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codes: M+mf/ humil / anal / trans /con
--
WARNING: This story delves into aberrant sex
practices that might well offend you. So if topics such as Sadism
and Masochism, among other deviant practices offend you, do not read this
story. Some of the sex depicted is consensual, some not. I don't
condone it. I'm not advocating it. I may or may not even like
it. It's simply a fantasy, a product of my imagination, and thus,
completely fictitious.
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……………………………………………………..………………………………………..…………………………………………………………………………….
The Strange
Machinations
of
Homer Dobbs
(An Erotic Horror
Story)
By
Hunsi
Book
cover Picture
Click to meet Victor & Winnie:
/files/Authors/HumblePie/Pics/Homer%20Dobbs.jpg
Chapter
1
----
Edwina
looked up endearingly as Homer entered the room. Lying upon the bed in her nightgown and
bonnet, the pleasantly plump woman looked as sweet as a whipped up tub of
buttery cream. Not lard mind you, but
billowy and plentiful and as inviting as the gleam he saw in her eyes peering
up from between her voluminously large breasts.
Homer,
likewise, dressed in his nightwear, looked no less feverishly eager as he lay
down atop of her; his chin sinking down deep into the cleavage between.
By
the looks of them you would think them quite the pair. His screw to her socket, sort of speak, when
in fact Homer Dobbs was wholly unlike the womanly ball of dough he lay
upon. As prickly as a thorny vine, the
decades long seaman turned gardener was physically marred by all the years of hard
labor beneath the heat of the equatorial sun.
His face, hard and leathery, his hands gnarled and calloused from
working the halyards and roses alike.
Still
in all, he remained a jovial fellow, and beneath the wrinkles and parched dry
skin you could still see the remnants of the dashingly handsome young man who
once, long ago, had set out to conquer the world.
"You old salt,” Edwina taunted, as Homer settled
in between her legs. “Don’t you ever
grow tired? You near worked yourself
down to a nub plowing the fields the daylong, and now you think yourself up for
plowing that furrow yet another yard further?”
"Aye,
up I be, my darling Edwina. It’s always
the plowing of that last yard that brings on the most joy," he said, while
wagging his Johnson with one hand, and pulling up her nightgown with the
other. Then after giving her a peck upon
her lips, he drove his cock to the depths of her furrow to plow that last yard.
Thirty
minutes and three rounds later . . .
Rolling
off to lie beside her, Homer, picked up his pouch of
imported
"You
know what I'm thinking about, my pet?" He asked as he blew a billowing ring
of smoke.
"No,
Homer, do tell," she replied, while poking her finger through the rising
smoke ring.
"I’m
thinking about that fella Willard Crumb, that
coachman for hire who works the corner-stop on
“Um-hum,”
she wistfully acknowledged. “What had he
to say?”
“He
says he's going to spend the lot of it on the horses. One bet to lose or make him rich beyond all
measure."
"How
foolish is that, eh?" To me, he has
proven himself every bit the dunce I've always believed him to be. Now, had my numbers come up,” he said,
looking her way with eyes smiling, “a wiser man you’d be hard pressed to find.”
“First
off, I’d be thinking of you, and that old Chadwick cottage on
"Yes,
of course, I dream those dreams just as you, but at the moment nothing pleases
me more than the here and the now."
"Aye,
surely you are right. Still in all, the
imagining does do wonders for the spirit.
“Imagining you with a rosy-cheeked baby girl beneath your own thatched
roof is surely a cure for all ails,” he said, kissing her upon the nose. Then sinking back down into the pillow, all
that sweetness suddenly turned sour, “That is, so long as that pretty little
girl of ours don’t go cropping her hair short like a boy, and isn’t inclined to
wearing breeches like that little tomboy, Victoria, you nursemaid the
daylong."
“Victor!”
Edwina uttered through a yawn. “She
wishes to be called, Victor!”
“Victor? Truly?”
“Yes,
truly,” she replied.
“Huh,
ain’t that something,” he then followed,
shaking is head, “I confess, that girl surely confounds me.”
“She
confounds everyone,” she scoffed.
“That’s why everyone chooses to keep their distance.”
“But not you, Edwina, how come? Her mother like everyone else outside yourself, it’s strictly hands off. While you, Edwina, not only do you coddle
her, but find her breeches to wear. Why
is that?”
“Why? Why not?
That’s not to say there’s a word of truth in your charge, but even if
there was, what’s wrong with it? Modern
ladies do more than just feed babies you know.
Nowadays there are ladies who clerk the mercantile, the banks, and when
their husbands are too ill to till the fields, they can do so just as
well. So why not wear the trousers too,
huh?”
“True
enough, but that child don’t plow no fields. In fact, men’s work, women’s work, it matters
not. All she do is play in them
pants. And worst yet, those pants you
done give her are my pants, those I done give you to mend.”
“So,
what you have say about that, my mollycoddling suffragette?”
I
ain’t mollycoddling her. I give her the pants because, well . . . just
because,” she followed belatedly in effort to push the question off. But she could see from the look on his face
that her effort was failed from the start.
And not wanting a fight, “Well, I suppose it might have a bit to do with
the fact that she has befriended me, and I don’t want to betray the trust she
has bestowed upon me.”
“Trust
you? With what, secrets? She got secrets?”
“No,
just girl things, things no one need knew nothing about, Mister Nosey. So stop your nosing,” she said, rising up out
of bed to blow out the candle light.
“Come now, snuff the tobacco, it’s time for sleep.”
----
Homer
spent the morning planting the seeds along the length of yard he’d tilled the
day before. It was getting on to
Drawn
in by the smell of cabbage and Cockle stew boiling atop the stove, he thought
to help himself to a bowl when Abigail, Madam Wellington’s maid, came in
looking a bit hurried.
“Where
is Madam Wellington’s lunch tray?” She asked Homer.
Homer
shrugged his shoulders, and was about to tell her he hadn’t a clue when he
heard Edwina’s voice of frustration coming from without the attached
bathroom. Taking it upon himself to find out where the lady’s lunch might be, he
strolled over and open the door.
“Edwina,”
he called out upon seeing her stooped over the tub assisting
“Grrr,” she growled as she straightened back up. “The devil be
damned! If only the day were only 5
minutes longer.”
“Hold
on, Abigail,” she called back over her shoulder. “I’ll have it ready for you in a moment.”
Then
while rushing past Homer, “Just stand there and make sure she doesn’t
drown. I’ll be right back,” she said,
leaving him along with the girl to make sure she didn’t drown. Only when he turned back around he not only
saw that she hadn’t, but catching her in the act of stepping out of the tub, he
saw much more than he cared to see.
---
That
night, Homer and Edwina had a very active night. Three times over to be exact. Still in all, other than the rhythmic grunting
and the intermittent sighs of ecstasy, not much else was said between
them. Likewise when they woke up in the
morning, and it remained that way until lunch, when he came limping into the
kitchen.
“What’s
wrong, Homer, have you hurt yourself?”
“Aye! Just a twist of the ankle, but I figure I best
take the rest of the day off to go see the doctor. If I ain’t back by
dusk, use the money you’ll find in the bureau and go out and buy a casket,
because I’ll probably be needing it.”
Of
course, none of that was true. Yes, he
did want to see the doctor, but not due to any sort of physical injury. If truth be told, he hadn’t hurt his ankle at
all. It was just an excuse to cover his
tracks.
When
he got to town he stopped at the Boar’s Pub for a mug of ail and to ask where
he might find a doctor. Then after
getting his fill and the information he sought, he set out to find Clayton Hall
which he found sandwiched between the General Mercantile and the Royal Bank.
It
wasn’t quite the grand building he was expecting to see, but having it’s charm, he stepped upon the porch and enter the lobby
where he was immediately greeted by a row of office doors that lined both sides
of the hall.
Walking
up to the first door in the row, he opened it without even bothering to read
the signage attached. That is if he
could, which he couldn’t, yet walked in nonetheless.
“I’d
like to see me a doctor,” he asked the man he found fiddling with some papers
by the entrance desk.
“Yes,
sir, I’m Doctor Appert. How may I help you?”
“Yes
well, I got me some health question if you don’t mind sir.”
“Why
of course, I’ll be happy to speak with you.
If you would please follow me into my office . . .”
Which
Homer did with cap in hand and until comfortable seated in what looked to be a
rather find looking office. Though
windowless and but spartanly furnished with a desk and chairs and a couch to
relax off to the side, the room didn’t quite fit how he imagined a doctor’s
office would look. Once more, there
wasn’t a single medical device anywhere in sight.
But
it did have one of those new Gramophones he’d heard so much about, and after
the doctor cranked it up and a lady singer began to sing the soft, soothing,
comforting sounds of Verdi’s, La Donna, he found himself melting down into the
chair absorbed in the pleasantries.
That
is, until he again heard the good doctor’s voice pierce through his addled
state of mind. “Now, what is it I should
call you, kind sir?”
“Hm,” he startled awake.
“Oh, yes, of course, my name.
That’d be Homer Dobbs” he replied smiling brightly. “Course, that’s not the name my mother done
give me, mind you, but the name my captain of the Resilient assigned to me on
account there be another Jasper aboard.”
“You
were a sailor?”
“Aye, sir. I
served me 9 years on the Resilient and another 8 on the Sea Mist. And given that I was a Homer and not a Jasper for all those years, that now be my name.
“Alright,
Mr. Dobbs, if that’s your choice, Homer it be then. Now, what is it the troubles you today? And please feel free to speak about whatever
you wish. I can assure you I’ve heard it
all before.”
“Well
thanks doc, but I’ve not come to talk about me.”
“Oh? Well then, if you would please share with me
the name of the person behind the voice I am currently talking to.”
“Pardon?” He
expressed his bewilderment. “I told you,
Doc, my names Homer Dobbs, and I’m the gardener at
On
that, doctor Appert straighten back up in his
chair. Then lifting the needle off the
phonograph he turned to re-light the oil lamp sitting atop his desk. “Pardon,
sir, but I must have misunderstood. I
had assumed you were something other than a man with a firm mind.”
“Well,
doctor, I be thinking my mind is solid enough,” he
said, knocking upon his head. “Although
sometimes folks say I can be a bit hard headed.”
“Yes,
I’ve been told that myself,” the doctor chuckled. “Well, I certainly see that you’re a man who
is comfortable with himself, and have actually come to speak to me about
another. Is that correct?”
“Yes
sir, that be so.”
“Find,
now tell be about your friend. Is he
someone you work with?”
“Yes,
sir, only that’d be she, not a he.”
“Alright then.
Now tell me, is she hearing voices?”
“What? Yes, yes, of course, she ain’t
deaf.”
“No,
I’m sure she’s not. Well, then tell me,
do you often find her talking to herself and answering in kind?”
“Of
course, who doesn’t? I curse myself all
the damn time, and I’m quick to tell myself to shut the fuck up.”
“Pardon,
Mr. Hobbs, but are saying she seems quite right with you?”
“No,
I told you, she suffers an ailment.”
“You
mean a physical ailment?”
“Yes
sir, of course, sir, what other kind are there?”
“Ahhh,” he sighed, “Now I see where our discussion might
have gone awry.”
“I
erroneously assumed you had read the placard posted upon the front door. So, if you’ll allow me I’d like to read it for
you now. It reads, Doctor Julius Appert, Doctor of the Cognitive Sciences.”
“Which
means,” he then said, “I’m not the one to see to mend your bones.”
“Well,
billow my sails,” he bellowed out a hoot while slapping his thigh, “If that ain’t precisely why I’m here, Doc.”
“You
see, what ails my friend could only the work of witchery. A genuine eye-of-a-frog, lock of the hair
conjured up curse to befoul the poor girl.”
“Please,
Mr. Dobbs, this is 1895! My lord, ol’chap, nobody believes in witchcraft any more. This is the age of facts and science. If you believe your friend suffers some sort
of ailment as you say, I promise you, science can explain it without having to
look to sorcery for an answer.”
“Well
then, how would Mister Science explain away a girl who has all the proper lady
parts between her legs, along with tits the size of melons, and a Johnson with
a hanging set of balls to boot, eh?”
“That
would be a penis and gonads factually speaking, and if they come attached to
fully functional female, then yes, science can explain it. It’s called Hermaphroditeism,
and it’s neither an ailment nor affliction.
It is simply an abnormality, a miscue of mother nature not unlike a
person born without sufficient pigment in their eyes.”
“Aye,
but them white-eyed mutants
don’t be poking you in the belly when you’re balls deep into her honey
pot. Now, what do you have to say about
that little miscue of nature, Doc, huh?”
“I’ll
not honor that with a response. To do
so would only reinforce your prejudice.
Look, Mr. Dobbs, what your friend needs isn’t your cynicism, but your
understanding, your help and support.
Give her that and any misgiving you might have will vanish into thin
air.”
“Huh!”
He muttered while rubbing his chin in thought.
Then after a long moment, “Yeah doc, right you be.
I know plenty about knots, and I know all knots don’t hold up the same in bad
weather. Some slip, some don’t.”
“So,
yes, I’m willing to help, give her my understanding and all that. In fact, when I get home, I plan to get right
down to it. That is, if you think a
quid and 3 pence will cover your fee. I
ask because I’ll surely be needing me last 3 quid to
buy my ailing friend some fine breeches and some drawers with a fly to open.”
----
“Well,
I see you won’t be needing that coffin after all,”
Edwina said upon his entering the kitchen.”
“No,
the doc did right with me. A twist here,
a pull there and now I’m back to feeling fit as a fiddle.”
“You
sure it was the doctor who got you right, or was it that pint or three you had
at the Boar’s Pub?”
“Ah,
there’s no fooling you is there, my muffin,” he chuckled.
“No,
I see through you like a pane of glass.
Now, are you going back to work with that gimpy leg?”
“I
ain’t no gimp, least not
yet. I still got a row or two to hoe on
these old legs. Now, what are you fixing
for dinner,” he followed as he shuffled over to the stove and give the boiling
pot a whiff.
“Mussel
stew with turnips and cabbage. Want a taste,” she asked while lifting the
ladle.
“Mmm, I do love me Mussels, that I do,” he said after
indulging himself. “You know, when I was walking up the road I saw
“Just the McGee boy from down the road. Wendell, I believe his name is.”
“Huh,
sorry, I guess my ageing eyes must be failing me.”
“You
can be excused. When they came in
earlier today to go play in her room, I can swear to you that skinny twig of a
boy looked as if he’d rouged his lips.
If not, I’ve not seen rosier.
Honestly, a queerer duck I’ve yet to see.”
“Aye,
that be true. A
real quacker he is.
Come to think, I believe I’ve been seeing him about a fair bit
lately. Think he’s got an interest in
that tomboy in breeches?”
“Who
knows,” she shrugged, “but I think it more likely finding another lad to play
with who likes to rouge his lips might be a bit of a problem.”
“Huh,
I wonder why,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Well, be him an abomination or
not, at least he keeps
---
Towards
days end Homer spotted
‘Very
peculiar,’
he thought to himself. ‘The boy is an
oddity,’ to be sure, not at all like the rough and tumble boys of
yesteryear. ‘Oh well,’ he
shrugged. Then after gathering up the
withy lengths of
When
he entered he was greeted by Daisy, their cow, but he heard not
a peep from neither Victoria nor Wendell. Nonetheless he knew they were there. No doubt hiding in the loft about, and given
the spot where fragments of hay could be seen filtering down through the
floorboard, they looked to be standing right above his head.
“Come
out,
“Swish,
Pop!” The wispy reed was heard striking
the milking stool that stood nearby. “Be
that a warning,” he menaced, “this isn’t playtime.”
On
that, he heard the whisperings coming down from above, the two of them huddling
together in fear trying to figure out how to put the brakes on a situation that
was growing rapidly out of control.
As
he waited, he continued tapping upon the stool, loudly and persistently, and
until he saw
Everything! Trousers, shirt, shoes and socks, and given
her boyishly short cropped hair, if not for the wobble of her breast, she would
have looked more a boy than did Wendell.
“Oh
mother of mercy, would you look at you.
Its Victoria the boy, is it? Or
would I be better served to call you Victor?”
He asked, his twisted mug beaming smugly, and though she reddened, his
words remained uncontested.
“Yes,
that’s right, Victor the boy it is. Now
tell me Victor, where’s that odd little duck you’ve been playing with, huh?” he
asked with a nudge.
But
other than offering up a glare soured by loathing, she remained mum, choosing not to
dig her grave all the deeper.
Of
course, the tact she chose to avoid responding to his inquiry mattered not to
him, but as his threatening posture was getting him no closer to getting
Wendell to come down, he thought to try a different approach himself.
“Quack,
quack, quack, you quacker,” he call out, his voice
ripe with insinuation in effort goad the boy to come down. “Come down here, you little waddler.”
And
on that, he heard a rustling and then the boy making his way down the
ladder. Only he was no longer dressed as
he had entered. He was now dressed in
“Well
there, don’t you look a pretty little quack in skirts,” he said, patting the
boy atop his head. “Now, Wendell, do you
want to know why I asked you to come down?”
Of
course, the boy hadn’t an answer within him to give, and when Homer finally realized
one wasn’t about to come about, he provided one for himself.
“Because
I wanted to show you something I bought at the Mercantile for Victor-Victoria
to wear. Now, just sit your petticoated rump down upon a bale of hay, and watch.”
Which
Wendell did, and then when all eyes were upon him, Homer unwrapped
the package and held up the trousers he’d purchased and began turning them
about every which way like a showman displaying his goods.
“See
here, Victor, my lad, it has suspenders and cuffs, and one of those fancy new
gadgets called a zipper instead of buttons.
Mr. Grady at the Mercantile said the breeches were the first of their
kind. Just a quick zip, pull it out and
you’re done. Presto! No fuss no muss. I know all the boys are going to be dieing
of envy when the see you manage your pissing without having to struggle with
the buttons.”
“So
what you think, Victor, eh? Want to try
in on?” He asked holding them out for
“Yes,
please, please,” he-she beamed jubilantly, all but salivating over the
prospects. Then in less time than it
took to draw in her tongue, she stripped down to her manly long johns and
stepped into those pants without a hitch in her giddy-up. That is until it came time to pull up the
zipper. His, her, boy parts, stirred by
the excitement, stood out stiff and stout, though barely centimeters outside
the confines of the zipper.
“Huh! I see a problem here. How about you?” he asked with a grin tilted
a degree to the lopsided.
“Yes,
sir,” she replied with a notable blush.
“You
know, I would’ve thought that a stout, solidly build boy like yourself would be
carrying about something a bit more robust.
At least something that extends beyond the confines of your trousers.”
“But
facts be what they be, it’s a problem in need of a fix. Otherwise, Wendell might go out looking for
someone else to bed.”
“Winnie,”
she intervened. “His name is Winnie,”
she quickly followed, wanting that particular bit of information articulated
quite clearly.
“Ah,
Winnie, is it? That’s a fine name, a
sweet name, one I know the neighboring boys are going to love once they catch
wind of it.
It
was at that moment he heard Edwina ringing the dinner bell, bringing to a close
Homer’s work day, as well as Wendell’s and Victoria’s curious
machinations. Quickly, Wendell-Winnie,
and Victor-Victoria switched back clothing while Homer set Daisy the cow in for
the night. Then after pushing the
wheelbarrow filled with
But
Homer had scarcely reached the barn door before
“Well
I’ll be hanged! If you two don’t look
the spectacle! I admit I’m not all that
sold on your choice of stylings, but I do admire your
pluck.
“Of
course, that don’t mean there aren’t shortcoming in need of a fix,” he said
while holding up two fingers a if measure a short
length, “but don’t you worry none, because I’m here to help.”
On
that, he shut the door behind, then turning back around, he stood and watched
Wendell run off flapping his arms like a giddy, love drunk duck trying to take
flight. “Damn, if Victor don’t got himself a genuine quacker in
that odd little boyling.”
---
The
next morning he was in the process of milking Daisy when
“See
that, do ’yah, Victor?” Homer asked, while pointing at the engorged tit inside
the tube.
“See
how big it has grown? What is normally
but a nipple is now as long and thick as a blood sausage. But I can’t leave it on too long though. Once her Udder is empty of milk I’ve got to
detach the teat cup because Daisy can’t very well go about her business with
engorged teats. Not at all good for the
cow, but it got me thinking about that little problem you’re having with your
zipper; the problem for which I promised you a fix.”
“You
see, what I’m thinking is that what might not be good for Daisy, might just
work for you.”
“But
I’m not a cow,” she replied, her voice rich with doubt.”
“No, of course not. You’re a boyling
with a girlfriend and tiny little nub that you can’t even pull through your
zipper. To me, that’s a boat that’s not
going to float. Least not a minute more
than it takes Winnie find a boy with a pisser he can wrap his hand around and
wag.”
“So,
what do you say? You can sit right there
on this bale of hay, then I’ll hook up the teat cup and turn that little nub
into a porker any boy worth his salt would be proud to wag.”
---
It
was already past mid afternoon when Winnie finally arrived, all but dancing
his-her way through the barn door. Homer
was up in the loft straightening up the little nest the two love birds had made
for themselves, while Victor, still attached to the teat cup, sat admiring the
grossly distended length spouting out beyond her zipper.
At
first he thought to leave them be, but when he heard Winnie’s gasp of surprise,
he thought he’d better have a look.
“Victor!”
Winnie squealed. “What are you doing?”
he asked, with his eyes locked on to distended length that filled the teat cup.
“Making
more of myself, silly,” Victor replied, repeating what Homer had told her.
“What
does that mean, Victor, more of what?”
“More
of me for you to love, Winnie, that’s what.
“Well,
show me, I want to see.”
“He
can’t, not yet,” Homer called down from above.
“Not until she grows into it, and some sense of permanency sets in. After that, you can play with it all you
wish.”
“Oh
my,” he gleamed, “I don’t know if I can wait.”
“You
must, for a few days at least. But it
might help quell your libido if you start thinking about it as something to
look forward to in the coming, weeks, months, and I dare say, years. After all, one day Madam Wellington will
meet her maker, and when she does, it’ll be just you and Victor cloistered away
in your very own mansion to enjoy your pleasures until you’re old like me. That’s a lot of time on your back with your
feet in the air, and a porker up your bottom.”
“Something to look forward to, aye?” He winked and
smiled a smile that hung askew.
---
Three
weeks later . .
.
“That’s
it, girlie,” Homer gushed, “That’s the way Victor likes to see his love offer
up your puss. You can scratch your nose
with her toes, while Victor hoes a row all the way down the plow line.”
“Well,
Victor, don’t keep your needy screw waiting,” he said to feverishly excited cocksman who was stroking her enflamed length in readiness.
And
so she did, squandering not a moment, to fill him to his core like the master cocksman she-he had become.
“My,
my, but that’s a strong roe you hoe, Laddy.
Take it from an old Salt, either bow side, or stern side, no helmsman
has never drawn a better line.”
“Upon
hearing his praise, Victor looked his way with a squint, as if questioning his
veracity.
“No,
don’t doubt, Laddie.
It’s unquestionably true. In the
last two months time you’ve gone from a mere aspirant to a master cocksman. And if
you’re still doubtful, you can always go ask Edwina or Abigail or any ladies
who work the house to appraise your performance.”
“Oh,
no, I couldn’t, I couldn’t,”
“Come
now, Lad, loosen up the suspenders, they’re cramping your nuts. Besides, there ain’t
no harm in it, everyone already knows what you and
Winnie are up to. They’re always talking
on the sly ‘bout the hand holding, the kisses and the elongated bulge beneath
your breeches where a girl ain’t supposed to be
having one.”
“So
you see, you won’t be showing them anything they
aren’t already expecting to see. That
would be your mama as well. I know,
because that poor ailing woman told Abigail her maid how handsome
“And
I need not remind you, not a day passes without her asking Abigail to help her
into her wheelchair and place her before the window so she can watch her
handsomely attired young daughter and that strange little boyling
dressed in his everyday calico dress cuddled up together like lovers upon the
tree swing.”
“So how does a performance for the ladies of
the house matter? And need I say, bedding him in your bedroom is a far shot better than
bedding him in the barn. That’s not even
to mention that you’ll have the ladies nearby should need more butter, or a
tissue in hand to wipe your soiled porker clean.”
-----
Chapter
2
A
commissioned Portrait of Lord Victoria & Wendell (Winnie)
“Good
day all,” Homer cheerfully called out as he walked through the kitchen door, then let it slam with a bang. “I’m hungry as a goat. What’s for lunch, Edwina?”
“Tripe soup and pork pie. “Help yourself,” she
hurriedly replied while pulling out the pork pie out of the oven.
“Um,”
he said, while helping himself to a bowl of the tripe soup, then
took up a seat at the table. “Are them two oddlings
still in the
“Why
do you bother to ask? I know it’s been a
week, but you know well as me that a portrait just doesn’t magically pop up
over night.”
“Yes,
I know. I may well be just yoman who hauls a yoke, but that don’t make me
thick-witted.”
“I’m
sorry, dear, I didn’t mean that.”
“I
knows that Edwina. I know you’re on my
side just like I am on yours,” he said trying to win back her heart.
“So,
when are you fixing to take in their lunch?”
“Once
I get you out of my hair.”
“Well,
I’ll be done in a bit, what you say I take it in for you, huh? That way I can have me a look.”
“Hum,
well alright, but only if you promise you won’t act the fool.”
Ten
minutes later Homer entered the
“Aye,
ladies and gents, I’ve brought you your excuse for taking a break,” he said
while setting the tray down upon a nearby table.
Looking
up, he saw Victor sitting upon a chair by the window with Winnie sitting upon
his lap. The pair remained unmoved,
frozen in place as if dead and rigor mortis had already set in, while François
Le Beau sat behind his easel, dabbing paint upon the canvas.
“My
word,” he said, looking over artist’s shoulder, “If that don’t look just like’ em.”
“Hmm,”
well, I do thank you, kind sir,” Mr. Le Beau said looking back over his
shoulders. “Tell me,
have you an eye for art?”
“Er, yes, I know what I like, that surely be true. To me, a picture speaks just as well as does
a man’s voice.”
“Are
you saying the composition works for you, hm?”
“Um,
well, yes, of course, it is what I see, but it’s not saying much about who they
are. For instance, did you know that
Winnie sitting there upon Victor’s lap in her pretty dress isn’t a girl at
all? Or that Victor, looking quite the
boy dressed in that gray tweet suit isn’t really a boy?”
“Sir?”
he asked, looking utterly stupefied.
“Well,
there you go. The painting is as good as
can be, but the picture don’t say nothing about who
they are. Now, if it was for me to paint
the picture, I’d find me to find a way to immortalize what truly lie beneath
the façade.
---
3
months later . . .
The
unveiling
Gathered
together in the great halls of
If
you look closely, you can see glimpses through the crowd of Madam Wellington in
her wheelchair chatting with an old friend.
While standing beside her, François Le Beau looks to be animatedly
engaged with the town’s mayor while pointing toward the cloth covered easel
that stood behind them both.
For
all intents and purposes, it’s an event of extraordinary pleasantries, and
remains such until the chief magistrate of Willow Creek Township raised
his glass, and tapped upon it with a spoon to capture the attention of all.
“Hear-ye,
hear-ye. We’ve come together to
celebrate alongside Madam Wellington the marriage of her grandson Victoria to
Wendell, the granddaughter of George Mc Gee of Plum Tree Way. And if I might say, Winnie has never looked
lovelier.”
“And
please Miss Winnie,” he then said in way of an aside, “I only ask that you to
please excuse the teasing about the moustache.
It matches the color of your gown splendidly.”
“Now
if I might ask if the artist, Monsieur François Le Beau, would you please
uncover the portrait for all to behold.”
And
that’s what Monsieur Le Beau did much to the delight if not the amazement of
the gathered crowd.
“Bravo,
bravo,” the applause arose while its maker, François Le Beau, bowed in
acknowledgement, and rightly so. He had
truly found a way to immortalize the person by looking beneath the façade to
show what made them stand out above the crowd.
Winnie-Wendell was sitting upon Victor-Victoria’s lap, his-her hand
stroking the engorged length jutting out of Victor’s zippered trousers that so
inflamed Winnie’s passions . . .
“Wonderful,
Monsieur Le Beau,” beamed Madam Wellington.
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible to top Mr. Carroll’s mad-hatter
vision of a world. But you did, in
spades, and for that my daughter Victor-victoria and
his bride shall be forever beholden.”
“Thank
you Madam Wellington,” he said looking down at his watch. “Tick-tock, tick-tock.”
“Yes,
I agree, I think it does fit well in a world of nonsense, were nothing appears
as it seems . . .”
“.
. . because otherwise everything would be what it
isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would!”(1)
1) Lewis Carroll,
:)
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