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Subject: {ASSM} Dead Wallaby Incident (MF) ~ byDrSpin
Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 06:10:00 -0400
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Dead Wallaby Incident (MF)
by DrSpin
September 2000
===========================================================
Standard Disclaimer:
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is
to it. If you are offended, you should not have been here
in the first place and you only have yourself to blame. If
this story is relocated, please leave my name intact as the
author and please include my email address.
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* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
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* Ruthie edited expertly. Nat inspires and does the
website.
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Here's a lesson for life: Never be first on the scene of an
accident.
While I'm at it, here's another: Never intervene in a
domestic dispute.
It was the lesser road to Cunnamulla. It was more of a
track than a road, used mainly to truck live sheep into
town from the outlying stations to connect with the highway
and the eastern seaboard. The woolly beasts would then
embark on a jam-packed cruise to the Middle East, where
their fate would be ritual slaughter with their slashed
throats facing towards Mecca.
Here's more advice: In the next life, don't come back as a
sheep. It's a halaal of a way to die.
I wrestled the four-wheel-drive around a rutted bend and
stood on the brakes. Before me was a black sedan, stopped
in the middle of the road. A man and a woman stood beside
it, waving their hands and shouting. I could hear them
yelling when I cut the motor.
They stopped fighting when I got out of the vehicle and
strolled up to them. "What's up?" I asked politely. People
help people in the bush.
I could tell from the way they were standing that she was
angrier than he was. He had a sullen, defensive posture.
She had her hands clenched into fists, and her shoulders
were leaning towards him aggressively. He was a handsome
fellow in a standard fashion. She was gorgeous in a manner
completely unsubtle. Wow. Simply, a babe.
"Nothing, mate," he said, plainly wishing I wasn't there.
"Sorry to hold you up. We'll just get out of your way."
"We will not," she said, screaming the last word. And even
when her face was twisted she was beautiful.
"Right," I said smoothly. "So, what's up?"
She pointed at the road in front of the car. I walked
around and saw a dead wallaby in the dust. I looked up at
the woman. "You want me to move it?"
"I want somebody to examine it," she said, stabbing an
accusing finger at the man. "He won't."
"Ah, listen," I said carefully. "It's dead, you know."
She whirled and came up right in front of me. Wow. She had
fantastic in-your-face tits. "I know it's fucking dead,"
she yelled angrily, from inches away. And suddenly her rage
broke and her eyes flooded with tears. "It might have a
joey in the pouch. They can live for three days in the
mother's pouch. I read that in National Geographic."
"I see," I said. "You want me to check for a joey,
right?"
Tears were rolling down her cheeks. "I was driving," she
said. "It came jumping out of the scrub from nowhere."
"Yeah," I agreed. "They do that."
"He won't do it," she told me. "He says I killed it, it's
my responsibility. He says we have to drive on and leave
it."
I looked over at the guy. He shrugged uncomfortably. City
people in a flash black car. He was probably squeamish
about road kill. Many city people are.
"Okay," I said. "I'll check the wallaby." I squatted and
turned the body over. It was a female, easy to see. Male
wallabies and kangaroos have big balls. You can't miss
them. I slid my hand into the pouch.
"Damn," I said, and pulled out a warm, furry bundle of baby
wallaby. I dangled it by the neck, and it looked at my face
and blinked stupidly.
"Damn," I said again. It sat comfortably in my cupped
hands. "National Geographic was right."
The woman whirled on the man. "You cold-hearted bastard,"
she hissed at him furiously. "You were just going to leave
it to starve and die."
"You dumb fuck bitch, Misty," he growled, surly and
resentful. "Now we're gonna have to kill it."
"No," she screamed, so loudly it echoed off a nearby range
of hills. She turned to me desperately. "The joey can be
saved, can't it? They can be hand-reared on goat's milk. I
read that."
"In National Geographic?" I asked.
She nodded vigorously. "We'll take it with us."
"No, Misty, we sure as hell won't," said the guy heavily.
He had one of those carefully-shaped goatee beards. "I have
to get back to Brisbane, and we won't be stopping and hand-
rearing no fucking joey on no fucking goat's milk."
She reached out, took the animal from me, cuddled it
protectively to her ample bosom, and glared at him
defiantly.
The guy spat theatrically on the road. "Get in the car," he
ordered. "Leave the fucking kangaroo with this country guy
and get in the fucking car."
"No joey, no me," she said quietly.
He stared at her, trying to will her into submission. She
might have faltered, but at that moment the joey poked out
a tiny pink tongue and licked her finger. Tears filled her
eyes again and she shook her head stubbornly. Grimly he
marched past her, got into the car, banged the door shut,
and took off in a cloud of dust and stones. We stood and
watched the black car disappear over a rise in the road.
"Sorry about this," she said. "Do you have a homestead
nearby? Can I get some fresh milk for this poor baby?"
I scratched my head. "I have some bad news," I said. "I'm
just an antique dealer from Brisbane out here on a buying
trip. The only country thing about me is the dust on my
boots."
"Shit," she said, suddenly deflated. "You seemed to know
what you were doing. I thought you were a local. Now what
am I going to do?"
Good question. She was, I guessed, in her mid to late
twenties. Damn fine figure. Damn fine, unambiguously
delineated in tight pale blue jeans and a tight sleeveless
khaki cotton top that laid her tummy bare. The woman had a
V8 motor under there. Without clothes, she'd spill out all
over the place. Wide hips, a proud bum, small waist and
flat stomach, and bountiful tits displayed like the premier
shelf of the really good stuff at a candy store.
"We can't just stand here and get sunstroke," I said.
"We'll head into Cunnamulla and see if we can find a vet."
We hadn't gone far when she started to talk, and when she
talked it was a torrent of truth. She'd been with that guy
- Mark, his name was - for just over two years. It had been
coming to an end for months. It might as well be now as in
another few increasingly difficult and awkward weeks. Would
I drive her back to Brisbane? Maybe would I wait while she
collected her things from the apartment? And then could I
drop her off at a friend's place? And could she keep the
joey?
She was a singer trying to get a break, she said. She sang
at Mark's riverside nightclub. Sometimes. Mostly she just
took off her clothes, usually as a topless waitress and
sometimes as a stripper when the pros were in short supply.
She'd come to realise recently she was not going to get
anywhere but older and sadder at Mark's nightclub, and with
Mark. She'd give singing one more real shot. If it didn't
happen, it was time for a lifestyle decision. And did I
think she could keep the joey?
I was starting to think about some answers when deja vu
turned up. Flash black car, parked across the road,
blocking it. And Mark of the goatee, arms crossed, leaning
against it, waiting. Nightclub proprietor. Right. It all
made some sort of visual sense.
"Don't leave me now," Misty said, clutching the joey. "In
the last twenty minutes I've come to realise how much I
hate him."
Piece of piss. Engage four-wheel-drive, veer off-road, bang
your head on the roof while we charge down the embankment,
wrench vehicle back on course, flatten a dozen turkey
bushes and shrubby wattles, return to the road, and hey
presto! There's old Mark in the rear vision mirror.
Not so easy after all. In a couple of minutes the black car
filled the mirror, and then he was alongside, shouting
noiselessly through the closed window. I braked and
stopped.
"Don't give me up," said Misty, whimpering. "He can be
nasty."
"Just stay here," I said, getting out of the vehicle and
locking the door.
"Okay, pal," said Mark, walking towards me from his car and
unwrapping from a wad of black cloth a small and neat
pistol. "Enough is enough. Don't make me use this."
Wrapped away like that, the odds were excellent it wasn't
yet loaded. "Hang on a second," I said to him. "We could do
a nice deal here."
I walked around to the back of the four-wheel-drive, opened
the rear door and pulled out a hugely-long, highly-
polished, silver-embossed, ivory-inlaid, precision-
manufactured, double-barrelled Army & Navy .500 elephant
gun. It was a beautiful piece; not antique, but not far
from it. I crooked it in my arm and pointed it lazily at
him.
"Call that pea-shooter a firearm?" I asked mockingly. "Now
this here is a sporting gentleman's gun. It'll take you out
plus your car with the one shot." Yes, and probably break my
shoulder too, if it was loaded. Christ knows how and where
you'd get the ammunition. Ask Ernest Hemingway.
He stood uncertainly, looking anxiously at the barrels of
the mammoth master-blaster. "That's right," I said. "Guess
mine's just bigger than yours."
He looked up into the cabin at Misty. "You filthy whore,"
he screamed at her. "This time you're really fucked. Go and
peddle your second-hand cunt elsewhere." He turned, got
into his car and took off again.
I put the gun back into its baize case. It was worth maybe
$9000 to me, a lot more than Misty. "You are turning out to
be a high-risk passenger," I said to her as we restarted
our journey.
"I'll make it up to you," she said. "Especially if I can
keep the joey." I turned my attention from the road to look
at her, and she met my gaze. "I know what I'm saying, and I
know what it means," she said, with a half-smile tinged
with sadness. "You think I don't know my assets?"
"You already told me," I said. "You sing like Judy
Garland."
She laughed. "I wish."
I sang badly, with tremor. "You made me love you. . ."
She sang well, without. "I didn't want to do it, I didn't
want to do it."
But I did. Whatever the motive, whatever the cost, I would
take what she offered. This was a female female, and you
don't strike that many. I had three casual acquaintance
women I fucked irregularly, like you'd occasionally return
home to your parents for a Sunday dinner. Nothing wrong
with that, but it was never going to make a well-thumbed
chapter in my memoirs. Misty, maybe, might make more
mileage.
The only vet in Cunnamulla was closed. A note on the door
said he was out on a sheep run and he'd be back in two
days. I asked for goat's milk at the store next door and I
might as well have been speaking Hungarian. I bought cow's
milk, a baby's feeding bottle, and purloined a cardboard
box. Misty sat in the vehicle, cuddling the joey, which
seemed contented. "Now what do I do about feeding it?" she
asked.
"It's late afternoon," I said. "I could book us a motel."
Her hesitation was only small. "Sure," she said.
"One room or two, Misty?"
Again, just a fractional pause, but enough to be barely
noticed. "One will do," she said.
In the motel room I warmed the milk in the electric water
jug. Amazingly and with only a minute's coaxing and
coaching, the joey guzzled it greedily from the baby's
bottle and instantly fell asleep. Misty was happy. She
beamed as it slumbered on a scrunched-up rug in the
cardboard box.
"Now I can take a shower," she said. In the bathroom
doorway she turned and looked at me. "I can leave the door
open. If you'd like."
Yes, I would like. Hadn't heard a better proposition in
ages. But, once more, there was that sad resignation on her
face, and I am prone to guilt. The woman wanted to have a
shower, for goodness sake. Why on earth was she even
offering? "Go in peace and privacy," I said, hoping my
regret didn't show.
She was a long time in there, and when she emerged she was
wearing her jeans and her upper body was wrapped in a
towel. "Mark has my suitcase," she said. "I had to wash the
rest of my clothes. Is our baby still sleeping?"
I'd been sitting there doing not much but think about her.
"What's the story, Misty?" I asked. "I'm puzzled. Why do
you believe you have to do special things for me just
because I'm giving you a ride back to Brisbane? I made no
such demand or struck no such deal. Why do you simply
assume it will be so?"
She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the joey
asleep in its box. "That's the way it is," she said.
"That's the way it always is."
"But why?"
She was still gazing at the sleeping joey. "When you look
like I do, you have no choice."
"Misty, that's crap."
"No," she said, looking up at me. "It's the way it is.
That's the way men look at me. That's the way they see me."
Her mouth turned up crookedly. "You're a nice man, Harry,
but that's the way you see me too."
I thought about denying it, and even that small pause was
easily long enough to demonstrate I'd be lying if I did.
She smiled the sad Misty smile. "It's all right," she said.
"It's been that way since I was 16. I'm used to it."
"Used to what?"
"Giving away my body," she said. "Men want it so much that
it seems like the least I can do." She shrugged. "No big
deal, Harry. It's easy. Hell, I usually even like it."
I looked into her calm blue eyes. "Misty, that's so sad."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Where's the real you? You don't have to be like
that."
She stood up and slowly unwrapped the towel. Her breasts
spilled free like they'd been looking forward to it. She
was a woman of the night, skin white, almost luminous. Not
a hint of tan. She was white, soft, and plenty. Her breasts
hung heavily, red nipples pointing down just a bit. She
wore the crooked smile again. "Don't worry yourself about
it, Harry," she said. "I know who I am. This is the real
me."
She was standing right in front of me as I sat on the edge
of the bed. I leaned my head into her and she put out her
arms and pulled me into her breasts. Warm, clean, smelled
like soap. She traced her fingers idly through my hair, and
she was humming some tune, but so softly I couldn't
recognise it. Maybe it meant she was happy.
I could have moved my head easily and tasted her skin, her
breasts, her nipples. But it was fine like it was, my cheek
against her warm skin, nose pushing into a breast, eyes
closed, while she ran her fingers through my hair and
hummed her soft song. Nothing is more peaceful in this
world than being cradled into the breasts of a woman.
"Tell me, Harry," she murmured. "You want to make love to
me?"
"God, yes."
"Of course you do," she said, fingering my ear lobe. "I
knew that. You had it written all over your face when first
you saw me back there in the road."
She took off the rest of her clothes. In the middle of the
bed, naked, she slid her legs out straight and parted them
invitingly. Misty was no skinny fashion model. She had real
flesh at the tops of her solid thighs, and some left over
to roll and spread. Not so long ago she'd been shaved clean
of pubic hair. Now it was growing back vigorously, like a
man's week-old stubble beard, but it meant she was wide
open and visible. White, then pink. Red, even. Full and
ripe. No doubt about it. She was truly a woman to be
fucked.
I hovered over her lush body, ready and willing to pay
homage, to kiss and caress it lovingly, but she intercepted
my designs and gripped my erect penis in a fist. "Don't
muck about," she said. "I know where you want to be. Fuck
me, and fuck me for yourself. That's the way I like it."
It was like slipping on a familiar and comfortable jacket.
Easy. Straight on up and in, fitting smoothly, like I'd
been there a hundred times before. Jesus, what a woman. She
looked like sex, felt like sex, smelled like sex, and
sounded like sex. It was exciting to possess her from
within, and I was harder than the branch of a petrified
tree.
Her dark hair spread out on the pillow and she looked up at
me, smiling pleasantly. Yeah, pleasantly. I was sliding
into her and out, and she was exquisite, and gorgeous, and
my nerves were screaming, and I knew how damned lucky I was
to have hit the jackpot with this one. And she looked
pleased.
Pleased. That's all. It came to me as I was pushing and
shoving my heart, soul, and life-blood into her body that
she was giving nothing at all back. No reaction. No
expectation. No nothing.
"Come on," she said calmly, still smiling. "Give it to me,
Harry. Give it all to me."
Fuck. In a most pleasant, gracious, and accommodating way,
she was waiting for me to finish.
Any rapist will tell you it only takes one to tango. I
completed the task, spilling myself into her while she
smiled and patted me gently, encouragingly, almost absent-
mindedly, on the back. "There, there," she said.
Sometimes, when a man fucks a woman, he gets a sudden
distaste for it. Only immediately afterwards, of course.
Never before, during, or much later when the battery is
recharged and the tanks are full. I sat on the edge of the
bed, looking at the sleeping joey in its box on the floor,
because I didn't want to look at Misty and see how pleased
she was. Stupid bitch. She'd spread her legs and done me a
favour. How nice.
"That was nice," she said, on cue, behind my back.
I was restraining an urge to hurt her and I didn't quite
make it. "Misty," I said, talking down at the joey, "how
many men have you fucked?"
"Lots," she said, artlessly.
"And have you ever been paid for it?"
Silence. Then: "Not really."
"Misty, were you ever given money after you fucked
somebody"
"Well, yes. But I never asked." She sighed. "Look, I did a
few favours for Mark. They were important friends or
business partners, or something like that. They usually
left some money for me, that's all."
Yeah, right. That's all. The spite I'd been feeling fell
away. "Don't ever go back to Mark," I said.
"I wasn't planning to," she said.
I took a shower and when I came out she was curled up in
the bed, asleep. One arm was hanging out over the edge of
the bed and one breast exposed to the nipple. Her dark hair
fanned out over the pillow. The skin of her shoulder was
white and soft. Misty was so beautiful.
In the morning I took her up on a previous offer and
watched her shower. She didn't mind a bit, and it was worth
it to see the way her body moved, and the way the water
fell off the overhangs and ran down the gullies. She was a
voyeur's delight. So beautiful.
The joey was anxious and twitchy, and she nursed it and fed
it from the bottle after we got back on the road, heading
for Brisbane and home. She talked a lot about her singing,
and how she thought she needed just the one lucky break. I
listened, mostly, because it wouldn't have helped to tell
her the truth. Her voice was satisfactory and her body was
spectacular. She needed to have it the other way around.
After a couple of hours we stopped at a bridge over a
creek, and got out to stretch our legs. The joey slept
peacefully in his box. It was a hot day, and the inviting
sound of the trickling creek drew us down the bank and into
deep shade of a thick grove of trees. Misty leaned back
against a tree trunk and stretched her arms above her head.
The effect was stunningly erotic.
"Stay right there," I said, and scrambled back up the bank.
I fetched my camera from the glove box and returned.
I could see straight away she was one of those women who
woke and worked for a camera. She smiled welcomingly, put
her feet into the right position, swivelled her hips and
pushed out her chest. Some women love the lens. Take me,
they say. Hey there, Mr. Camera, I'm all yours.
She started taking off clothes. I didn't even have to ask
her. Soon she was naked, stretching, preening, and bending
over from the waist so her superb breasts hung fetchingly.
She squatted on her haunches and spread her legs. "Hey
Misty," I called out from behind the camera. "How about a
classic Penthouse shot for the boys."
She smiled mischievously and spread open her vagina with
her hands. "Like this?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Just like that."
I put down the camera and went to her like a man on a
mission. She settled back on the grass and leaned her
weight on her elbows. "Uh oh," she said. "Something tells
me you want to fuck me again."
I hoped for better but it wasn't to be. She was warm,
accommodating, inviting, and the worst fuck on the planet.
It all went one way. Nothing came back. She just let it
happen to her, and unless she was the greatest actress of
her time, she appeared happy to have it like that.
Only the churlish would complain. She was so beautiful,
so compliant, and so cheerful about it all. But I was
starting to think Misty might be a better sexual partner as
a nude photo to masturbate over. At least then you wouldn't
have to worry about issues like the two ants crawling
across her shoulder.
When I started fucking her I was hot for it because of the
way she posed for those photos. Midway I was losing
interest. I pushed and slammed into her vigorously, trying
to bring on a fast finish, and just made it before my mind
began to wander into speculation about the load of recently
acquired antiques in the back of the Toyota.
You couldn't complain. She was the most accommodating woman
I think I'd ever met. But Misty was just a receptacle,
albeit an extremely good-looking one.
Twenty minutes later we were back on the road again. The
joey was awake, and the only thing we knew to do was to
feed it. So Misty fed it. I started thinking about the
antiques boxed in the back.
Back in Brisbane I dropped her off at her friend's house.
She'd worry about her possessions at Mark's house later,
she said. She'd be fine, she said. Yes, she agreed, she'd
take the joey to a vet clinic tomorrow. I wrote down her
address and phone number on the back of a business card.
I'd call her, I said. She cuddled the joey and waved
happily at me as I drove away.
I didn't ring her, of course. I wasn't looking for a trophy
girlfriend. Besides, I worried that if I had to fuck her
again I might be compelled to hurt her to get some sort of
reaction out of her. I forgot about her. The Sunday dinner
irregulars were not nearly as pretty, but they put on a
much better show in the sack.
About eighteen months later a client took me to a Melbourne
nightclub. Nightclubs irritate me. You pay three times the
price for half the drink, and I can live with that - but
not with smug attitude they have about it. They actually
think you don't realise they're ripping you off. But a good
client is hard to refuse, so I went along for the ride.
I was trying to appear as though I was having a good time
when I became aware of the singer plying her trade in dim
light on a small stage. She'd already done a couple of
numbers and nobody was listening. It was just inoffensive
background noise. My eyes flicked past her and then
straight back. Hey, could that be Misty?
I plucked the shirtsleeve of a passing waiter. "That
singer," I asked him. "Is her name Misty?"
"Yeah," the waiter said. "We let her do a few songs every
now and then. If you want to fuck her it'll cost you 200
bucks." He leaned down conspiratorially. "You should see
her tits. Fantastic."
"You've been there?" I asked him.
He rolled his eyes theatrically. "But don't tell the boss.
She's our top girl."
"So what's she like?"
"She never says no to anything," he confided. "But don't go
home with her. She's got this stinking kangaroo as a
household pet. Fucking weird, man. She calls it baby, and
it follows her everywhere."
I nodded. "Think I'll give it a miss tonight," I said.
"I've an early plane to catch tomorrow. Wait. Just one
thing. Who's the boss here?"
"Mark Nothling," he said. "Why? You know him?"
"Little goatee beard?"
"Yeah, that's Mark."
"I know him vaguely," I said. "Threatened to blow his head
off once."
The waiter laughed. "He's a prick," he said. "Pity you
didn't."
Yeah. Pity. I still had that elephant gun in my shop
window. Never could get any ammo for it.
ENDS
===========================================================
* The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from)
comments and opinions from readers and is invariably
motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com
The Stories of DrSpin are at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www
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Everything a writer learns about the art or craft of fiction takes just
a little away from his need or desire to write at all. In the end he
knows all the tricks and has nothing to say. - Raymond Chandler, 1950.
--
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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