by Chuck Austen
I was simply not worthy.
Oddly (or, perhaps ironically? I really should look up more than just ‘Pshaw’ in the dictionary now and then), had I not encountered Ms. Nuckeby that afternoon, and subsequently been in close, naked proximity with her, this moment would have been as close to perfect as I could ever have imagined happening in my life. Which is a sad commentary, I know, but nonetheless there you have it. Mindie was mine after a lifetime of longing, and in a few years I would be having chaste sex with her on an occasional basis while studiously avoiding contact with her breasts.
Unfortunately, gold-digger or not, ‘The Thrill of Ms. Nuckeby’ was taking its time abating. In fact, it had actually begun struggling its way to the forefront, charging out ahead of ‘The Modest Joy of Mindie’ like some exciting, long shot race where you’ve bet on the wrong horse.
Stopping short on the stairs for a moment, I wondered if maybe it was really such a bad thing to have a woman who wants you for your money if she let you squeeze her breasts a lot—and without reservation.
Ms. Nuckeby. Soft and pliant.
Gloop.
I sighed and shook my head like a spider had landed on it. No. Mindie fit. Ms. Nuckeby was a disruption—and besides, I
really didn’t know a thing about her. She could, in reality, be an evil harpy who, once she had my money, never went near my penis again. Perhaps even ridiculed it. Poked it with sharp objects while I slept. Who knew? I had to keep reminding myself that I had absolutely nothing to go on where her intellect, perversions, and mental state were concerned. ‘Semen interfering with brain activity’ indeed.
I could see this called for drastic measures. I’d have to masturbate—repeatedly if necessary—to remove her forcibly from my head. It had worked, eventually, for Mindie all those years ago. It would work again tonight for Ms. Nuckeby, and the lingering sensation of her gripping fingers.
Bloop.
After a good hour or so of rigorous clearing of the plumbing— she’d be forgotten.
Ms. Nuckeby, that is, not…em…
Mindie. That’s it. Mindie.
Or maybe it would work by tomorrow morning, before Mindie arrived.
I lay in bed spent and exhausted, having done my level best to expel Ms. Nuckeby from my mind, and various other body parts. But after repeated attempts—more than I’d ever managed before—she still hovered before my mind’s eye. Smiling. Tanned. Naked.
Well, naked except for the gold high heels.
Perhaps it would just be best to make peace with it. There was no rush after all. Mindie wasn’t here, and wouldn’t return until morning. She would never know. I would certainly never tell her, and Ms. Nuckeby wasn’t talking. At least not to anyone outside my head.
But definitely by tomorrow. Thoughts of Ms. Nuckeby had to be gone by the next morning before Mindie arrived. In the meantime, I would let my model—and what remained of Satin-Lace-Babydoll # 43—cuddle up beside me in my mental bed.
Somewhat relieved—as if accepting her continued presence had somehow purged the demoness—I rolled over, drained and exhausted, and fell instantly asleep.
The entire night, I dreamt fitfully and constantly of Ms. Nuckeby. She rarely wore clothes. On the few occasions she did, they were transparent.
In my most disturbing dream all the gratuitous nudity, harsh language, and adult situations would have earned it an ‘NC-17’ had it been shown in theaters. Fortunately for me it wasn’t, because in that dream my penis was small, black and withered, and people were laughing at it.
Then Ms. Nuckeby—more naked than I had ever seen her—took it in hand and defended it to the hecklers surrounding me. Warm and protected, it regained its natural, flesh-colored appearance and swelled to ten times its actual size.
And glowed.
Then Ms. Nuckeby turned into Mindie Butterwycke, and the little redwood acted, once again, as if he’d been sprayed with Agent Orange.
Why can’t dreams be less surreal and easier to interpret?
The next morning, I awoke alone and was pleased to realize that my first thoughts were of Mindie.
I smiled. I felt warm, relaxed, and comfortable, ready to settle into a cozy relationship of not walking on romantic beaches, rarely, if ever, kissing, and never touching breasts. It wouldn’t be so bad. At least I’d be able to have sex, albeit with a condom.
Eventually.
That was an improvement to no condoms, and my right hand. My needs really were surprisingly simple. I mean, really. Who wants a sexy supermodel whose profile can induce erections from five blocks away, or whose voice can instill that same stiffness simply with the whisper of potential lewd acts in your…
Wisper. That was Ms. Nuckeby’s name.
What an interesting name. I wonder where it came from? Did she have a brother named ‘Shout’? A sister named ‘Normal Speaking Voice’? A dog named ‘Sparky’? Would they approve of her behavior—getting naked in closets with strangers? Throwing garland over them? Rubbing her bare breasts on their backs?
Gloop.
I had to admit, once you’ve been touched by breasts, especially warm ones, it was difficult to imagine going back to not being touched. I supposed that was why drug pushers sometimes gave free samples.
“Here. Just feel a little a that, hunh? Nice, right? Now, you say you wanna go off and do a little Mindie, instead? Awww, that ain’t gonna get you where you need to be, my friend. Come on. I got a little more Ms. Nuckeby right here, and it’ll only cost you half your inheritance. Just half. Come on. Feel it again. You know it’s worth it.”
Forgetting Ms. Nuckeby was clearly going to take more than a single night of savagely roughing up the corporal. Replacing Wisper with Mindie on the fantasy list—perhaps a lot longer.
Wisper. What a lovely name. Wissssspeeeeer.
I began to wonder if it might not be all right for me to continue thinking of her, or at least various parts of her, even after Mindie arrived this morning. Maybe even on into the future, at least until Mindie eventually, possibly, theoretically, allowed me fondle various parts of her. Certainly there was nothing wrong with enjoying memories of Ms. Nuckeby, as long as they remained private, without Mindie intruding upon them in any way.
Wait a minute. Thoughts of Mindie intruding upon memories of another woman?
Last night I had agreed, in absentia, to marry Mindie. Was this a common theme among the newly engaged? To fondle yourself and fantasize about other women the day after said engagement? Hell, the very evening of? Was this some sort of reflexive reaction, wanting to grab hold of singlehood—so to speak—take independence in hand— so to speak—and keep it firmly in one’s grip for as long as possible?
So to speak?
Or was it something more?
Something someone had said to me recently was floating around near the occipital lobe of my brain (which, I believe, is in the front). Something about acceptability, or meeting one’s mother, or some such. I really should pay more attention when people are talking directly to me.
Whatever the thought was, I felt certain it had something to do with this Mindie/Ms. Nuckeby thing. I was so lost in trying to reclaim the memory that when someone knocked at the door I told whoever it was to ‘come in’, completely unaware that I was once again wanking on little Corky like there was no tomorrow.
Woodruff entered and acted as if he’d seen it a million times before. He probably had. I believe I’ve mentioned my predilection for this type of thing.
“Morgan Wiggen wishes to see you, sir.”
“Oh. Right. Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”
Woodruff quickly—for him—backed out the door. “I’ll tell him you’ll be down once you’ve finished expelling, sir.”
“Right ho,” I said, and valiantly carried on.
I entered the kitchen to find Morgan eating cereal at my breakfast table with a large black woman in spandex.
Actually, she was more coffee-and-cream—heavy on the cream— and she wasn’t ‘fat’ large, more ta
ll and muscular, and accessorized with rather exceptional ‘accoutrement’, if you follow my lead.
Big’uns is how the porn magazines refer to them, I think. A Queen Latifah type with augmented breasts. Augmented to make them larger, that is, not smaller. She had a magnificent figure, but her mammaries seemed overly immense, even for her six-foot-plus size, and would have definitely given Mindie’s a run for their money. If they ran, which I’m sure they didn’t. At least I hoped.
Running breasts. What a disturbing thought.
“Morgan,” I said flatly.
“Hey, Corky! You’re up,” he said, looking back at me over his shoulder, then gestured to his friend. “This is Wendy. Wendy Waboombas.”
“Waboombas?” I asked.
“It’s Italian,” Morgan said, giddy with her very existence.
“Actually,” she corrected through spoonfuls of milk and flakes, “it’s made up. I’m Italian, but I don’t know what the name is.” A flake fell on her chin, and she made no effort to remove it. Perhaps she thought it looked good where it was.
“That’s not what you said last night,” Morgan whined, sounding sincerely disappointed that her name didn’t actually sound like the huge objects bursting forth from her chest.
“I said it was my real name. And it is. It’s legal. I paid for it. But it’s still made up.” She returned to her eating.
This seemed to placate Morgan slightly. “Oh,” he said, and returned to his own cereal.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Waboombas,” I said, reaching for the napkin caddy. “You have a cornflake stuck to your chin.” I handed her a tissue and took the moment to notice she was dressed as some kind of superhero/goddess/Fredericks model in a costume that did far more to reveal than it did to obscure.
She stuck out her tongue—which was surprisingly long and flexible—and touched the flake, testing its shape and texture, but not actually removing it. Then she smiled up at me. Breakfast fragments nestled between her teeth. Milk slipped over her lower lip, dribbled down past the cornflake and plopped to the table, joining several of its fallen comrades. She—apparently—thought this was alluring.
“Wanna lick it off?” she asked.
I backed up quickly, as if her tongue might actually reach out and pull me inside her like some Amazonian frog.
“Thanks, but no,” I said.
Her smile remained, and I flinched as the tongue flicked out again and removed the flake in a disturbingly animated and sexual way. She continued to smile all over me as I moved quickly to the opposite side of the table and took a seat as far away from her as possible, while still remaining in the same room.
“You’re cuuuuuute,” she said, as if she were already having sex with me.
“He’s getting married,” Morgan snapped. I gathered his ‘cuteness’, or lack thereof, had never been mentioned by her, at least not to his satisfaction.
“But he’s not married yet,” she said, her eyes clamped onto me, her smile unflinching. Suddenly she yawned dramatically and stretched upwards—enough to lift her ample bosom out from behind the edge of the table. After slowly, and expressively exhaling, she relaxed and brought her breasts down to rest near her cereal bowl where they spread out like the fluid filled balloons they were. She noticed me watching them settle into place, and between chews she winked at me.
“Once you go black, you can’t go back,” she said.
Like being face-to-face with one’s executioner, I continued to stare at her in amazement, as much to take her in as to be prepared for the moment she leaped across the table to eat me. Slowly, not making any sudden movements, and without taking my eyes off her, I began to reach for the sausages that someone had thoughtfully gone to the trouble of microwaving to a blackened char.
She glanced down at my efforts to assemble a breakfast without actually watching what I was doing and seemed amused by it. More food skidded across the table than wound up on my plate, and after a moment, I smiled at her and set my ‘breakfast’ before me. Buttered napkin ring, pile of sugar, and morning paper, all generously covered in salt.
“Don’t you have a butler?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t he…like…feed you or something?”
“Only if I hold a gun to his head.”
She laughed somewhat—a sharp burst of sound. Or maybe she burped. It really could have been either. “Funny too,” she said as if that sealed the deal. What deal I have no idea, but an important deal of some kind.
Her tongue danced out again, exploring for more lost food, or perhaps passing insects.
“I’ll feed you,” she said, smiling with intense sexuality, the words sounding more like, ‘Suck my tits, please.’
Morgan’s mouth fell open in horror. Clearly he considered Ms. Waboombas his territory. His discovery. Even more clearly, she had already been well explored long before our arrival by other, far more daring adventurers, and was, in reality, ‘No Man’s Land’.
“Thanks. I’m good,” I said, frightened and trying to change the subject. “You know—Morgan’s never mentioned you. Have you two known each other long?”
“No.”
I waited. But she said nothing more and returned to eating and leering, as if ‘no’ was answer enough, which it really wasn’t.
“Well—how long have you known one another?”
“We met last night. At the club. So we’re not attached or anything.”
She flicked her tongue again, and realization slowly seeped into the important parts of my brain.
“The club?” I asked, suddenly more frightened. Morgan looked away nervously. “The club…?” I repeated, remembering his requested destination of the previous evening. Like a bat to my skull, it exploded into my head. Instantly, things made much more sense. A terrifying kind of sense. But sense.
“Yeah,” Ms. Waboombas said, winking at me again. “The club where I work. It was a slow night last night. Not even any reason to get up and dance, let alone get naked. So we got to talking, him and me. Normally I don’t like the customers, but Morgan’s all right sometimes. He’s into comics.”
“Comics? You like comics?” I asked, cutting my buttered newspaper and becoming more shocked by the second. In my seemingly endless lifetime, I’d never met a woman who enjoys comics, other than in the abstract—except manga perhaps, but that’s not really ‘comics’ as ‘comics fans’ think of them—and I’ve known even fewer who look like Ms. Waboombas. Yes, fewer than…um…‘none.’ It’s possible. Negative numbers exist for a reason. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is: she was actually quite attractive, though in a predatory sort of way, and that made her comics interest all the more unusual.
“Sure, I like ‘em,” she said. “They show women in a positive light. Sexy and tough.” She pumped a fist in that ‘sexually alluring to Mastodons’ kind of way. “Built.” She took another spoonful of food but didn’t let that interfere with her talking. “I write my own.”
She leaned back to show off her costume, dripping milk down the front of it. The front of it being mostly breast matter. “This is my character. War Woman.” She smiled, obviously proud of…well…everything.
I studied the design more closely. It was made from some kind of metallic fabric, decorated with random weapons, and featured, primarily, a lot of empty space. She had two unusual circular objects at the center of each tightly fitting bra cup, and I focused on them, curious as to what their design represented. After a moment or two of intense study—which she seemed to thoroughly enjoy—I realized the decorations were what doctors sometimes refer to as ‘areolas’.
Ms. Waboombas wasn’t wearing a ‘costume’. She was covered in body paint.
I made a sound—not unlike a horror-stricken little girl—and dropped my spoonful of sugar-salted newspaper. Then I turned my eyes back up to Ms. Waboombas face, and she laughed—or burped— again.
“Yeah,” she said to me, beaming. “Morgan helped me brush it on this morning. I can tell you like it.”
&
nbsp; Morgan—popping another muffin into his mouth— smiled at me as though he could die—right now—a happy and deeply fulfilled human being.
Ms. Waboombas stood up—all six-foot-plus of her—and left a paint imprint of her muscular backside on my dining room chair.
“Looks good, don’tcha think?”
She meant what was left on her, not on the chair.
Slowly, she turned side-to-side, then once all the way around, completely, as if she were modeling actual clothes. It was a different kind of fantasy look from the one I was used to working with every day. Manschingloss would have run screaming from the room, viciously clawing his eyes out. Of course, he was gay, so fashion was far more important to him than raw, steaming, feminine sexuality. Still—the point is—her ‘outfit’ was not something that would have been approved for sale at Wopplesdown Struts. Or even to clean the floors there for that matter. Besides, the only pieces of actual cloth in the ‘costume’ were strap shoes; a bandana tied around one thigh; several belts, which gave support to her various, arcane weaponry; and a thong. The rest was nothing but shaved, painted skin.
Tough to package for worldwide distribution I have to say.
It did, however, do a marvelous job of showing off the stately Ms. Waboombas. She really was a magnificent specimen of womanhood who obviously worked out with actual weights. Had I not spent the previous night wanking myself dry, little Corky would have been thumping out Morse code against the underside of the table.
“Wanna touch it?” she asked with steam.
“I wouldn’t want to smudge the delicate line work,” I said.
“I have touch-up paint.”
“Oh, come on!” Morgan said, fidgeting angrily.
“Really…” I said, “…it’s probably best if I don’t.”
“Says you,” she responded with obvious disappointment.
