Diary of a Mad Old Man

page views:1 Publication date:2023-04-23 08:12:01

[Original] Diary of a Mad Old Man [18p2p First Release] Part 1

The

15th. When I woke up, the sky was just beginning to brighten, the air was a little damp, with a slightly earthy smell; the rain was still falling, a light drizzle, so fine you had to hold your breath to hear it. I got up, added half a cup of hot water to the kettle—I had already added salt beforehand—gargled in it, and then slowly drank it. I urinated, rinsed my mouth with mouthwash, washed my face, and finally sprayed 0.5 mg of phenylephrine into each nostril. Perhaps I was too excited, because I didn't feel the urge to defecate today.

I turned left from the bathroom door and slowly walked into the easternmost workroom. The three storage baskets were full of clothes waiting to be washed, after all, it had been raining these past few days. The leftmost basket mostly contained shirts, along with some socks and underwear—these were my son's things. My son and I both prefer gray and beige. The light green shirt in the middle basket must have belonged to my son-in-law, although I hadn't seen him wear it. I searched carefully, picking through each piece of clothing, but found nothing. Although I wasn't wearing my glasses, I wasn't looking for anything tiny; it was impossible to have missed anything. The middle basket was full of my daughter and son-in-law's clothes, and a quick search told me they weren't here either—had they already been disposed of…?
On the 19th, I suddenly caught a cold a few days ago, and the doctor advised me to rest in bed and take two tablets of antihistamine twice a day. My daughter had been wanting to move me to the first floor, but I firmly refused: "No, the room I'm in now is very quiet, I like it very much."

"You need to move around more; it's inconvenient to go up and down the stairs."

"How can I move around at this age? It's just a walk in the yard. Besides, my legs are still very good now; we'll talk about it when it's inconvenient to walk up and down the stairs."

…

Not only does my daughter resemble my deceased husband in appearance, but both mother and daughter are keen on controlling my movements; just like when I moved to the master bedroom on the second floor alone, now I have to put on a strong stance, otherwise I'll definitely be moved back. Actually, while moving to the master bedroom was indeed for the quiet, I also had my own reasons.

After marriage, the daughter-in-law considered drying clothes in the yard indecent, so she moved it to the second-floor terrace. The washing machine and dryer were also moved upstairs to the workshop. As she aged, her physical functions gradually declined, and her childhood preferences had turned into addictions—the tactile and gustatory stimulation from her daughter-in-law's underwear and stockings was now the only way to release her sexual desires. Drying clothes was inconvenient during rainy seasons, and changing into unwashed clothes with her body odor was a rare pleasure. She's been sick these past few days, resting in the bedroom, which is a real pity.

On the 21st, the weather finally cleared up, and the doctor came again. "You can stop the medication." He first examined her tongue, warmed the stethoscope with his hand, and listened to her lungs for a long time. "Please be careful in the future; thankfully, it didn't develop into pneumonia."

Her neck was very uncomfortable that night, numb from the left side of her neck to her left shoulder blade, and it hurt when she bent her head. The physiotherapist from the nearby hospital, who usually came every other day, hadn't come these past few days. She had her daughter apply a hot towel, and finally fell asleep in the middle of the night.

On the 22nd, the physiotherapist came; she was a woman in her thirties, and her technique was excellent. She rubbed, sawed, kneaded, pinched, and rubbed, slowly warming my stiff muscles and making them softer. Finally, she applied a hot salt compress wrapped in gauze, which felt much better.
In the afternoon, my son and daughter-in-law came. I've never known much about my son; I only know that after graduating from university, he joined a multinational company, but
I don't know exactly what he does. I heard he's about to be promoted to head of some department. "I've learned a little massage; when the physiotherapist isn't available, I can massage you," my daughter-in-law said softly. "Really? I didn't know that," my son turned his face away. "It would be great if you knew how."...
From the beginning of their relationship, my wife and daughter were against it. After all, my daughter-in-law had no relatives; her parents died in a car accident when she was very young, and she grew up in an orphanage. I didn't care about that; I even felt a little sorry for her—my son is fickle, a trait he probably inherited from me.
On the

23rd, breakfast was a glass of vegetable juice, two slices of coarse bread, and two hard-boiled eggs with the yolks removed. When I was young, I either skipped breakfast or ate chilled mung bean soup in the summer and chopped pork hock with kelp in the winter. Doctors disapproved of this diet; they preferred to prescribe specific nutritional components, forcing us to eat monotonous, rigid foods—"You can't eat this, you can't eat that"—and repeatedly emphasized that it was for our health. On this point, my wife and daughter-in-law surprisingly agreed—my daughter-in-law was a nurse before marriage, and my wife couldn't argue with her.

Lunch and dinner were eaten with everyone in the dining room, and unsurprisingly, my son and son-in-law weren't there. They probably come home for meals only a handful of times a month, always for social engagements, work, or other reasons. As I see it, my son probably has a mistress—my son-in-law is unlikely, as his income is all in my daughter's hands—I really don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. Middle-aged men are especially attractive to young women; I'm afraid if I can't handle the situation, then things will be terrible.
The 25th. After lunch, I went to the living room to rest. From afar, I saw my daughter-in-law standing in front of the dressing mirror, a large pile of shoes beside her. "The company is having a cocktail party tonight, and I'm hesitating about what shoes to wear. Could you give me some advice, Dad?" This was quite rare; since having a child, the couple seemed to have grown distant, rarely going out together.
"I'm getting old, what can I choose?"

"Anyway, they're all for men to see, Dad's taste is never wrong."

After picking through them, only two pairs remained. I suggested, "The cocktail party is quite formal, right? Try them on with stockings and compare."

"What color should I wear? It's hard to choose."

"For formal occasions, you can only wear nude or black. I think light gold shoes would suit you well, so wear nude stockings." My daughter-in-law prefers black stockings, but her legs are quite thin, so nude would be more suitable.
She went back to the bedroom, put them on, and carefully examined them in the mirror: "Dad picked a really good one." I had thought she would wear stockings in front of me, so I was a little disappointed.

On the 26th, I still hadn't found any underwear for my daughter-in-law. Yesterday she was still wearing stockings, probably drying them in her bathroom. Did she discover something…?

On the 31st, I called my daughter-in-law after her afternoon nap: “Can you give me a massage if you’re free? I just woke up, my neck is very stiff.” Since moving into the master bedroom, my son has installed telephones in every room, and even a doorbell connecting to the next room, in case a nurse needs to stay there.

Although he said he’d be right there, it still took a long time—maybe it was just my imagination, but waiting always seemed incredibly long. “Did you just take a nap too?” I asked, seeing my daughter-in-law wearing a bathrobe.

“No, I'm just lying down for a bit.” My daughter-in-law sat down on the bed. “Don’t get up, Dad, just lie in bed. Should we open the window screen?”

I turned over. “If it’s too dark, let’s open it. Can you see the acupoints?”

“I can see them. But you don’t need to. You can find them by measuring with your hands.”

“I was wondering how blind masseurs do massages.”

“Blind masseurs are very accurate at finding acupoints. It’s easier to make mistakes by looking. I only learned a little bit back in school.” She laughed and straddled my waist. “You’re not heavy, are you? You’ve gained a lot of weight.” My

bare skin felt tingly; my daughter-in-law must be wearing stockings.

“Your technique is very good. You must massage him often.”

“I used to, but then he had a mistress, and he didn’t have time for me to massage him anymore.”

It’s true… and his wife found out… idiot!

“It was after I gave birth, the other woman was a colleague at his company.” My daughter-in-law’s voice was calm. “He confessed to me on his own. After all, we’ve been married for ten years, the child is still young, and Dad has been so good to me.”

…

One day, I continued writing. The doctor said I have a heart condition and shouldn't overexert myself, but that's not entirely true. Yesterday—no, the day before yesterday—after a massage, as my daughter-in-law got up, I rolled over and pinned her beneath me. I was immediately slapped, my eyes filled with tears, and my cheek went numb. My daughter-in-law pushed me away, got up, and ran out. I lay in bed, my mind blank, my heart pounding, and my consciousness slowly fading.

After a while, someone draped a nightgown over me—it was my daughter-in-law—slipped two pills into my mouth, helped me sit up with her right hand, and fed me water with her left. Tears inexplicably streamed down my face again. After taking the pills, I lay back down, and my daughter-in-law sat by the bed, applying a cold compress with a towel. I stroked her thigh, but she didn't move.

Three days later, the marks on my face were no longer visible. During this time, I pretended to be unwell, and my daughter-in-law brought all my meals to me in the bedroom. My son wanted to call a doctor, but I refused. Luckily, my daughter was on vacation; otherwise, I really don't know how I would have managed. On

the 3rd

and 4th, one good thing about my daughter not being home was that my daughter-in-law gave me a bath—something she wouldn't have agreed to before, perhaps because she felt guilty after hitting me. However, she always wore a bikini while bathing me, which I found very displeasing.

"Take it off."

"No." My daughter-in-law lathered me with soap using a bath sponge. "We agreed it was just a bath, and besides, Daddy will get hard..."

Since getting older, apart from occasional morning erections, my penis has always been limp, even when playing with my daughter-in-law's stockings and underwear. When my daughter-in-law scrubbed my back, I felt a tingling sensation, and when she washed my penis with soap, it actually got erect—though a little soft—I was honestly quite surprised.

I reached out to touch my daughter-in-law's breasts, but she quickly dodged: "I hit really hard, sometimes I don't even react in time and just slap you, it hurts so much your eyeballs could pop out."

"Can't I just touch you? Just once."

"No, Daddy, I'm rinsing you now, please don't move."

On the 5th, there was a big surprise! My daughter-in-law escorted me to the bathroom. After taking off my pajamas, I noticed she was wearing black pantyhose.

"Oh, why are you wearing pantyhose while showering?"

"Don't you like them? For a father with a fetish, touching pantyhose is more stimulating than touching breasts, right?"
"Fetish?"

"Doesn't Dad often play with my pantyhose and underwear? He's not careful at all; there's saliva all over them."
So she already knew…

"May I touch them? Thank you so much."

I knelt in front of my daughter-in-law, greedily stroking her legs, then had her lift one foot against the wall, and gently licked the sole of her foot clad in black stockings. My daughter-in-law's feet are beautiful, long and slender, unlike some women's feet which are as thick as a baby's. I put her toes in my mouth and savored them; the taste of the pantyhose filled my mouth. It was so blissful; this must be heaven…

11th. Last time I showered, I slipped and fell, luckily only scraping my skin. Maybe I squatted for too long, and then stood up too suddenly. Seeing that nothing serious had happened, the son and son-in-law exchanged a brief greeting and left. It was the daughter who returned and complained to her sister-in-law.

"It was my own carelessness, I don't blame her,"

the daughter said, giving her daughter-in-law a resentful look. Their relationship had never been good. When they got married, my husband suggested that since the son-in-law's parents were no longer alive, they should live together. I agreed at the time, but now it seems my husband wanted to prevent the daughter-in-law from having any influence on the family.

These past few days, my daughter has offered to feed me instead of my daughter-in-law, but I refused. Now, mealtimes are my gametime, and no one is allowed to disrupt it. Meals are quick, but eating takes a long time. My daughter-in

-law half-reclined on the sofa, her legs spread apart and resting on the armrests. I always start with her feet—occasionally gently biting them with my teeth—making soft moaning sounds, feeling incredibly happy. Her stockings are covered in saliva. At my urging, she only wore pantyhose, her vulva separated from me by only a thin layer of silk. Licking it felt warm, her vaginal fluids and saliva mingling, creating a lewd smell. My daughter-in-law, fearing it would leave marks, forbade me from touching her breasts. On

the

17th, instead of immediately washing her stockings and underwear, she left them in the workroom for me to use. Summer had arrived, and the weather was gradually getting warmer, but I still dared not turn on the air conditioning for fear of catching a cold.

On the 20th, the house we were living in was built when my father was alive. It had no insulation, and although there was an attic, the second floor was still unbearably hot and stuffy. I turned on the air conditioning a little, but felt stuffy and heavy-headed, so I immediately took two tablets of Duxin and lay down to rest.

On the 23rd, I felt a little better. While in bed, I asked my daughter-in-law to bring some pantyhose, which I stuffed into the blankets, wrapping several pairs around my waist and penis. It felt incredibly comforting. "Dad, why are you wearing stockings here too?" When no one was around, my daughter-in-law reached under the blankets, startled.

"It's a little cold,"

she giggled, then knelt by the bed, untied the stockings, and began sucking on my penis until I fell asleep.
On the 26th, it was still a little chilly in the morning. Although I was better, I still said I needed to rest so my daughter-in-law could bring me lunch—I think she understood that. Lunch was cold duck porridge, boiled shrimp, cucumber salad with seaweed, stir-fried bitter melon, and winter melon and pork rib soup—all very large portions.

After lunch, we had sex.

Yes, I felt bad for my son, but I still did it.

Three days later. Having sex with my daughter-in-law a few days ago gave me confidence in my physical condition—my erection wasn't ideal, but it was pretty good for my age, even though I rested for several days afterward. I guess my daughter-in-law was also surprised by this; her husband ignores her, so she probably just wanted some comfort and didn't expect to have sex again.

After my afternoon nap, I had my daughter-in-law give me a bath. I specifically chose this time to avoid my daughter, as she gets up very late from her nap. I added bath salts to the bathtub, filled it with water, soaked for a while, and then sat on a high stool while my daughter-in-law scrubbed my back and lathered it with soap. "Dad, open your legs a little wider." Since that day, my daughter-in-law has been particularly meticulous when cleaning my penis. She lathers it with soap on a bath sponge, then squats down in front of me, lifts it up, and gently rubs it from the perineum outwards with one hand. She cleans the scrotum and pubic hair thoroughly, even pulling back the foreskin to rinse it. After drying myself, I changed into a bathrobe and lay on the sofa drinking tea. After rinsing herself in the bathroom, my daughter-in-law sat down beside me, patted her hair dry with a towel, and then knelt down to take my penis in her mouth. Her nimble tongue licked from the base along the vas deferens to the glans, then rubbed around the coronal sulcus, while her right hand gently massaged my testicles.
My penis slowly hardened, but was still a little soft.

My daughter-in-law stood up, supported my penis with her hand, turned around, and slowly sat down on it. Her vagina was warm and juicy, as if it had a suction force. My daughter-in-law, supporting herself on the armrest, kept sitting and standing up. My penis, pulling up the tender flesh around her vagina, went in with a "plop," "plop" sound. I closed my eyes to rest, waiting for her vagina to suck my penis until it was hard, then I got up and pinned her down. She bent her knees and raised her buttocks, her opening wide.

I took a breath and slowly inserted my penis, then pulled it out sharply. My daughter-in-law moaned and groaned beneath me, her body twisting and turning, her breasts swaying: "Daddy, faster... ah..." I ignored her. Anyone with experience knows that slow, deep thrusts, nine shallow thrusts followed by one deep one, is key to rhythm in sex.

My daughter-in-law's vagina, soft and fleshy after childbirth, felt like a small mouth holding my penis. I gradually couldn't resist thrusting harder, and my daughter-in-law cried out even louder. Her vagina tightened, and with each thrust, the friction intensified.
I quickly grew tired, dizzy, and could only rest on top of her.

"Can I go on top?"

Last time was the same; the stimulation wasn't enough, and the semen just flowed out. Neither my daughter
-in-law nor I were satisfied. I shook my head, refusing the suggestion, climbed onto the sofa, and put my penis in my daughter-in-law's mouth. After a few sucks, I felt refreshed. I had my daughter-in-law kneel on the sofa and penetrated her from behind. Seeing my penis going in and out of her vagina like this helped maintain arousal and prevented her from giving up halfway due to fatigue.

I stood up and began to gently move, slowing down to prevent fatigue, inserting and withdrawing slowly each time. This allowed me to feel the friction of my penis against the folds of her vaginal walls more clearly, which was more stimulating than rapid thrusting. Gradually, my daughter-in-law also began to experience the pleasure, her buttocks starting to thrust back in rhythm with me, the "slap, slap" sounds of our bodies colliding blending with the "splish, splish" sounds from her vagina—what a lewd symphony!

Ten days. Once.

Twenty-one days. Once. Maybe she didn't rest well? It just flowed out.

On the 30th, everyone said I looked unwell and needed to rest. As I bent over, I noticed my daughter-in-law was wearing open-crotch pantyhose and no underwear…

…

Postscript

My wife slammed the yellowed notebook shut, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and slowly exhaled.

“Finished reading?” Despite the crisp autumn air, her palms were sweaty—even more so than when she received the death certificate from the hospital. I grabbed a tissue to wipe my hands. “My sister found this while tidying the room. Pretty interesting, right?”

“Very interesting.” My wife’s lips curved upwards, as if she were smiling.

I slapped her, knocking her to the ground. A purplish-red mark immediately appeared on her fair face, but she giggled.

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