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Archive name: lit101.txt
Authors name: Homer Vargas
Story title : World Lit 101
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This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 1999.
Please do not remove the author information or make
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"World Lit 101" (MF, MC, inc, preg, B&D, gang, voy, interr,
oral, toys, bunchaothergoodstuff)
I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Denny Wheeler
for proofreading and editing major parts of this 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.
"World Lit. 101:- A Fantasy Train Story"
By Homer Vargas
the_story-writer@yahoo.com
"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?"
"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 source 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, 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 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 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 packed into her curvy form. She wore a tight
red mini with a lacy white blouse, her dark 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. (Look at
the Clairol bottles in the drugstore to find out what that is.)
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 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 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 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. 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 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 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 had an amicus curiae: - LW."
With the last crotch sniffed and 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 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 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
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 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.
"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.
"If it were only that simple, Geoffrey. 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 to
contribute to making it possible for him to continue," I
explained.
"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.org/donations.html
to get information."
"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 again."
"Why, thank you!" 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 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 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, 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 replied, his face lighting up at the thought
of his beautiful wife. Then it clouded.
"Alison," Bronwen repeated. "You have a good 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 it 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. "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 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." 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 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. My guess is the will 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 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 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.
"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 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
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 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 you say it," I assured him.
"And then I tell her that just as she looks like her sexy Mom,
a pretty 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 are *quite* through with the literary foreplay,"
Virago Blue broke in with exasperation, "I believe this is MY
section of the 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 he could object, William Shakespeare,
poet and dramatist, 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 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 feel her up.
"But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee."
"Oh, yes! Fuck me! Fuck me," 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 search is more interesting 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 dressed like this!"
protested Maria who still had on the tight 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 saw Maria.
"Carajo! What a set of chichis she's got!" exclaimed a
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
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
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 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 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 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, 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
throwing out 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 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 zaid
`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 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 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 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 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."
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.
"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 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.
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 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 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 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," 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.
"Shamadin! Who the hell cares. Norteamericanos! You must
realize Miss Behavin', that book is a complete fiction, a total
fabrication, there was never any tru ..."
"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. It would have made it too explicitly sexual,"
Mario protested.
"Poof! It is certainly obvious how a voluptuous woman like you
could seduce a shy university boy."
"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 have there uses - romantic
dinners, cuddling by the fire, making love - but for a good
hard fuck, give me an eighteen-year 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 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 talk!"
"You heard her. Butt out, writer-boy!. Go compose a sequel to
that filthy book about the twelve year 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 really put
things like that up in their ...? he asked, embarrassed.
"*I* sure as hell do," Miss B called from upstairs.
"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 us fuck your brains out?
Bronwen says that's what fantasize about."
"I theenk so, Srta. Traviesa. "Loook, between hees legs."
"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 more firmly onto
her lover's mouth.
"Prb mghfpr," Uncle Mario protested.
"See you back at the train, Miss B. Ciao, Julia. Ciao, 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. Now
if you could have arranged for me to visit Grendel or a few
Norse gods, that's something a 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 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 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
in the end."
"You mean he fucked you in the END?" Allison exclaimed, alarmed
that LW might read this and get ideas.
"I'm sure that Maria means that in the end, a one-armed
fucked her," Janey expounded hermeneutically.
"I think I'll just let Denny Wheeler sort it 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 ready and willing
for me to fuck and 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 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 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 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, 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. 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 John, I likes to eat pussy. Since I 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 with the 2x4 is MINE.
Come here woman! Ouu-wii! There's gonna be some big belly-
makin' 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
after all."
"Es culpa tuya!" spat Maria. "You were on him all night like
an esnake. When the twins 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 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
the_story_writer@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 of the carpenter in "The Miller's Tale" really is
named "Alison" and 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 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 ain't arriving
from Paris)
18. "Putain! Maman, t'es si chaude!"
Shit! You are so hot, Mamma
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 are now found on
http://www.storiesonline.net (Thanks Lazeez) and on
http://www.asstr.org/~Vargas/ (Thanks, Kristen)
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