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Subject: {ASSM} World Lit. 101 (MC, Mdom, Fdom, voy, gang, inter, toys, oral, humor, preg)
Date: Thu, 12 Dec 2002 23:10:02 -0500
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Title: World Lit. 101
Author: Homer Vargas
MC, Mdom, Fdom, voy, gang, inter, toys, oral, humor,
preg
Summary: A "Fantasy Train" adventure. Six writer s of
ASS erotica, Janey, Maria Gonzales, Allison, Virago
Blue, Miss Behavin', and Bronwen visit writers of the
past.
Redistribution: No restriction except that the story
may not be changed/edited and the title, author's name
and email, and request for feedback must remain
intact.
First Posted 11/1/99
Last Edited 12/11/02
World Lit. 101 (MC, Mdom, Fdom, voy, gang, inter,
toys, oral, humor, preg)
Homer Vargas
vargas111@yahoo.com
I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Denny
Wheeler for proofreading and editing major parts of
this story and to JCX for helping me with the French
and general proofing. Remaining errors, and there are
probably plenty of them, are mine. I also express
gratitude to my good-humored fellow travelers, whose
only mistake was to accompany me on the trip and who
have paid for it dearly by receiving unrelenting
derision of their personae. Even their own words of
demurral and correction have been used against them
shamelessly. I am only saddened that several of them
are no longer writing. You are great; please return!
"No, NO, NooOOO!!!" I screamed.
*****
I sat up drenched in cold sweat. I hadn't heard the
alarm and my watch told me I was late. Louie's car
would be here at 5:00 AM to take me to the station. I
fairly flew through my morning shower and shave and
raced downstairs to have a quick breakfast. No time
for the usual, sausage and eggs; I reached for the
cereal. Funny, I'd swear that the leprechaun on the
Lucky Charms box was smirking at me.
I was still gulping down my bowl of nutritious
"frosted whole-oat cereal with marshmallows" when I
heard the horn -- sounded tinny. Walking out of the
front door, I looked out toward the street but didn't
see the limo. "Down here!" came Louie's sarcastic
voice.
"What the fuck?" I exclaimed as I looked down on the
green, nineteen-foot long, two-foot high vehicle.
"You told me how `long' you wanted it; you didn't say
anything about the height," the green imp smirked.
"How do you expect me to get into that?" I asked.
"I don't. I expect you to make it worth my while to
enlarge it."
"Damn you! I'm already paying you a shit pot full of
gold to charter the Fantasy Train today. A free limo
ride to the station is the least you could do."
"Never done much business with leprechauns, have you?"
I lunged for him but he ducked and I banged my head on
the side of the miniature automobile, "Ouch! You
bastard. Oh, shit! How much?"
Louie named an outrageous figure and I agreed.
Smiling contentedly, he gave a little nod and the limo
started growing taller. It stopped at about four
feet.
"Is that it?"
"You said you wanted to be able to get into it."
I lunged again but only succeeded in adding a second
bruise to my forehead. Accepting defeat, I scrunched
myself into the passenger's seat. Tucking my knees
into the impossibly small compartment, I gave ironic
thanks for my Third-World ancestry that permitted me
to travel this way. "I hope you didn't make the women
ride in this kind of inconvenience," I scowled.
"Of course not. They are my guests and I am a
gentleman."
"No they are MY guests and you are NO gentleman, but
thank you, anyway. Did you have any trouble
persuading them to come?"
"I can always make a woman to come."
He saw I was about to strangle him.
"No, I spewed them the line you gave me. 'The Fantasy
Train was being misused for all sorts of juvenile
shenanigans - Star Trek spoofs, visits to strippers, a
scavenger hunt! We are supposed to be authors of
sophisticated erotica, not sophomoric pranksters.
This was their opportunity to go into the past and
visit real authors and their characters.' Of course I
also promised they'd be able to bonk the various
sources of their inspiration," he grinned.
"Yeah, I thought that would get them. They all have
literary pretensions but they are horn dogs, too. So,
no problems?"
"Of course there were problems when they found out who
was inviting them! I believe it was Allison who
stated it most succinctly, 'No way! That little
fucker just wants to get me alone so he can knock me
up. How stupid does he think I am?'"
"But you explained about ..."
"The `Magic Diaphragm,' yes. I promised on my word as
a leprechaun that so long as they wore it, no one
would be able to get them pregnant."
"And they believed you?"
"People always believe leprechauns; we cannot lie."
"Yeah, but you didn't tell them ..."
"Shut up! Do you want to spoil the climax of your own
story?"
"Er, ... certainly not the climax!" I agreed.
Sometimes Louie wasn't such a bad imp.
"Well, here we are at the station. I'll be going to
the train."
"Thanks," I said trying to extricate myself from the
ridiculous vehicle and maintain as much dignity as
possible. After all, I was trying to make a good
impression on six of the greatest writers in the ASS
community. They were already at the station, standing
on the platform watching me and trying not to laugh --
not hard enough. I had never met any of them before,
but it was easy to distinguish them.
Allison was the cute one with short brown hair,
flipped slightly on the ends. She looked ready for
her first day at university in a knee-length full
skirt and blouse. I didn't have to wonder what she
wore under the skirt.
Miss Behavin' had on a tailored cream-coloured (she
insisted I spell it that way, but I put my food down
at "realise.") business suit with the skirt cut about
four inches above the knee. That's where the slit
started. There wasn't much business transacted at her
office when she wore THAT, I thought. Her hair was
straight and blond as the day it was dyed.
Virago Blue was even taller than her tales would have
you believe, a tower of a woman with hair the color of
polished brass that threw back the first hint of dawn.
Supple skins clung to her massive but shapely figure.
And leather-thong sandals with 5" heels: now that was
hot! Her eyes appraised me sternly.
The contrast with Maria could hardly be greater. The
hot little Latina stood hardly taller than Louie,
although there was a lot of girl packed into her curvy
form. She wore a tight red mini with a lacy white
blouse, her dark breasts clearly discernible. She
looked as if she had just come from strutting in a
mall.
Bronwen was much younger than she'd led us to believe.
She must have noticed our surprise. "I had Louie
pick me up several years ago; I wanted to look my
best," she announced with a don't-you-wish
-*you'd*-thought-of-that smile that brought glares of
resentment from the other women. Very straight, like
her stories; she had almost delicate features and dark
hair. Her blue eyes and firm chin gave her face a
burning intelligence. LW could hope that Allison
looked as good when she grew up.
Janey, on the other hand, was exactly as she had
pictured herself. She was tall and had long brown
hair with a touch of gray - she hadn't told us about
that, but ...
"Hold on Vargas!" Janey yelled. "I'll accept the
'gray.' I'll even accept 'brown,' though it's really
ash blonde. But NOT 'long.' Long brown hair with gray
in it is 'Cambridge' -- double-plus tacky. No! No!
NO! 'short' hair! You better pay attention! I'm
bigger than you are!"
Oops!
Janey, on the other hand, was exactly as she had
pictured herself. She was tall and had short,
ash-blonde hair with a touch of gray that Miss Clairol
had missed -- she hadn't told us about that, but it
was sexy as hell. She had chosen a long skirt with a
slit high enough to make nudists gawk and it fell from
the hips of - a woman.
"Hey, Homer," shouted Louie from the cab of the train,
"Cut out that shit about their eyes and hair and chin
for chrissake! Tell us about their boobs. The guys
that read ASSM want to know how big these babes'
titties are. And be descriptive. They want to hear
about `humongous hooters,' `bountiful bazookas,'
`magnificent mammaries!'"
"Shut up, Louie; I'm writing this story!" I yelled
back. "I don't *write* about ladies' bust sizes!
This is a serious literary exercise in which six
well-known writers, each admired for her ASS ... work,
are going to encounter the fonts of their artistic
imagination. You can't expect me to insult women like
that by talking about their bra sizes!"
"I'm a 34B," piped up Allison.
I covered my face.
"Hmmp!" sniffed Miss Behavin', "*I*'m a 36C."
"Very cute. What do you call them, 'Dow' and
'Corning?'" Janey asked, cattily.
"These babies are all me!" Miss Behavin' retorted
giving her boobs a venomous shake in Janey's
direction.
"My SOs never complained about these 36Ds," Bronwen
added smugly.
"Mine may be small," Janey announced, "But all the men
go ape over them. These little jobbies get so hard,
my last lover pierced his tongue on my nipple."
I felt like crawling under a rock.
"My `chichis' look cool like this!" Maria interjected,
throwing her head down and holding her arms up behind
her as if suspended from her kitchen ceiling.
"I think you girls are trying to make mountains out of
mole hills" boomed Virago Blue who silenced the
women's silly prattle by pulling aside her wolf-skin
bodice to reveal a set of humongous hooters. Damn,
this woman was stacked like a brick shithouse! I
mean, she had a bodacious brace of bountiful bouncing
bazookas, a tumescent twosome of toothsome mammoth
mammaries, a ...
The sound of Louie's giggle stopped me.
Busted!
The sight of six such amazingly beautiful, totally
different women took my breath away. The women were
equally surprised to see me. "Disappointed" would be
a better word. Maria had probably guessed what a
Vargas would look like, but the others had entertained
vain hopes of someone taller and more rugged, maybe a
slightly older Ricky Martin or Antonio Banderas. "Oh,
well, I wasn't planning on fucking him, anyway," said
six sets of eyes.
"Thank you so much for coming this morning to the
Fantasy Train, ladies," I said, smiling in the face of
their dismay. "Shall we board?" I stood by the tall
step of the rail car and offered each authoress my
hand, being gentlemanly, as my Southern mama had
taught me. She didn't say I couldn't try to peek up
their skirts as I did so. Even better than the
furtive glances was the aroma. Ahhh! What can smell
better on a chilly morning than a warm pussy?
Maria's twat had a delicious, homey smell with just a
hint of Jalapeno. Virago Blue's fragrance called to
mind wild, windswept heaths and -- I thought Generic
Joe was having us on -- she really DID have a
chain-mail thong panty. Miss Behavin' had little
aroma at all, probably having been licked too clean
that morning by her husband or one of the assistant
husbands in her polyandrous household.
I wasn't disappointed by Bronwen. Her pussy didn't
smell properly English at all, but wild and exotic --
"Dr. Livingstone, I presume?"
Janey's smelled surprisingly sweet, a familiar odor --
of course -- creme brulee! Either she'd had her
husband up to some funny business this morning or
she'd OD'ed on them the night before.
Allison had a nice tangy odor, but as I inhaled,
enough light filtered through her dress to allow me to
read the citation tattooed neatly by her panty-less
pussy: "If you can read this, you are too dammed close
to my wife's vagina. Cease and desist or I'll habeas
your worthless corpus so bad you'll wish you'll need
an amicus curiae: - LW."
With the last crotch sniffed and pussy peeked, I
pulled myself aboard and gave Louie the signal to
embark. I could feel a slight vibration as I walked
into the spacious club car where the women had
settled, sitting, talking, sizing each other up. Out
the window, genres, typefaces, and proofreaders' marks
were flying by.
"So now that we're all on board, tell us how this
works, Homer," Janey demanded.
"Quite simple," I replied, "We stop at the time and
venue of some important writer and one of you gets to
alight to "interact" with him and any of his
characters that you may find. What you do is pretty
much up to you. I'm just playing host as a token of
the high esteem in which I hold each of you."
"You're playing host because you're hoping you can get
all of us pregnant," responded Allison, "But it's not
going to work. Louie gave us each a magic diaphragm
and promised us on his word as a leprechaun that so
long as we keep it in, neither you or anyone else can
get us pregnant. We can fuck anyone we want to, right
girls?"
A cheer went up from the assembled women.
"And don't get your hopes up, little man," snapped
Miss Behavin'. "With several centuries of real and
imaginary men to choose from, I think we can do a hell
of a lot better than YOU."
"Ladies, please. Such cynicism! I just want to help
you have an interesting literary excursion," I replied
with as much dignity as I could. "We'll be stopping
in chronological order. I thought a nice beginning
would be Chaucer. Nothing much written before him is
recognizable as English. Who'd like to visit him?"
"Excellent idea. I would." Bronwen spoke up. "He's
very funny and his `Canterbury Tales' was sort of the
ASSM of its day. I wonder if he's as sexy as his
stories?"
"I'll bet it's not Chaucer you're after, you horny
cow," Janey taunted. "You're just hoping to meet up
with that Young Squire.
"So hoote he lovede, that by nightertale
He slepte namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale,"
quoted Janey - the show-off!
----------
London, circa 1390:
We found Geoffrey Chaucer in a well-lit room of a
London palace. He was dressed richly, sitting at a
sturdy writing table. A lute played in the
background. Royal patronage definitely had its
advantages. His eyes lighted up when I introduced
Bronwen, now dressed in full court regalia. He had no
difficulty understanding that we came from a far
future time. Bronwen bowed her head in a most
fetching manner. Are English girls born knowing how
to do that?
"I've admired your works since I studied them in
school, actually since I found the parts we did NOT
study in school," she smiled.
"In school?" he asked, obviously fishing for
compliments.
"Yes, everyone has to memorize:
`Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
...The droghte of March hath perced to the roote'"
she recited.
"Madam Bronwen is an authoress, herself," I pointed
out, "One of the best on ASSM."
"ASSM? What is that?" Chaucer asked.
"Oh, a very large compendium of bawdy tales," Bronwen
explained. "Master Rey Del Sexo has collected
thousands."
"I hope that Master Del Sexo has a rich patron as I
have in John of Gaunt to provide him with quills and
parchment in abundance," Chaucer remarked.
"Oh, if it were only that simple, Geof, Bronwen
explained. "Rey has to pay for a server, line
charges, beaucoup bandwidth; it's very expensive.
That is why he needs all the people who read ASSM
stories to contribute to making it possible for him to
continue."
"Can he not require money when someone buys his book?"
"ASSM" is not really a book, Geoff. It's sort of like
being in the public domain. Like, how long has it
been since *you* got any royalties?"
"Tell me!" he groaned. "Christie's just auctioned off
one of my manuscripts for 7.5 million bob. How much
did I get? Zip! Terrible! So how DO Master Del
Sexo's patrons provide him with support?"
"Thought you'd never ask, Geoff. They just click on:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/donations.html
to get information on how to help," she said.
"I hope our visit here will encourage some of those
who read this story," Bronwen turned and nodded
sweetly to the online readers, "to read your stories
again."
"Why, thank you, Madam!" Chaucer beamed.
"That's not the only reason I came, however," Bronwen
admitted, a gleam in her eye. "I was wondering if I
might have a word with John."
"John? You mean the Carpenter of the `Miller's
Tale?'" Chaucer asked.
"Yes, I've developed a soft spot for the bloke. My
own dear is a good bit older than I and it's not that
long ago that I was a `newe wyf and wylde and yong,'
Bronwen said, casting a cool glance at the unseen
Janey as if to say, "See? You're not the only one
who's read `Canterbury Tales' in the Middle English."
"I could conjure him, if you wish," Chaucer replied.
"Actually, I prefer to pay him a visit at his shop.
And with that, Bronwen stepped through an invisible
wall into a carpenter's shop where a middle-aged man
was absorbed making a yoke.
"Good morrow, John," Bronwen greeted him. She was now
dressed in the simple garb of a townswoman.
"Good morrow, ...." he was confused to see an
unfamiliar face, though it was a very pretty one.
"Madam Bronwen," she stated.
"Well, Madam Bronwen, have you come to buy a spatula
or a mixing bowl?" he inquired.
"No, John, I've come to talk to you about Alison."
***
"Hey, you misspelled my name," shouted Allison. "I
HATE to see my name spelled that way!"
"Tough, titty! That's the way Chaucer spells it," I
replied. "Now go away; you're not supposed to be in
this section of the story."
***
"Alison?" the man replied, his face lighting up at the
thought of his beautiful wife. Then it clouded.
"Alison," Bronwen repeated. "You have a good girl
there, John. With care she'll become a good woman."
"Indeed, I love my Alison more than my life," he
sighed.
"But she won't be yours long unless you do something,
John."
"Do something?"
"John, I can't put this a delicately as Bob Dole
would, but if you don't start getting her off more
often than off 'n' on, she'll be looking for the
action elsewhere. I've got to warn you there is a
lawyer with golden curls named Absolom who has the
hots for her. And Alisons have a weakness for
lawyers," Bronwen added with a smirk. "She's
eighteen, John, and you're ... forty five? ... fifty?
She needs more than she's getting at home."
"Aye, Madam Bronwen! I fuck her as often as I can,
but she is a minx. I give her everything she asks and
keep her at home as much as I dare. What else can I
do?"
"Take one of these tonight," Bronwen smiled shaking a
large blue pill from a Viagra bottle, "and call me in
the morning." With that she walked back through the
invisible wall into the room with Chaucer and me.
"Anachronism! Deus ex machina!" Janey tried to
interject from a higher level of the narrative, but
Bronwen silenced her. "Viagra is like my American
Express card, my dear. I never leave home without it.
Never can tell when the old man may take a notion to
jump me."
"Very thoughtful of you, Bronwen," I said, "But I
actually expected you to ... er ..."
"Fuck one of Geoff's characters? All in good time,
Homer. Now, excuse me. A narrative day has passed."
And again she walked through the wall.
"Good morrow, John. How was your night?" she grinned.
"Fabulous!" exclaimed the happy but slightly
disheveled carpenter. "I haven't been so hard or kept
it up so long since I was fifteen. And Alison loved
it! Woke the neighbors, I'm sure. Where may I
purchase more of this marvelous potion?"
"Well, there are several internet sites, but they
won't do you much good. I will leave you a supply,
but you'll have to ration them -- your anniversary,
her birthday, St. Valentine's Day."
"So I can please her only when I take the potion? And
when it is gone?" he asked forlornly.
"Hold out your hand, John. ... Humm. Better trim
those nails, but nice long, strong fingers."
"I don't understand."
"Let me see your tongue,.... Farther out ... Make it
rigid. UuuHu. ... Can you curl up the edges like
this? ... Good! John, I'm going to show you how to
keep Alison a happy woman," Bronwen said, flipping the
sign on the shop door over into the "Closed" position
and lifting the hem of her skirt.
"Forsooth! My Alison doesn't wear panties, either,"
John exclaimed as he gazed on Bronwen's bare,
moistening pussy.
"Alisons often don't, " Bronwen remarked as she drew
the face of the astounded carpenter between her legs.
Without boring you with otiose details, I can tell you
that Bronwen proved once again the Franciscan dictum
that it is only by giving that we receive.
"Oh, shit, yes! Suck it John baby! Uuuoo! Yeah!
Soooo goooood! Oh, God! I'm going to come
agaiiiiiinn@!"
*****
"So you figure that between the Viagra you left for
him and his new skills as a cunninglinguist, John and
Alison will live happily ever after?" I asked the
obviously self-satisfied Bronwen back in Chaucer's
studio.
"Well, that's not all I left him. He's a carpenter,
so he didn't have any trouble making a replica of
this!" she smirked as she pulled a wicked-looking
dildo from her handbag. "Something else I never leave
home without. Never know when the old man may NOT
take a notion to jump me."
Chaucer and I looked at each other in amazement. "See
you back on the train, Homer. Now, I'm going to find
that `lusty bacheler' Squire. I intend for the boy to
be `slepen al the nyght with open eye.'"
----------
London, circa 1595:
Virago Blue and I stepped off the train just outside a
London garret. She had to duck to get through several
doors as I led her confidently to the room Louie had
told me about. We found Shakespeare (who, amazingly,
looked just like Joseph Fiennes) hunched over a small
writing desk. A single beam of sunlight illuminated
the dark room, which was just as well. It made it
easier to see the young woman Shakespeare was eyeing
in his imagination.
"Good morrow, Master Will," I greeted him.
"Forsooth! Prithee who be ye and whence cometh ye
unto my chamber?" he replied.
"I'm sorry Will, but this is just a short story and I
haven't got the time to write and, frankly, my readers
haven't got the patience to wade through, Elizabethan
English. So can we switch to 20th Century US?
"I'm cool," he agreed.
"Great! Let me introduce Ms Blue. She's a writer.
"And I've always wanted to meet you, Mr. Shakespeare"
she cooed.
Shakespeare looked up at the giantess, not knowing
whether to be flattered or alarmed at the predatory
glint in Virago's eye.
"So, what's cooking," I said trying to turn the
conversation in a literary direction.
"It's this darned sonnet; it's just not working."
"What's the problem, Will?"
"Well, like there's this babe ...."
"Will, I said `20th Century US.' You don't have to do
`Valley Girl.'"
"Oh, OK. Well, there's this woman and she is so hot,
but I can't get anywhere with her."
"Blonde?" I asked glancing over at the figment.
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"I'm one of those authors omniscient," I replied. "So
what's the problem?"
"I want to write something romantic so I can get into
her pants."
"Do any of us write for any other reason?" I replied.
"What about this? She's pretty now, but twenty,
twenty-five years from now, who will remember what she
looked like. You guys don't have Kodaks, after all.
She should let you get her pregnant to preserve her
`image.'"
"I like it!" Will exclaimed. "She's vain enough; it
just might work. Let's see
I look upon you now and see you babe,
but in a while what's gonna come of you?'"
"Hmmm. Well, it IS the right meter, but I think you
want something a little more lofty, serious-sounding.
Chicks like that," I told him. "How about:
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother."
"Hey, that's good, Homer! Then I tell her how good
she'd look with a big belly poking out and huge tits
dripping with milk!" he said with a maniacal glint in
his eye and rubbing his hands in glee like Frank
McCoy!
"I think you could phrase that a little more
delicately, Will, say:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination, then you were
Your self again after your self's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear."
"Yeah, she'll go for that, but it doesn't quite
rhyme."
"It'll rhyme when *she* reads it," I assured him.
"And then I tell her that just as she looks like her
sexy Mom, a pretty daughter would look like her.
Huh?"
"That's an idea," I agreed. "How about:
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time."
"Right! So, she should let me knock her up!"
"Indeed, you just drive it home with a clincher:
But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee"
"If you boys are *quite* through with the literary
foreplay," Virago Blue broke in with exasperation, "I
believe this is MY section of the story and one of my
prerogatives as a protagonist is supposed to be to
fuck the author being visited. So if you will excuse
us, Homer, I have some business to attend to with
Will." Before poet and dramatist could object,
William Shakespeare found his hand grasped tightly as
he was almost yanked out of the scene. "Let's see the
length of your iambic pentameter, big boy," Virago
purred.
"She's going to fuck his brains out!" remarked the
pretty image.
"That's the point of bringing her here," I explained.
"But aren't you supposed to be the `dark lady?' Why
are you blonde?" I asked, struggling to regain
narrative control.
"Hollywood casting!" she huffed. "Until a few months
ago I had long black hair like all those other Italian
women he has a thing for. Then some genius in
Southern California decides that Shakespeare would be
hot for Gwyneth Paltrow and, boom, I get this stupid
dishwater hair."
"Oh, you shouldn't say that. You're very beautiful!"
"Oh, do you really think so?" she smiled and tucked a
strand into her bun.
[NOT into her *bum*, you dirty-minded freaks!]
"Of course you are, my dear, radiant!
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother."
"Oh, God! That is sooo hot!" she sighed.
"You'd be such a pretty mother.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination, then you were
Your self again after your self's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear,"
I whispered as I began to fondle her breasts.
"Please, stop. I getting so wet."
"I guess it's that time of the month, right, honey.
Our baby is going to be so beautiful;
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time."
"No, NO" she protested, but let me continue to work
those Paltrovian poonts.
"But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee."
"Oh, yes! Fuck me! Fuck me! Give me a baby!" she
cried.
I wondered if Shakespeare would know he'd been
cuckolded? Probably so, when he sees how brown the
baby is. Maybe he'll blame it on Iago.
-------------
"This looks like more fun than I expected," said Maria
when we were all back on the train. Who is next?"
"You are. I thought you might look in on Sor Juana."
"Sor Juana? Who's she?" Maria asked
"A seventeenth century nun in Mexico City who wrote
passionate religious poetry `suffused with emotion of
almost erotic intensity,'" Janey butted in.
Dammit! I hate it when my characters are more erudite
than I am!
"You mean she got off on ...?" Maria said, turning up
her nose as if she had swallowed a bug. Janey and I
nodded our heads.
"Weird," said Maria. "Do I have to?"
"I was just teasing you, Maria. I know who you'd
really like to see."
"Lady Godiva?" she asked.
"Some other story. Good chocolate, though. No, I
thought while Virago is getting shagged there with
Shakespeare, you could drop in on his contemporary in
Spain."
"You mean Cervantes? They lived at the same time?
"Born the same day," Janey blurted out before I could.
I ground my teeth, beginning to regret I had invited
her.
----------
La Mancha, Spain circa 1610:
"Kind of dry and desolate around here," Maria remarked
as we stepped off the train and onto a barren
landscape.
"That's the reason they call it 'La Mancha' instead of
'La Costa del Sol,'" I replied. "But if you want to
find Cervantes, this is the place to come."
"Why can't we just go straight to his house or
whatever like you did with Shakespeare and Chaucer?"
Maria asked.
"Because," I replied, foreshadowing the action to
come, "Sometimes the quest is more rewarding than its
object. Let's just go into that taverna over there
and you can ask around."
"I can't go into a taverna full of men dressed like
this!" protested Maria who still had on the tight red
miniskirt.
"You'll be perfect," I leered. "Remember `FAQ?'"
"You're going to make me humiliate myself!"
"Nothing you don't want to do, honey. Come on."
We walked into the dark room. It was early afternoon,
but it was already filled with travelers. The gurgle
of conversation abruptly ceased when the men saw
Maria.
"Carajo! What a set of chichis that one's got!"
exclaimed a man near the bar.
"Gran Tetones," affirmed another.
"You've got their attention." I told her. "Ask."
More than a little nervous and fuming at the way I had
set her up, Maria stepped farther into the room.
"Perdonen, Senores, but I am looking for Don Miguel de
Cervantes Saavedra. Do any of you know where I can
find him?"
"You mean the one-armed guy who wrote about that crazy
caballero Don Quixote and this faithful side-kick
Tonto, er, ... I mean Sancho?"
"Yes, he!" Maria exclaimed, thinking this would be
easier than she had feared.
"Never heard of him!" The room broke out in laughter
and Maria glared at me for putting in such a stupid
joke.
"Actually, we might be able to help you, little lady,
if you make it worth our while," a grizzled mule
driver smirked.
"I'm afraid to ask how." Maria replied, looking
daggers at me again.
A lutenist struck up a slow, throbbing melody.
"We want to SEE something,"
"What? You cochinos want me to take off my clothes?"
The audience yelled and whistled their congratulation
for her clever surmise.
Maria looked down at the clothes she had on. A short
red skirt, a tight white short sleeve blouse covered
with a black silk jacket. She tried to recall what
she had on underneath, and remembered that her husband
had convinced her to wear something sexy for the trip
-- a pair of black satin panties and matching bra.
The crowd kept whistling and as she looked out at
them, she realized that all eyes were on her. Even
the guy that smelled like he had bathed in Rioja red
had awakened.
She reached her hand down, and unbuttoned the top
button of her blouse. Looking up, she smiled at the
crowd coquettishly and announced, "OK. Where is Don
Miguel?"
"More! More!" The crowd was rowdy and she could hear
voices yelling at her to "Take it off, take it all
off. We want to see those chichis!"
"Go ahead, Maria. You make your characters do it all
the time," I said. "Take off your clothes, then
you'll know how it feels."
She shook her head, but her hands were reaching toward
the front of her blouse. She watched as they slowly
unbuttoned her blouse. The lute grew louder and was
joined by a guitar.
"You've go to do it, Maria if you want to meet
Cervantes."
"I don't know if I even WANT to meet Cervantes," she
replied , but she had begun moving to the beat.
Ripping off her jacket, she heard the crowd whistle
and cheer her on. "Take it all off Maria! Don Miguel
is not far away."
"I don't want to do this!" she protested, but she
continued to strip off her clothes. Soon she was
dancing in just her bra and panties.
"Chi-chis! Chi-chis! Chi-chis!" chanted the crowd.
Maria's hands began to unsnap the bra as she listened
to the rhythm of the music, her body mimicking it
perfectly. Freeing her tits from the garment, the
obviously excited woman flung it into the crowd and
began to dance more energetically.
"A train! A train! A train!" the excited men roared.
Maria looked over at me in desperation. "Homer, you
can't make me pull a train. Trains haven't been
invented yet!"
"Maybe 'railroad' trains haven't been invented," I
grinned with leprechaunious logic, "But haven't you
heard of pack trains? Mule trains? Have a nice day,
Maria." I waved and walked out the door.
Over a mile away I could still hear Maria's cries of
ecstasy. Sounds really carried out here on the
Mancha.
----------
Wesendonck estate near Zurich, circa 1857:
"Good afternoon, Herr Wagner," Allison greeted the
rather bony composer.
"Pardon our intruding, sir, but Ms. George here has
long admired your music and wanted to see how you
compose it." I added.
"Another Amerikan tourist?" he grumbled. "Oh, vell,
go ahead, zay it! Get it out of ze vay."
"Say what?" Allison asked.
"Ze stupid zhoke."
"I don't understand."
"Ze zhoke, ze zhoke `9W.'" Wagner replied with growing
disgust. "You know, `ze answer iss 9W, vhas iss ze
qvestion?'"
"I'm confused," confessed Alison.
"All Amerikans know ze damned zhoke, get it over vith:
`ze answer is 9W, vhas iss ze QVESTION?'"
"The question?" repeated Allison, totally baffled.
"Ja? Ze qvestion, `Do you spell your name vith a V,
Herr Wagner?'"
"And the ANSWER is `9W?'" said Allison with an
uncomprehending frown. Then she brightened. "Oh, I
get it! `9 W.' `Nein, "W."' Oh, that's very funny,
Herr Wagner, very - he he HE -- funny. Oh, I love it!
`9' -- ha ha HA -- `W,' -- ho ho HO," cried Allison,
LOL&ROF.
"Mein Gott! Mein Gott! Ze only Amerikan in ze vourld
who never heard zees dizgustink zhoke and I'm zuckered
into telling it!" Wagner buried his face in his
hands.
"Vie haf you come to disturp me, anyvay?" he moaned.
"Vell," Allison said, "I mean, well, I'm a singer and
I just love your operas and ..."
"You, a zinger? Vhat do you zing?" Wagner shot back,
incredulous.
"I'm a soprano, well really more of a soubrette."
"A zoprano? You do not LOOK like a zoprano," Wagner
said cupping his hands to indicate HIS conception of a
zo, er, a soprano.
"You mean I'm not Wagnerian enough? Well just because
I don't have boobs as big as Birgit Nilsson's, doesn't
mean I can't sing," Allison sniffed. "They aren't
echo chambers, after all."
"Out! Out! I haf vork to do. I am vritink ze 'Luf
Zolo' for 'Tristan and Isolde.' It must be ready as a
birthday present for my vife, Minna."
"Oh, that's so sweet! I LOVE that opera! And the
'Love Duet' is one of the most erotic pieces of music
in the entire operatic repertoire," Allison gushed
sincerely.
"You zink zo?" Wagner replied, flattered. "But ...
you zed `duet' I am vriting a zo ... Javolh! Ein
duet! Tristan declares his luf for Isolde and she
responds in kind. He sings ..." Wagner broke into
the first bars of the introduction.
"And Isolde replies ..." said Allison, breaking into
song at the appropriate measure.
I began to see what Allison meant when she said the
piece was erotic. As their voices flew up and down
the scale, their hands grew busy undressing each
other. As the music rose in intensity Wagner fondled
Allison's 34 Bs even as Allison's clever hands found
Wagner's ...
Ha! Bet you thought I was going to tell you the size
of Wagner's cock. Wrong! I don't *write* about the
sizes of authors' cocks! This is a serious literary
exercise in which six well-known writers, each admired
for her ASS ... work, are visiting some of the fonts
of their artistic imagination. You can't expect me to
insult men like that by talking about the sizes of
their cocks!
"Zeven inges" called out Wagner.
I covered my face.
But then my attention was drawn again to the almost
obscene spectacle unfolding before me. As the notes
slowly climbed the chromatic scale, Wagner's and
Allison's bodies became covered with sweat, Wagner's
because he was near to coming, Allison's because she
was nowhere near to coming -- the bastard was going to
leave her high and dry! Only a few bars remained
before the approaching climax -- or lack thereof.
<Crash>
All our heads snapped around to see the handsome young
man who had just stepped through a papier mache set.
"Herr Wagner! What is the meaning of this? Isolde is
betrothed to me, King Marke!"
"Cut! Cut! Cut!" I interjected. "Mark Aster, you
bastard! What the hell are you doing in this story?
My deal with Louie is that only authoresses can be on
the Fantasy Train - no authors!"
"I don't believe I am `on' the train," he replied
smugly.
I was going to kill that lawyering leprechaun.
"You're still interloping in my story."
"Sue me!" he smiled.
"LW can represent you!" Allison offered, her eyes
lighting up as she appraised the promising bulge in
Aster's pants.
"Outrageous!' I protested.
"Good-bye, Homer, Herr Wagner. I'll TRY to see that
Allison gets back to the train by sometime tonight.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some serious
authoress-fucking to do."
"Oh, Mahk!" cooed Allison, breaking into a phony
Southern-Belle accent as she began fondling her
favorite male body part. "Hauw ro-MAN-tic! Comin'
awl the way from New Orelands jus to see littl' ole
ME!"
Wagner and I were still staring at each other in
disbelief when the final notes of the "Love Duet"
resumed. Allison's climactic high B moll shattered
every window in the house.
"I guezz," Wagner remarked, looking down at the score,
"I zhould not haf marked zat as `molto orgasmisimo.'"
----------
"So who do *I* get to visit," Janey inquired
impatiently. "Bronwen, and Virago Blue, and Allison
are all probably getting it for a second or third time
by now and Maria's pulling a fuckin' train if I know
her. I'm horny, dammit, and I want to fuck an
author!"
"Just what I had in mind." I replied. "I have someone
picked out I think you'll like. He's French."
"French? Oh, goody!" exclaimed Janey. "Paris!
Paris, of course! Lots of pastis and Bordeaux and
creme brulee. And sooo many sexy writers: Guy de
Maupassant, or the guy who invented the Three
Musketeers**--can't remember his name --or *sigh*
Victor Hugo, or Beaudelaire, Balzac, Flaubert, or
Zola, and then we can meet Jane Avril and
Toulouse-Lautrec. She's my heroine and ..."
{** Janey is referring to Alexander Dumas, not the
inventor of the candy bar, whose name I don't know,
either.}
"I'd thought of Proust," I said.
"Proust?" she exploded in dismay. "That pansy! I'd
twist him around my 2x4!"
"Look! I offered you the chance to write this
section, Janey, and you turned it down, so you have to
take whomever I choose," I replied. "Besides, it
won't be as bad as you think."
----------
Deauville, France circa 1890:
The train dropped us at the actual rail station of the
chic beach resort on the Channel coast north of Paris.
Even dressed appropriately for the times, you can
believe that a tall, fair, elegant, rather
French-looking woman like Janey, walking through the
cobbled streets of the little town with a short brown
man like me, got a lot of stares. "Are you sure you
can find the place?" Janey asked.
"To give proper directions, I trust Louie completely,"
I said. "Vas-y, it's not much farther."
"I'm coming," she replied with annoyance. "Don't
hurry me. I wore these heels just to please you and
it's hell to walk in them. And you can knock off
trying to speak French. You don't know what you're
saying and your accent is horrible."
Minutes later we were standing in front of a large
sea-front hotel. "We can't just walk in," Janey said.
"That's the whole idea. Louie timed our arrival
perfectly."
"'Timed?' I don't understand."
"You will. Come on." As we walked through the lobby
we could hear muffled sounds coming from an upstairs
room. I tugged on Janey's hand. "You'll like this."
Janey still looked doubtful as we got nearer the room
the sounds were coming from.
"Vas-y, vas-y! Fais-le pour maman!" came an excited
woman's voice. "Vas-y, vas-y! Donne-le moi, mon petit
..."
"Is that who I think it is?" Janey asked as we peeked
into the small bedroom where a still shapely
middle-aged woman was riding the cock of the young man
under her with great enthusiasm.
I nodded.
"One of the masters of modern French prose is fucking
the shit out of his mother?" Janey gasped.
"Or vice versa."
"Ah maman, t'es si douce, si profonde" Marcel grunted
between strokes.
"Look at the size of that thing," Janey gasped. "No
wonder mamma kept him cosseted away all those years."
"Prends ca, maman!" he shouted as he bucked up into
her. "Ohhhhhh!"
"'Je viens, Marcel, 'Je viens! Oooooooh" she cried as
she collapsed on top of him.
"Putain! Maman, t'es si chaude!" the exhausted son
sighed.
"'Hot?' She's incendiary," Janey said. "I wonder how
he got any writing done at all!"
Janey and I were still watching a few minutes later
when Mere Proust reluctantly pulled herself from
Marcel and began dressing. "I've got to go to the
store for a few things, honey. Can I get you
anything?"
"Gee, thanks, Mom. How about another box of
madeleines. We're almost out."
"The way you scarf them down, mon petit, I'd better go
to the hypermart," she chuckled.
We waited a minute before entering. "Bone joower,
Mar-cell," I said, jovially.
Janey covered her face. "I TOLD you not to try to
speak FRENCH," she hissed.
"And who are you and what are you doing here?" the
surprised author asked.
"Ms Urquhart, here is a writer and a great lover of
French literature, although you're not her favorite
..." I felt Janey jab me in the ribs.
"You're not carrying any dangerous germs, are you?"
Proust asked.
I saw Janey stiffen. "He's a hypochondriac -- worries
about infection constantly," I whispered. "He's not
suggesting you've got Herpes."
"We're clean Mis-your Proast." Janey cringed again.
"In the USA, WE bathe every day."
"We thought we would stop by maybe to pick up a few
pointers on writing," Janey added, trying to hide her
embarrassment at another of my faux pas.
"I doubt you would want to imitate my style which is
well known for having extremely long digressive
sentences that start at one point and then move from
point to point, taking you along all the while through
meanders of thoughts and detours of phrases while it
seems to develop a whole story in the sentence, just
bouncing from idea to idea -- the longest being over a
page -- and usually, but not always, coming back to
the central point of the phrase which is probably why
I am credited with having invented the 'pause' comma
in French, that is, one which has no grammatical place
in the sentence, but is necessary in order to allow
respiration amidst the outpourings and help meaning to
sink in, otherwise none of the poor souls who try to
read my prose would ever understand anything -- few
enough do, as it is -- leading to endless revisions of
the text and the enmity of my editors!" he said all in
one breath.
"My God!," I thought, "His lungs must be a big as his
..."
"My God!," Denny Wheeler thought with enmity, "If
Homer doesn't stop making his own bloody endless
revisions, we'll never make the ASSM Gala Grand
Opening!"
Janey shushed him. "I did have something like that in
mind, but I've just had a better idea," said Janey,
lust glowing in her eye. "That thing must be ..."
But, as I have explained before I don't *write* about
the sizes of authors' cocks.
"Vingt-et-un centimetres," said Marcel proudly.
I covered my face.
"Are you sure? Lemme see that," exclaimed Janey,
going empirical. "Oh my God! Twenty one if it's a
centimeter! To hell with the `recherche.' There's
been too much `temps perdu' already. I want this
bebe** in me," the aroused woman growled, dropping her
skirt and clambering onto the bed. "I'm going to give
this boy some "times past" to remember. If he ever
starts going to bed early again to write another book,
he'll stay there for the first 45 pages and the first
thing he'll think about will be a creme brulee, not a
madeleine," Janey remarked, overloading the paragraph
with cliche references.
{** An Urquhartian figure of speech, not "baby" in the
Vargasian sense.}
I was halfway back to the train station when I heard
Janey's voice rising above the sound of the waves,
"Prends ca, Marcel! Prends ca! Ohhhhhh!"
"Plus ca change et plus c'est la meme chose," I
thought.
----------
Lima Peru, circa 1955:
Miss B and I had taken a cab from the rail station in
Lima down to Miraflores where Uncle Mario lived. It
was a large but not ostentatious house on a quiet
street. I knocked on the door. Miss B. was at my
side. A maid answered.
"Tio Mario" I shouted as Vargas Llosa came into the
parlor at the maid's call.
"Homero, que, haces por estas partes, hombre?" he
responded returning my abrazo.
"I have someone who wants to meet you, Uncle Mario,
Miss Behavin' She is a writer of erotic tales, one of
the best of our NG. She has won prizes for her
writing, including the coveted Golden Clitty."
Uncle Mario was already appraising Miss B, but I
didn't think it was her writing ability on his mind.
She no longer had on the eye-popping business suit
from this morning, but the yellow sundress she was
wearing now showed off her figure very nicely.
"So nice to meet you, Sr. Llosa," she said offering he
hand. "You look a lot younger than I though you
would, since you're Homer's uncle."
"It's Sr. `Vargas.' And thank you," he replied,
slicking back a strand of hair and tossing his head.
"Don't you know, an author is only as old as his most
recent dust jacket photograph."
Miss B, who just that morning had discovered the first
tiny line under her eye, looked at him thoughtfully.
Maybe hardcover publishing had its advantages.
Perhaps she should give up writing internet erotica
and go for that novel.
"Oh, yeah, sorry, Sr. Vargas. I've been wanting to
meet you to say how much I liked that wonderful story
about the motorcyclist who has the accident and wakes
up on the Aztec sacrificial slab."
"Yes, I liked that story, too. Julio Cortazar wrote
it, however," the writer replied coolly.
"Oh, I see," Miss B. said, slightly chagrined. "But I
really did enjoy your book where the yellow
butterflies take the virgin to heaven."
"Indeed, `Cien Anos de Soledad' was a great book.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez won a Nobel Prize for it,"
Uncle Mario replied with growing ire. "Tell me
Senorita Traviesa, have you actually READ any of my
books, 'Conversacion en la Catedral?' for example?"
"Er, No."
"'La Ciudad y los Perros?'"
"No."
"'La Casa Verde?'"
"No."
"'Quien Mato a Palomino Mero?'"
"No."
"Well, excuse me, but just which of my books HAVE you
read."
"Was the one about the university student who falls in
love with his aunt while he's working at the radio
station yours?" Miss B inquired with trepidation.
"Dios Mio! `La Tia Julia y el Escribidor!' A
throw-away book! A harmless diversion and because I
let them make it into a movie, "Aunt Julia and the
Scriptwriter," that's all the gringos know me for."
"I'm not a gringa. I am Canadian!" Miss B replied
proudly.
"Canadian, Shamadin! Who the hell cares.
Norteamericanos! You must realize Miss Behavin', that
book is a complete fiction, a total fabrication, there
was never any truth ..."
"Con quien estas hablando, mi amor?" came a lilting
voice as a shapely woman walked into the room.
"Julia, este no es el momento ..."
"Eso veo, Mario," observed Julia jealously. "Who ees
thee Gringa? She ees verry preetty."
"I am NOT a Gringa! I am Can ..." Miss B tried to
protest once more.
"Julia, this is Srta. Traviesa. She and mi sobrino,
Homero have come for a visit."
"Julia, you're much prettier than Mario described you
in the book. He didn't tell us you were stacked,"
Miss Behavin' broke in deciding to slay the green-eyed
dragon before it slew her.
"Gracias."
"I couldn't," Mario protested. "It would have made it
too explicitly sexual,"
"Poof! It is certainly obvious how a voluptuous woman
like you could seduce a shy university boy," Miss B
went on.
"I seduced her!" Mario corrected.
Julia glanced nervously at the ceiling. Miss B.
smiled knowingly. "Oh, I don't think there's any
doubt about who was seduced. He was young, and
inexperienced, and horny. You were older, and
experienced, and horny."
"Srta. Traviesa," Julia tried to protest.
"There's not need to be bashful with me, Sweetie. I
know how satisfying it can be to get ploughed by a
nice strong boy, well, not TOO nice. <g> Grown men
have there uses - romantic dinners, cuddling by the
fire, making love -- but for a good hard fuck, give me
an eighteen-year old any day. So I'll bet holding
hands isn't all you two did in those dark downtown
theaters.
"No, no solo eso." Julia admitted with a grin.
"Of course not, you zorrita. Mario must have loved it
when you guided his hands up to those big beautiful
breasts of yours," Miss Behavin' said. They were now
sitting on the couch. "And how long did it take you
to get his hand up under your skirt? I'll bet you're
a hot and juicy one, aren't you. Did he call you
that, 'Jugosita Julia?"
"Srta. Traviesa!" Stop at once! You are scandalizing
my aunt," Mario exclaimed.
"Callate, Mario. Thees ees girl talk!"
"You heard her. Butt out, writer-boy!. Go compose a
sequel to that filthy book about the twelve year old
who seduces his step-mother, you hypocrite!" Miss B.
said dismissively.
"What? You know about "Elogio a la Madrastra? But I
thought ..."
"That I was a dumb blonde? Mario, if I had a nickel
for every man that made THAT mistake, I'd own six
firms instead of three."
"Let's go upstairs, Julia. I want to introduce you to
a friend of mine."
"El hombrecito?" Julia asked, making a face as she
looked over at me.
"No, un GRAN amigo," Miss B. grinned and pulled a
large battery-powered vibrator from her handbag as she
took Julia's hand.
Mario didn't know what to think. "Do American girls
really put things like that up in their ...? he asked,
embarrassed.
"*I* sure as hell do," Miss B called from upstairs,
and I'm CANADIAN, dammit!
"Yo tambien!" Julia squealed in delight.
Uncle Mario grew more and more distraught as giggles
and gurgles of Julia's pleasure floated down from the
upstairs bedroom. "Why don't you join her, Mario.
I'm sure she'd like it!" I suggested.
It didn't take much to convince him. I followed him
up the stairs and down the hall to the girls' noisy
bedroom. After long minutes of happy whoops, a
silence had fallen over the house. We peeked in.
Miss B was sitting near the bed, taking care of
business digitally, while Julia ran down the
Evereadys.
Mario's eyes grew big on seeing what Julia was doing.
Miss B. noticed him.
"Come in here, Mario. Didn't anybody ever teach you
it's impolite to spy on ladies taking their pleasure?"
"Si, Mario! Mal hecho!" scolded Julia.
"Lo siento, Julia," he apologized.
"Let's see just how sorry he is," giggled Miss B.
"Come over here to the bed, Mario."
Reluctantly he went. "Very naughty! Not only were
you watching, but you got aroused watching us. Why is
that Mario? Is it seeing two women who are really
hot? Two warm and wet pussies that could be wrapped
around your cock? Would you like to get in bed with
both of us and let two women fuck your brains out?
Bronwen says that's what all men fantasize about."
"I theenk so, Srta. Traviesa. "Loook, between hees
legs," Julia giggled.
"You've got a problem there I think we can help you
with, Mario," Miss B. laughed. "Down here, on the
bed. That's a good boy. We'll take care of
undressing you, baby; just give me your hand. That's
it. Now the other one."
"Srta. Traviesa! What are you doing? Let me go! Why
did you tie my wrists to the bed?
"Do his ankles, Julia, while I distract him," Miss B.
directed taking the writer's cock into her mouth.
"No! Stop! Si! Ay, Srta. Traviesa! UUuuuu!
Ahhhhh"
"Hecho!" Julia announced.
"Now we are going to have some FUN. I want to give
THIS a try!" Miss B gloated, straddling the author's
hips and impaling herself on his prick. "Oh, very
nice Mario! How big is that thing, anyway?"
"Vrtirffg cnmtrs," he replied.
"Cuantas veces tengo que decirte, Mario? No hables
con la boca llena!" Julia reprimanded, shifting her
pussy more firmly onto her lover's mouth.
"Prb mghfpr," Uncle Mario protested.
"See you back at the train, Miss B. Ciao, Julia.
Ciao,Uncle Mario."
I was REALLY looking forward to Uncle Mario's next
book.
---------
Relaxing with a brandy and cigar, I waited for the
women to drift back to the club car at day's end.
"So, how did it go? Did all of you enjoy the trip?" I
posed.
Bronwen said nothing but smiled and began warbling a
few notes that sounded remarkably like the call of a
"nyghtyngale."
Virago looked a little bored. "Shakespeare was OK, I
guess, but frankly, since my husband found out I write
dirty stories, he's been such an animal, better than
poor Will, any day. Why didn't you arrange for me to
visit Grendel or a few Norse gods, that's something a
girl can get her teeth into."
We looked over at Maria who was obviously exhausted.
Her little black jacket did not make it back to the
train, nor her bra or panties, I guessed. The
garments would no doubt be passed down like holy
relics from father to son for generations. Her blouse
was only half buttoned -- wrongly -- and her skirt was
on crooked. "I've never done anything like that
before," she sighed. "There must have been twenty of
them. They just kept fucking me. One scrawny old guy
-- I though he wouldn't even be able to get it up, but
he turned out to be not a bad fuck -- kept calling me
Dulcinea. Weird!"
Janey, Bronwen, and I exchanged glances.
"The worst was the one called Sancho Panza. He kept
jumping the queue so he could jump me again and again.
Kind of short and looked a lot like ..." Maria's
eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared as she glared
over at me.
"Did you ever get to meet Cervantes?" I asked, trying
to steer the conversation into safer waters.
"I think so. It was hard to tell since I was in the
middle of my umpteenth orgasm, but I felt a one-armed
guy fuck me there at the end."
"You mean he fucked you in the END?" Allison
exclaimed, alarmed that LW might read this story and
get ideas.
"I'm sure that Maria means that in the end, a
one-armed man fucked her," Janey expounded
hermeneutically.
"I think I'll just let Denny Wheeler sort an editorial
issue like that out," I said. "He's good at that."
"Ah jus had a MAH velous time!" Allison drawled.
"They don't call him King Mahk fo nothin'! While you
ladies were on the FAN-tasy Train, I was ridin' a
Streetcah Name' Desiah!'"
"Well, Proust was better than I expected," Janey
admitted with a mysterious grin. "I even managed to
polish off the better part of a bottle of Bordeaux
between rounds. No creme brulee, though. Now if we
could have gone to see Zola ..."
"Some other story," I told her.
"Those Latin lovers are not what they're stacked up to
be," Miss Behavin' said authoritatively. "But that
Julia, she was hot! Insisted I leave her my
vibrator."
"Well, I'm glad things turned out so well for
everybody. Shall we have wine and cheese before
dinner?" I invited. "I poached a couple of bottles of
Bordeaux from Marcel's stock." All the women were
hungry after their "exertions" and eagerly took the
cheese and wine I passed around.
Suddenly Janey frowned. "Cheese? Not THAT cheese!"
"Of course," I grinned, taking another bite and
looking around at the six women at the table with me.
"Don't you remember Shon Richard's post?"
"Uuuiiii, that magic diaphragm is starting to feel
funny," Maria said.
"Tingly," Virago agreed.
"Itchy," squirmed Miss Behavin'.
"Burning," added Bronwen.
"Scratchy," said Allison
"Feel free to remove them; we're all friends," I
remarked helpfully.
"Don't do it!" Janey warned. "Don't you remember what
the leprechaun said, `As long as you wear it you can't
get knocked up.'"
"But I've GOT to take it out," Allison whined.
Bronwen said noting but had her head between her
knees.
"It's the cheese!" Janey wailed. "We've been tricked.
I can feel mine slipping out, too!"
I had to admire Louie. In spite of everything, all
his tricks, even the price gouging, he had at last
come through for me! Soon all six women were sprawled
out on the floor of the dining car, moaning pitifully,
"Oh, fuck me!" "Please fuck me!" "I need it so bad!"
Music to my ears.
"Why did I give Julia my vibrator!" Miss B. yowled.
"Wouldn't have helped, anyway," Bronwen cried, as she
vainly worked the dildo faster and faster.
What a long-awaited spectacle! This was what I had
become a writer for! Gleefully I unzipped my pants
and started to fish out my rock hard ... What! I was
fishing, but whatever was in there was less than
rock-hard. In fact my prick was limp as a 15 minute
noodle!
"Louieeeee!" I bellowed. "What's the meaning of this?
You said as soon as we ate the cheese they'd be so
horny to fuck them I could get them pregnant."
"So I did. I don't remember saying that you COULD
impregnate them."
"What? You mean ...? Why, you lying leprechaun! You
prevaricating pimp! You tergiversating thief! Don't
you know that when there's a fertile female in a story
and the hero doesn't impregnate her, someone else
always does?"
"Of course he knows," said a hulking figure who had
walked in while I was distracted.
"John A! NO!" I screamed. "How did you get in here?"
"No little green motherfucker's gonna stop us," said a
huge black man at his side.
"That, er ... wouldn't be Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown, would
it?" I asked, a large knot forming in my stomach.
John just stood there with a <veg> on his face. "I
guess you're still mad about my review of your story?"
I said weakly, not really needing an answer.
"Shut the fuck up Homey," Leroy boomed. "I'm still
pissed about what you said about my man, here. You
lucky I don't fuck you up, man." the black man
snarled.
"Uh, Leroy, it's Homer not Homey. Now step aside
Homer," John ordered. "We've got three authoresses,
two authouresses, and una autora to knock up."
"Hey, John, my man. Afore we here starts knocking up
these bitches..."
"Leroy, these ladies are my friends, please don't call
them bitches. Be nice," John said.
"I *was* bein' nice."
"You were?" I quavered, white with fear.
"Ah'll eat `em up good for us, Massa John. I kin
make'em come a buncha times an' get their twats all
nice and juicy sos when we sticks `em wit our big
pricks, they's shore to catch."
"I'm not sure that will be necessary, Leroy,"
"Come on Massa John, I likes to eat pussy. Since I
married that Miss Monique, she showed me how to do it
good. Which one do you want to preg first? One of
them blondes or the little Messican with the big tits?
The tall ash blonde with the 2x4 is MINE. Come here
woman! Ouu-wii! There's gonna be some big
belly-makin' done tonight!"
"NO, no. You can't do this!" I cried. "Get away from
those women! They're all MINE. *I* get to make the
babies! *I* chartered this Fantasy Train. *I'm*
writing this damn story."
"No, NO, NooOOO!!!" I screamed.
******
I sat up in bed, drenched in cold sweat. "What's
wrong sweetie? Were you having a nightmare" Janey
asked, cuddling me in her strong arms.
"Si, Homercito? Tuviste una pesadilla, mi amor?"
Maria added scrunching over as close to me as her
bulging tummy would allow.
"No, no everything is all right," I said with relief,
laying a hand on the swollen tummy of each woman.
"This IS my story after all," I smiled with relief.
"Es culpa tuya!" spat Maria. "You were on him all
night like an esnake. When your gemelos kicked, they
disturbed him, pobrecito."
"More likely it was you and that thirteen-month size
belly of yours," Janey replied. "I'm surprised he can
sleep at all the way YOU poke it at him!"
"Darlings! Darlings. Please. Go back to sleep;
getting upset isn't good for the babies." I reasoned.
"Bueno," sniffed Maria, burrowing back into a
comfortable spot in the crook of my arm.
"But what *about* the babies, Homer?" asked Janey. "I
know you've said that when this story is over we'll go
back to our husbands as if nothing ever happened, but
you'll have the babies. Who'll help you take care of
them?"
"Don't worry about it, my dear, I've got that all
figured out."
<sounds from a distant part of the Vargas mansion of a
zo, er, soprano, really more of a soubrette, singing
the Love Duet from Tristan and Isolde>
The End
Comments welcomed at
vargas111@yahoo.com
World Lit 101 Glossary/Notes
1. Jalapeno: a chili pepper from Jalapa, Mexico
2. The Spanish "enye" is NOT indicated, but please be
aware that Garcia Marquez wrote "One Hundred YEARS of
Solitude, not "One Hundred ASSHOLES of Solitude. I
also gave up on accented vowels in Spanish, French
accents, and the "c-cedilla."
3. Habeas corpus: "produce the body"
4. Amicus curiae: "friend of the (in) court"
5. Dates given are approximately correct.
6. Quotes from "The Canterbury Tales" are authentic.
7. The wife of the carpenter in "The Miller's Tale"
really is named "Alison" and in the story it really is
a lawyer who has the hots for her. Plus ca change et
plus c'est la meme chose, eh?. You think LW's real
name might be Absolom? <g>
8. The sonnet that Homer and Shakespeare compose is a
composite of two authentic Shakespearean sonnets.
9. Bust sizes are estimated as accurately as hastily
copped feels <g> permitted. Sizes of Wagner's and
Proust's cocks are the wishful thinking of Allison and
Janey, respectively.
10. Allison really can turn on a phony Southern Belle
accent. She learned in Atlanta while going out with
jerks.
11. The "Love Duet" of "Tristan and Isolde" is
interrupted by King Marke of Cornwall (not Mark
Aster).
12. Homer's French really is horrible.
13. "Vas-y, vas-y! Fais-le pour maman!"
Come on! Come on! Do it for Mamma!
14. "Vas-y, vas-y! Donne-le moi, mon petit "
Come on, Give it to me, baby"
15 "Ah maman, t'es si douce, si profonde,"
Oh, Mamma! You're so soft, so deep
16. "Prends ca, maman!"
Take THAT, Mamma
17 "'Je viens, Marcel, 'Je viens! Oooooooh"
I'm coming, Marcel, I'm coming. (And she doesn't mean
she's arriving from Paris)
18. "Putain! Maman, t'es si chaude!"
Shit! Mamma, you are so hot!
19. Madeleine: A French pastry, not as tasty as the
creme brulee,
according to Janey.
20. "Plus ca change et plus c'est la meme chose."
"The more things change, the more they stay the same."
21. Miss Behavin' really is not a Gringa.
22. "Con quien estas hablando, mi amor?"
Who are you talking to, my love?
23. "Julia, este no es el momento"
Julia, this is not the time
24. "Eso veo, Mario,"
So I see, Mario
24. Srta. (Senorita) Traviesa
Miss Mischief
26. "No, no solo eso."
No, that wasn't all
27. "zorrita"
vixen
28. "Julia Jugosita"
Juicy Julia
29. "Callate, Mario. Uiiy! Que, rico!"
Shut up, Mario! Uiiy That's nice
30. "Yo, tambien"
Me, too
31. "Mal hecho!"
Naughty!
32. "Lo siento"
I'm sorry
33. "Hecho!
Done!
34. "Cuantas veces tengo que decirte, Mario; no hables
con la boca llena"
How many times do I have to tell you, Mario, don't
talk with your mouth full
35. Dulcinea is the woman Don Quixote was trying
to...impress.
36. "Si, Homercito? Tuviste una pesadilla, mi amor?"
Oh, Homer, baby. Did you have a nightmare, my love?
=====
My stories are now found on
http://www.storiesonline.net (Thanks Lazeez)
http://www.eroticstories.com (Thanks, Art)
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Vargas/www/stories.html (Thanks Kristen)
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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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