each other after a while. Then, if by some chance, they meet someone special...someone who makes them feel young again...You see, human beings are always seeking a heaven on earth. It may only last a few weeks, a few months...or if they're lucky, it might last a few years. But it's all illusion. Human happiness is an illusion. Sometimes I hate her, I said, a bitterness filling my mouth. Don't. I do. I can't help it. She abandoned us. She was chasing the illusion. It's a powerful force. The most powerful in existence. No, I said. I think these bombs are the most powerful force. Daddy laughed. You too are a philosopher, I see. I didn't mean to sound condescending before. But I fear far worse is coming. With mom? With war. I felt vindicated. I once again cupped daddy's emptied balls in my left hand. I fondled them. His penis lay spent, and shrunken, on his belly. Do you know where she went? With this new husband of hers? She hasn't so much as written me. Try to be patient, he said, stroking stray locks of my hair. Communication is difficult. I'm certain, after this nightmare is over, you'll be reunited with your mother. I hate her. No you don't. Don't you? No. And therefore you shouldn't either. Be patient. Do you know where she is? After a pause he replied, Her new husband was transferred to Hiroshima I believe, in the Chugoku Region. Do you know where it is? Is it safe there? I asked. Daddy lifted a lock of hair out of my eyes. Compared to Tokyo, any place is safe.