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Subject: {ASSM} Dead Wallaby Incident  (MF) ~ byDrSpin
Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 06:10:00 -0400
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Dead Wallaby Incident (MF)
by DrSpin
September 2000

===========================================================
Standard Disclaimer:
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. If you are offended, you should not have been here 
in the first place and you only have yourself to blame. If 
this story is relocated, please leave my name intact as the 
author and please include my email address.
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* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
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* Ruthie edited expertly. Nat inspires and does the 
website.
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Here's a lesson for life: Never be first on the scene of an 
accident.

While I'm at it, here's another: Never intervene in a 
domestic dispute.

It was the lesser road to Cunnamulla. It was more of a 
track than a road, used mainly to truck live sheep into 
town from the outlying stations to connect with the highway 
and the eastern seaboard. The woolly beasts would then 
embark on a jam-packed cruise to the Middle East, where 
their fate would be ritual slaughter with their slashed 
throats facing towards Mecca.

Here's more advice: In the next life, don't come back as a 
sheep. It's a halaal of a way to die.

I wrestled the four-wheel-drive around a rutted bend and 
stood on the brakes. Before me was a black sedan, stopped 
in the middle of the road. A man and a woman stood beside 
it, waving their hands and shouting. I could hear them 
yelling when I cut the motor. 

They stopped fighting when I got out of the vehicle and 
strolled up to them. "What's up?" I asked politely. People 
help people in the bush.

I could tell from the way they were standing that she was 
angrier than he was. He had a sullen, defensive posture. 
She had her hands clenched into fists, and her shoulders 
were leaning towards him aggressively. He was a handsome 
fellow in a standard fashion. She was gorgeous in a manner 
completely unsubtle. Wow. Simply, a babe.  

"Nothing, mate," he said, plainly wishing I wasn't there. 
"Sorry to hold you up. We'll just get out of your way."

"We will not," she said, screaming the last word. And even 
when her face was twisted she was beautiful.

"Right," I said smoothly. "So, what's up?"

She pointed at the road in front of the car. I walked 
around and saw a dead wallaby in the dust. I looked up at 
the woman. "You want me to move it?"

"I want somebody to examine it," she said, stabbing an 
accusing finger at the man. "He won't."

"Ah, listen," I said carefully. "It's dead, you know."

She whirled and came up right in front of me. Wow. She had 
fantastic in-your-face tits. "I know it's fucking dead," 
she yelled angrily, from inches away. And suddenly her rage 
broke and her eyes flooded with tears. "It might have a  
joey in the pouch. They can live for three days in the 
mother's pouch. I read that in National Geographic."

"I see," I said. "You want me to check for a joey, 
right?"

Tears were rolling down her cheeks. "I was driving," she 
said. "It came jumping out of the scrub from nowhere."

"Yeah," I agreed. "They do that."

"He won't do it," she told me. "He says I killed it, it's 
my responsibility. He says we have to drive on and leave 
it."

I looked over at the guy. He shrugged uncomfortably. City 
people in a flash black car. He was probably squeamish 
about road kill. Many city people are. 

"Okay," I said. "I'll check the wallaby." I squatted and 
turned the body over. It was a female, easy to see. Male 
wallabies and kangaroos have big balls. You can't miss 
them. I slid my hand into the pouch.

"Damn," I said, and pulled out a warm, furry bundle of baby 
wallaby. I dangled it by the neck, and it looked at my face 
and blinked stupidly.

"Damn," I said again. It sat comfortably in my cupped 
hands. "National Geographic was right."

The woman whirled on the man. "You cold-hearted bastard," 
she hissed at him furiously. "You were just going to leave 
it to starve and die."

"You dumb fuck bitch, Misty," he growled, surly and 
resentful. "Now we're gonna have to kill it."

"No," she screamed, so loudly it echoed off a nearby range 
of hills. She turned to me desperately. "The joey can be 
saved, can't it? They can be hand-reared on goat's milk. I 
read that."

"In National Geographic?" I asked.

She nodded vigorously. "We'll take it with us."

"No, Misty, we sure as hell won't," said the guy heavily. 
He had one of those carefully-shaped goatee beards. "I have 
to get back to Brisbane, and we won't be stopping and hand-
rearing no fucking joey on no fucking goat's milk."

She reached out, took the animal from me, cuddled it 
protectively to her ample bosom, and glared at him 
defiantly.

The guy spat theatrically on the road. "Get in the car," he 
ordered. "Leave the fucking kangaroo with this country guy 
and get in the fucking car."

"No joey, no me," she said quietly.

He stared at her, trying to will her into submission. She 
might have faltered, but at that moment the joey poked out 
a tiny pink tongue and licked her finger. Tears filled her 
eyes again and she shook her head stubbornly. Grimly he 
marched past her, got into the car, banged the door shut, 
and took off in a cloud of dust and stones. We stood and 
watched the black car disappear over a rise in the road.

"Sorry about this," she said. "Do you have a homestead 
nearby? Can I get some fresh milk for this poor baby?"

I scratched my head. "I have some bad news," I said. "I'm 
just an antique dealer from Brisbane out here on a buying 
trip. The only country thing about me is the dust on my 
boots."

"Shit," she said, suddenly deflated. "You seemed to know 
what you were doing. I thought you were a local. Now what 
am I going to do?"

Good question. She was, I guessed, in her mid to late 
twenties. Damn fine figure. Damn fine, unambiguously 
delineated in tight pale blue jeans and a tight sleeveless 
khaki cotton top that laid her tummy bare. The woman had a 
V8 motor under there. Without clothes, she'd spill out all 
over the place. Wide hips, a proud bum, small waist and 
flat stomach, and bountiful tits displayed like the premier 
shelf of the really good stuff at a candy store.

"We can't just stand here and get sunstroke," I said. 
"We'll head into Cunnamulla and see if we can find a vet."

We hadn't gone far when she started to talk, and when she 
talked it was a torrent of truth. She'd been with that guy 
- Mark, his name was - for just over two years. It had been 
coming to an end for months. It might as well be now as in 
another few increasingly difficult and awkward weeks. Would 
I drive her back to Brisbane? Maybe would I wait while she 
collected her things from the apartment? And then could I 
drop her off at a friend's place? And could she keep the 
joey?

She was a singer trying to get a break, she said. She sang 
at Mark's riverside nightclub. Sometimes. Mostly she just 
took off her clothes, usually as a topless waitress and 
sometimes as a stripper when the pros were in short supply. 
She'd come to realise recently she was not going to get 
anywhere but older and sadder at Mark's nightclub, and with 
Mark. She'd give singing one more real shot. If it didn't 
happen, it was time for a lifestyle decision. And did I 
think she could keep the joey?

I was starting to think about some answers when deja vu 
turned up. Flash black car, parked across the road, 
blocking it. And Mark of the goatee, arms crossed, leaning 
against it, waiting. Nightclub proprietor. Right. It all 
made some sort of visual sense.

"Don't leave me now," Misty said, clutching the joey. "In 
the last twenty minutes I've come to realise how much I 
hate him."

Piece of piss. Engage four-wheel-drive, veer off-road, bang 
your head on the roof while we charge down the embankment, 
wrench vehicle back on course, flatten a dozen turkey 
bushes and shrubby wattles, return to the road, and hey 
presto! There's old Mark in the rear vision mirror.

Not so easy after all. In a couple of minutes the black car 
filled the mirror, and then he was alongside, shouting 
noiselessly through the closed window. I braked and 
stopped.

"Don't give me up," said Misty, whimpering. "He can be 
nasty."

"Just stay here," I said, getting out of the vehicle and 
locking the door.

"Okay, pal," said Mark, walking towards me from his car and 
unwrapping from a wad of black cloth a small and neat 
pistol. "Enough is enough. Don't make me use this."

Wrapped away like that, the odds were excellent it wasn't 
yet loaded. "Hang on a second," I said to him. "We could do 
a nice deal here."

I walked around to the back of the four-wheel-drive, opened 
the rear door and pulled out a hugely-long, highly-
polished, silver-embossed, ivory-inlaid, precision-
manufactured, double-barrelled Army & Navy .500 elephant 
gun. It was a beautiful piece; not antique, but not far 
from it. I crooked it in my arm and pointed it lazily at 
him.

"Call that pea-shooter a firearm?" I asked mockingly. "Now 
this here is a sporting gentleman's gun. It'll take you out 
plus your car with the one shot." Yes, and probably break my 
shoulder too, if it was loaded. Christ knows how and where 
you'd get the ammunition. Ask Ernest Hemingway.

He stood uncertainly, looking anxiously at the barrels of 
the mammoth master-blaster. "That's right," I said. "Guess 
mine's just bigger than yours."

He looked up into the cabin at Misty. "You filthy whore," 
he screamed at her. "This time you're really fucked. Go and 
peddle your second-hand cunt elsewhere." He turned, got 
into his car and took off again.

I put the gun back into its baize case. It was worth maybe 
$9000 to me, a lot more than Misty. "You are turning out to 
be a high-risk passenger," I said to her as we restarted 
our journey.

"I'll make it up to you," she said. "Especially if I can 
keep the joey." I turned my attention from the road to look 
at her, and she met my gaze. "I know what I'm saying, and I 
know what it means," she said, with a half-smile tinged 
with sadness. "You think I don't know my assets?" 

"You already told me," I said. "You sing like Judy 
Garland."  

She laughed. "I wish."

I sang badly, with tremor. "You made me love you. . ."

She sang well, without. "I didn't want to do it, I didn't 
want to do it."

But I did. Whatever the motive, whatever the cost, I would 
take what she offered. This was a female female, and you 
don't strike that many. I had three casual acquaintance 
women I fucked irregularly, like you'd occasionally return 
home to your parents for a Sunday dinner. Nothing wrong 
with that, but it was never going to make a well-thumbed 
chapter in my memoirs. Misty, maybe, might make more 
mileage.

The only vet in Cunnamulla was closed. A note on the door 
said he was out on a sheep run and he'd be back in two 
days. I asked for goat's milk at the store next door and I 
might as well have been speaking Hungarian. I bought cow's 
milk, a baby's feeding bottle, and purloined a cardboard 
box. Misty sat in the vehicle, cuddling the joey, which 
seemed contented. "Now what do I do about feeding it?" she 
asked.

"It's late afternoon," I said. "I could book us a motel."

Her hesitation was only small. "Sure," she said.

"One room or two, Misty?"

Again, just a fractional pause, but enough to be barely 
noticed. "One will do," she said.

In the motel room I warmed the milk in the electric water 
jug. Amazingly and with only a minute's coaxing and 
coaching, the joey guzzled it greedily from the baby's 
bottle and instantly fell asleep. Misty was happy. She 
beamed as it slumbered on a scrunched-up rug in the 
cardboard box.

"Now I can take a shower," she said. In the bathroom 
doorway she turned and looked at me. "I can leave the door 
open. If you'd like."

Yes, I would like. Hadn't heard a better proposition in 
ages. But, once more, there was that sad resignation on her 
face, and I am prone to guilt. The woman wanted to have a 
shower, for goodness sake. Why on earth was she even 
offering? "Go in peace and privacy," I said, hoping my 
regret didn't show.

She was a long time in there, and when she emerged she was 
wearing her jeans and her upper body was wrapped in a 
towel. "Mark has my suitcase," she said. "I had to wash the 
rest of my clothes. Is our baby still sleeping?"

I'd been sitting there doing not much but think about her. 
"What's the story, Misty?" I asked. "I'm puzzled. Why do 
you believe you have to do special things for me just 
because I'm giving you a ride back to Brisbane? I made no 
such demand or struck no such deal. Why do you simply 
assume it will be so?"

She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the joey 
asleep in its box. "That's the way it is," she said. 
"That's the way it always is."

"But why?"

She was still gazing at the sleeping joey. "When you look 
like I do, you have no choice."

"Misty, that's crap."

"No," she said, looking up at me. "It's the way it is. 
That's the way men look at me. That's the way they see me." 
Her mouth turned up crookedly. "You're a nice man, Harry, 
but that's the way you see me too."

I thought about denying it, and even that small pause was 
easily long enough to demonstrate I'd be lying if I did. 
She smiled the sad Misty smile. "It's all right," she said. 
"It's been that way since I was 16. I'm used to it."

"Used to what?"

"Giving away my body," she said. "Men want it so much that 
it seems like the least I can do." She shrugged. "No big 
deal, Harry. It's easy. Hell, I usually even like it."

I looked into her calm blue eyes. "Misty, that's so sad."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Where's the real you? You don't have to be like 
that."

She stood up and slowly unwrapped the towel. Her breasts 
spilled free like they'd been looking forward to it. She 
was a woman of the night, skin white, almost luminous. Not 
a hint of tan. She was white, soft, and plenty. Her breasts 
hung heavily, red nipples pointing down just a bit. She 
wore the crooked smile again. "Don't worry yourself about 
it, Harry," she said. "I know who I am. This is the real 
me."

She was standing right in front of me as I sat on the edge 
of the bed. I leaned my head into her and she put out her 
arms and pulled me into her breasts. Warm, clean, smelled 
like soap. She traced her fingers idly through my hair, and 
she was humming some tune, but so softly I couldn't 
recognise it. Maybe it meant she was happy.

I could have moved my head easily and tasted her skin, her 
breasts, her nipples. But it was fine like it was, my cheek 
against her warm skin, nose pushing into a breast, eyes 
closed, while she ran her fingers through my hair and 
hummed her soft song. Nothing is more peaceful in this 
world than being cradled into the breasts of a woman.

"Tell me, Harry," she murmured. "You want to make love to 
me?"  

"God, yes."

"Of course you do," she said, fingering my ear lobe. "I 
knew that. You had it written all over your face when first 
you saw me back there in the road."

She took off the rest of her clothes. In the middle of the 
bed, naked, she slid her legs out straight and parted them 
invitingly. Misty was no skinny fashion model. She had real 
flesh at the tops of her solid thighs, and some left over 
to roll and spread. Not so long ago she'd been shaved clean 
of pubic hair. Now it was growing back vigorously, like a 
man's week-old stubble beard, but it meant she was wide 
open and visible. White, then pink. Red, even. Full and 
ripe. No doubt about it. She was truly a woman to be 
fucked.

I hovered over her lush body, ready and willing to pay 
homage, to kiss and caress it lovingly, but she intercepted 
my designs and gripped my erect penis in a fist. "Don't 
muck about," she said. "I know where you want to be. Fuck 
me, and fuck me for yourself. That's the way I like it."

It was like slipping on a familiar and comfortable jacket. 
Easy. Straight on up and in, fitting smoothly, like I'd 
been there a hundred times before. Jesus, what a woman. She 
looked like sex, felt like sex, smelled like sex, and 
sounded like sex. It was exciting to possess her from 
within, and I was harder than the branch of a petrified 
tree.

Her dark hair spread out on the pillow and she looked up at 
me, smiling pleasantly. Yeah, pleasantly. I was sliding 
into her and out, and she was exquisite, and gorgeous, and 
my nerves were screaming, and I knew how damned lucky I was 
to have hit the jackpot with this one. And she looked 
pleased.

Pleased. That's all. It came to me as I was pushing and 
shoving my heart, soul, and life-blood into her body that 
she was giving nothing at all back. No reaction. No  
expectation. No nothing.

"Come on," she said calmly, still smiling. "Give it to me, 
Harry. Give it all to me."

Fuck. In a most pleasant, gracious, and accommodating way, 
she was waiting for me to finish.

Any rapist will tell you it only takes one to tango. I 
completed the task, spilling myself into her while she 
smiled and patted me gently, encouragingly, almost absent-
mindedly, on the back. "There, there," she said.

Sometimes, when a man fucks a woman, he gets a sudden 
distaste for it. Only immediately afterwards, of course. 
Never before, during, or much later when the battery is 
recharged and the tanks are full. I sat on the edge of the 
bed, looking at the sleeping joey in its box on the floor, 
because I didn't want to look at Misty and see how pleased 
she was. Stupid bitch. She'd spread her legs and done me a 
favour. How nice.

"That was nice," she said, on cue, behind my back.

I was restraining an urge to hurt her and I didn't quite 
make it. "Misty," I said, talking down at the joey, "how 
many men have you fucked?"

"Lots," she said, artlessly.

"And have you ever been paid for it?"

Silence. Then: "Not really."

"Misty, were you ever given money after you fucked 
somebody"

"Well, yes. But I never asked." She sighed. "Look, I did a 
few favours for Mark. They were important friends or 
business partners, or something like that. They usually 
left some money for me, that's all."

Yeah, right. That's all. The spite I'd been feeling fell 
away. "Don't ever go back to Mark," I said.

"I wasn't planning to," she said.

I took a shower and when I came out she was curled up in 
the bed, asleep. One arm was hanging out over the edge of 
the bed and one breast exposed to the nipple. Her dark hair 
fanned out over the pillow. The skin of her shoulder was 
white and soft. Misty was so beautiful.

In the morning I took her up on a previous offer and 
watched her shower. She didn't mind a bit, and it was worth 
it to see the way her body moved, and the way the water 
fell off the overhangs and ran down the gullies. She was a 
voyeur's delight. So beautiful.

The joey was anxious and twitchy, and she nursed it and fed 
it from the bottle after we got back on the road, heading 
for Brisbane and home. She talked a lot about her singing, 
and how she thought she needed just the one lucky break. I 
listened, mostly, because it wouldn't have helped to tell 
her the truth. Her voice was satisfactory and her body was 
spectacular. She needed to have it the other way around.

After a couple of hours we stopped at a bridge over a 
creek, and got out to stretch our legs. The joey slept 
peacefully in his box. It was a hot day, and the inviting 
sound of the trickling creek drew us down the bank and into 
deep shade of a thick grove of trees. Misty leaned back 
against a tree trunk and stretched her arms above her head. 
The effect was stunningly erotic.

"Stay right there," I said, and scrambled back up the bank. 
I fetched my camera from the glove box and returned.

I could see straight away she was one of those women who 
woke and worked for a camera. She smiled welcomingly, put 
her feet into the right position, swivelled her hips and 
pushed out her chest. Some women love the lens. Take me, 
they say. Hey there, Mr. Camera, I'm all yours.

She started taking off clothes. I didn't even have to ask 
her. Soon she was naked, stretching, preening, and bending 
over from the waist so her superb breasts hung fetchingly. 
She squatted on her haunches and spread her legs. "Hey 
Misty," I called out from behind the camera. "How about a 
classic Penthouse shot for the boys."

She smiled mischievously and spread open her vagina with 
her hands. "Like this?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Just like that."

I put down the camera and went to her like a man on a 
mission. She settled back on the grass and leaned her 
weight on her elbows. "Uh oh," she said. "Something tells 
me you want to fuck me again."

I hoped for better but it wasn't to be. She was warm, 
accommodating, inviting, and the worst fuck on the planet. 
It all went one way. Nothing came back. She just let it 
happen to her, and unless she was the greatest actress of 
her time, she appeared happy to have it like that.

Only the churlish would complain. She was so beautiful, 
so compliant, and so cheerful about it all. But I was 
starting to think Misty might be a better sexual partner as 
a nude photo to masturbate over. At least then you wouldn't 
have to worry about issues like the two ants crawling 
across her shoulder.

When I started fucking her I was hot for it because of the 
way she posed for those photos. Midway I was losing 
interest. I pushed and slammed into her vigorously, trying 
to bring on a fast finish, and just made it before my mind 
began to wander into speculation about the load of recently 
acquired antiques in the back of the Toyota.

You couldn't complain. She was the most accommodating woman 
I think I'd ever met. But Misty was just a receptacle, 
albeit an extremely good-looking one.

Twenty minutes later we were back on the road again. The 
joey was awake, and the only thing we knew to do was to
feed it. So Misty fed it. I started thinking about the 
antiques boxed in the back.

Back in Brisbane I dropped her off at her friend's house. 
She'd worry about her possessions at Mark's house later, 
she said. She'd be fine, she said. Yes, she agreed, she'd 
take the joey to a vet clinic tomorrow. I wrote down her 
address and phone number on the back of a business card. 
I'd call her, I said. She cuddled the joey and waved 
happily at me as I drove away.

I didn't ring her, of course. I wasn't looking for a trophy 
girlfriend. Besides, I worried that if I had to fuck her 
again I might be compelled to hurt her to get some sort of 
reaction out of her. I forgot about her. The Sunday dinner 
irregulars were not nearly as pretty, but they put on a 
much better show in the sack.

About eighteen months later a client took me to a Melbourne 
nightclub. Nightclubs irritate me. You pay three times the 
price for half the drink, and I can live with that - but 
not with smug attitude they have about it. They actually 
think you don't realise they're ripping you off. But a good 
client is hard to refuse, so I went along for the ride.

I was trying to appear as though I was having a good time 
when I became aware of the singer plying her trade in dim 
light on a small stage. She'd already done a couple of 
numbers and nobody was listening. It was just inoffensive 
background noise. My eyes flicked past her and then 
straight back. Hey, could that be Misty?

I plucked the shirtsleeve of a passing waiter. "That 
singer," I asked him. "Is her name Misty?"

"Yeah," the waiter said. "We let her do a few songs every 
now and then. If you want to fuck her it'll cost you 200 
bucks." He leaned down conspiratorially. "You should see 
her tits. Fantastic."

"You've been there?" I asked him.

He rolled his eyes theatrically. "But don't tell the boss. 
She's our top girl."

"So what's she like?"

"She never says no to anything," he confided. "But don't go 
home with her. She's got this stinking kangaroo as a 
household pet. Fucking weird, man. She calls it baby, and 
it follows her everywhere."

I nodded. "Think I'll give it a miss tonight," I said. 
"I've an early plane to catch tomorrow. Wait. Just one 
thing. Who's the boss here?"

"Mark Nothling," he said. "Why? You know him?"

"Little goatee beard?"

"Yeah, that's Mark."

"I know him vaguely," I said. "Threatened to blow his head 
off once."

The waiter laughed. "He's a prick," he said. "Pity you 
didn't."

Yeah. Pity. I still had that elephant gun in my shop 
window. Never could get any ammo for it.

ENDS
===========================================================
* The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from) 
comments and opinions from readers and is invariably 
motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com

The Stories of DrSpin are at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www
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Everything a writer learns about the art or craft of fiction takes just 
a little away from his need or desire to write at all. In the end he 
knows all the tricks and has nothing to say. - Raymond Chandler, 1950.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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