("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: lit101.txt (mf, mc, inc, preg) Authors name: Homer Vargas Story title : World Lit 101 ------------------------------------------------------ This work is copyrighted to Homer Vargas (c) Nov 1999. Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non- commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. ------------------------------------------------------ "World Lit 101" (MF, MC, inc, preg, B&D, gang, voy, interr, oral, toys, bunchaothergoodstuff) by Homer Vargas (the_story_writer@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. "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 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. (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 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. 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 had 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 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. "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 stories 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 stories 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 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, 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 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 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." 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. My guess is the boy 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 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. "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 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 you say 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 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 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 she'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, 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 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 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 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. 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." 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 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. 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," 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. 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. "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 men 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 pussy 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 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 old 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 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 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 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 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, 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 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' 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." "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 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." 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 wife 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? 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 stories are now found on http://www.storiesonline.net (Thanks Lazeez) and on http://www.asstr.org/~Vargas/ (Thanks, Kristen) * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It’s okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with strangers. But it isn’t okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with strangers!! You only have one body per lifetime, so take good care of it. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Kristen's collection - Directory 10