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From: Rich Humus <richhumus@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Sighs Matter, Plain Text - M/F, IR,Cons, Humor
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Date: Tue, 16 Aug 2016 04:10:02 -0400
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Dear Reader:

   Thank you for choosing to read my little literary effort.  This
novelette, in a possibly futile attempt to satisfy an utter lack of demand,
is something completely different, as M.  Python used to say.

   It's an attempt to combine the writing styles of two of my favorite
authors - P.  G.  Wodehouse, he of the inimitable Jeeves and Bertie
Wooster; and Phil Phantom, probably late, and undoubtedly lamented author
of many of ASSTR's earliest and most dog-eared classics.  If you are
unfamiliar with either or both of these pen-wielders, I strongly suggest
that you touch the toe into their waters, at least in the shallow end, so
that the style of this work will, in some small way, make sense.  There are
several inside jokes and asides buried within the subsequent chapters, and
I encourage you to report back to me if and when you find them, and if you
have curiosity as to their meaning.

   There are a total of 16 chapters which will be submitted once per week,
beginning August 15, 2016, for those who keep track.  For this introductory
barrage, I will include chapters 1 and 2.

   If I forget, someone please remind me.

   Oh - I have a lavishly illustrated edition of this work which I can send
your way upon receipt of some lavish praise.  It makes the work seem so
much more alive.

   Don't forget the lavish praise.

   Happy Reading!

   Rich Humus (for the Best In Dirt!) richhumus@gmail.com





   Sighs Matter

   M/F, MM/F, MMM/F, MMMM/F, MMMMM/F, etc, Cons, IR, Hum,

   Chapter 1-Sir Percy Shows My Wife A Big One

   My wife's clear voice reverberated around the cavernous, yet
surprisingly well-attended auditorium.  The dark hall was imbued with the
cloying smell of cheap pipe tobacco, moderately expensive perfume, and a
few centuries worth of sturdy English peasantry.  A colour slide from our
recent expedition was projected on the wall behind her.

   "...and the largest subject measured 44.65 centimeters long and 18.2
centimeters around, when fully erect."

   I could hear some gasps of astonishment above the murmur of the crowd.
They soon retreated to an incredulous silence as she advanced to the next
slide.

   It was an image of a dark-skinned African native about 30 or 35 years of
age, clad in tribal gear, clutching a long wooden spear at his side.  He
grinned into the camera.  An animal skin was slung over one shoulder, and
draped down across his chest.  He wasn't alone.

   My wife had knelt next to him, holding a clearly visible tape measure
against the erect phallus he sported.  You couldn't see the numbers, of
course, but there was no doubt that the prodigious length nearly exceeded
her forearm.

   "...measured over 184 cc's in volume.  At least 50 examples measured in
excess of 125 cc's over the course of the observations." Another excited
murmur ran through the auditorium, and I chuckled to myself.

   But I suppose I should start the narrative somewhere near the beginning,
rather than spring out at you with the dénouement at this early stage.

   Seven months earlier...

   It all started at a meeting of the Anthropological Society of the Royal
Museum at Sir Basil's old haunted house in the southwest of England,
Blechley Manor.  My wife Teresa, or Tess, held degrees in sociology,
biology, anthropology, and a half dozen other -ologies, and she had been
cornered by that old goat, Percy Eddington-Eddington.  Pee, as we called
him, had tramped around the interior of Africa for a couple of decades as a
somewhat disreputable guide and expedition manager, surviving on the odd
Great White Hunter looking for a new mangy lion skin, to replace the old
mangy lion skin in his den, or selling a fantastic story to the supermarket
tabloids in the States about great unknown monsters of Lake Victoria or
some-such.  The various native governments had booted him out of one
equatorial country after another, and he finally ended up back in England,
making himself a pest to the National Health system and writing angry
letters to the Times regarding the lax moral habits of Girl Guides and the
absolute going-to-hell-in-a-handbasket-iveness of the British Motor Car
Industry.  But now he had Tess in his sights.

   I saw Tess glance at me with the resigned, wistful smile, like of a
parakeet caught in the paws of an arthritic, declawed tom-cat with no
teeth. She knew she would survive the attack, but she had better things to
do at the moment.

   I made my way over to them, stumbling over the chaise lounge and
upsetting a tea table of biscuits and lime-juice.  Brushing the watercress
off my jacket with a nonchalant wave of the hand, I greeted old Pee.

   "What ho, old cock.  I'd have thought they would have locked you in a
padded room at Colney Hatch and thrown away the key, by now." I grinned
cheerily.

   "Go soak your head, you young ass.  I'm talking to your wife about
something of earth-shattering importance, and we don't need you butting in
and going on about some bally cricket match you just photographed," he
replied with an air of haughty self-importance, an air made difficult to
carry out with any real aplomb by the raspberry jelly stain on his bush
jacket and the remains of a piece of cucumber sandwich stuck to his
mustache.

   "Oh, Sir Percival, be nice!" Tess shooshed him.  "You really should
remember you're not out in the bush trying to face down some cannibal
chieftain or a raging bull elephant or something like that."

   "Bahhhh!" he harrumphed and, taking one last glance down my wife's
bodice, strutted off to annoy some other unfortunate prisoner of the night.

   "What on earth was that all about?" I asked, guiding Tess to the
remaining tea table and handing her a couple of steaming fluid oz.  of Earl
Grey's finest.

   "The old coot.  He has this ridiculous notion that there's some long
unknown tribe in the Congo that hasn't had any contact with civilization in
a thousand years except for him and two German missionaries sometime during
the reign of Queen Victoria.  He claims the men there are endowed with
gigantic phalluses (or is it phalli?  I'm never sure sometimes...) that
they've developed through years of selective breeding and some sort of odd
diet they have, and that they'd make marvelous subjects for our next
project."

   I knew what she was talking about.  The Royal Geographic Society had
underwritten our last expedition, running a census of the walrus population
in Greenland, and the BBC documentary had done well in the ratings, beating
two political debates and the Yugoslav Song of the Year competition for the
first half hour, until it was edged out by a football match between the
Surrey Young Lads Club and the Edgingham Bakery Guild.  Now they were after
us to go out and bring back "something that'll keep them from changing the
dam' channel so fast", as the executive at BBC-1 had said.

   We were at the Anthropological Society to listen to some sort of
magic-lantern lecture by Dame Rosemary Thistlefuzz on the `Harvest Dances
of the Maori of New Zealand", but all I remember about it was the seemingly
endless number of slides of large brown women bending over in the fields,
and equally large brown men with odd tattoos, sticking their tongues out at
the photographer.  The lecture ended early, thankfully, when Dame Rosemary
accidentally dropped her pince-nez in the salmon dip and the cat tipped the
entire tub over onto the 14th century oak flooring.

   "He's obviously sprung the last gasket he had, and has gone completely
batty, the old relic.  I think he should be condemned and shut away
permanently." I replied, with some gaiety.  It always amazed me how long
some people could go on being a horror to their relatives and neighbors.

   "Oh, I don't know." Tess suddenly said, pensively.  "There is some
reason to believe he might be on to something, actually.  I've heard
stories, and there is a large part of the Congo that has been off limits to
outside travelers for decades.  Either we Brits or the French, or heaven
forbid, the Germans, have always had some sneaky dealings down there, and
ever since that old dictator took power back in the 60's, no one has been
near the mountain areas.  Besides which, he said he had proof and was going
to...  -- oh, there he is again!" Tess grabbed my arm with girlish glee and
rose up on her tip toes to kiss me.  "Now be a dear, and hear the man out.
It may be fun!"

   The runaway express train of Sir Percival hove to around the south-west
corner of the piano, dropping anchor (if I may mix a metaphor) between Tess
and the stuffed sausages which I'd had my eye on since arriving.  He stuck
out one bony old claw to grab at her, and she backed away, trodding on my
toe and letting out a squeak of surprise.

   "There you are, my dear.  Come, take a look at this" he whispered
conspiratorially, like an altar boy about to sneak a smoke behind the
rectory.  He reached into a pocket in the depths of his jacket, shaking
dust, dead beetle carcasses and gawd-knows-what-else on the stuffed
sausages as he hauled out an oilskin wrapped package about eight inches
square and an inch or so thick.

   "These are photographs I took there in 1957.  They've been lost in my
kit for so long, I almost forgot I had them.  They should be the proof you
need." He carefully unwrapped the twine from around the package, and
unfolded the greasy covering.  "I had to sneak these out wrapped in the
hide of a Cape Buffalo that had not seen eye-to-eye with me one night
whilst I attended to one of the daughters of the chief.  She was a randy
young thing, and our romantic rendezvous was just getting started when a
crashing in the bush next to us nearly made her turn white with fright, and
I had barely got my gun into position before the bugger charged us - "

   "Ok, ok, Sir Percy, get to the point, get to the point," Tess
determinedly pushed at him.  He harrumphed again, picked a piece of
cucumber sandwich off his upper lip, and peeled the top layer off of the
stack of grainy black and white photographs.  He shoved it out to her.  I
saw her look at the picture for a moment with an almost blank look on her
face, until something clicked.  She turned beet red from her bodice to her
eyebrows, and I thought I saw her swallow as if in fear.  Could have been
trepidation, though, now that I think of it.  Or a piece of sausage.

   I peered over her shoulder.  The picture was of a group of dusky African
natives, standing, sitting, and more or less reclining in triumph over what
to all appearances was a recently expired elephant, judging by the number
of spears protruding from it.  It wasn't until I focused on the natives
that I realized that what I'd taken to be war clubs dangling from their
belts were in fact a collection of the largest set of whangees I ever seen
outside of the Beverly Hills Polo Club locker room with Forrest Tucker and
Milton Berle that afternoon in 1965.  A sharp intake of breath beside me
indicated that Tess had rejoined the living, and was now staring at the
photograph in her hand.

   "I...I have to see them!" she breathed excitedly, "Do you realize what
this could mean?" she rattled on, all of a sudden going on about medical
advancements and genetics and something about Cialis and Viagra and "let's
see Ron Jeremy crow now!" with a girlish glee.  I knew that, like a bulldog
with a heaving bosom, when Tess gets her mind set on something, she doesn't
often let go.

   And she'd gotten the ear of this bull between her teeth and was shaking
to beat the band.  She fingered breathlessly through the rest of the old
photographs, her manicured finger lingering just a little too long over
some of the subjects, if you ask me.  She punched me in the arm.

   "We HAVE to go there, Roderick, we just HAVE to!" she cried, "I don't
care what it costs, the BBC will pay dearly for this anyway, and I could
write a paper that will have the Society eating out my hand for the next
decade...and you could take the pictures and film the whole thing."

   `IMAX?  ' I thought to myself, dismissing the thought as fanciful, if
not somewhat appropriate in any case.

   "Well then, old girl, I guess we'd better get caught up on our shots,
cover the furniture with sheets, and do something with your mother for a
few months." I didn't add that I'd not be averse to covering her mother
with a sheet either, biting my tongue in the hopes of continued domestic
bliss.

   And that was pretty much that.  We flitted about the soiree for a few
moments more, finally disgorging Percy from our baggage train, bidding Dame
Rosemary goodbye with our condolences on her lost lorgnette, and went home
to pack our kit bag, update the will, and make reservations to fly to the
Congo.  Three weeks later, having deposited Mother with Tess's sister and
laying a large sum of bank notes on the sibling to ensure continued
devotion to the aged relative, we were on a plane to Braazaville, along
with 5000 feet of unexposed moving picture film, a medical unit complete
with every electronic and mechanical geegaw you need to make a diagnosis,
develop a cure, and dispense medication; and Tess's teaching assistant. 
Mariana was 22, a graduate student at Oxford, spoke excellent English, was
half West Indian, and had enormous breasts.  I didn't care about the Oxford
scholarship, the excellent English, or that she was half-West Indian.

   Chapter 2-Bosoms over Braazaville

   Braazaville was just as I'd remembered it from those old Tarzan movies
and French Foreign Legion recruiting posters.  Devilishly hot, foul
smelling, unbearably tedious, and teeming with several hundred thousand
people having the exact same characteristics.  Our luggage was torn open,
inspected and finally passed by the Customs Officer, after he pocketed a
pair of Tess's thong panties and rubbed one of Mariana's bras between his
fingertips for several minutes.  Leering at me from under eyebrows thick
enough to hide a brace of pigeons, he chortled "Kwame abu maka logee, konga
lagonga maka logee", which, if I remembered my Congolese, meant "I will
trade you three goats and a chicken for the large breasted one".  I
demurred, threw a wad of 5 pound notes on his desk, and collected our
belongings.

   We were supposed to have been met by a local entrepreneur who promised
he was a tour guide, interpreter, taxi driver and Professor of Natural
History, all in one.  I didn't believe the part about the taxi driver, as
there was no one to be seen outside the terminal except the professional
beggars, several dozen Pakistanis selling water ice to each other, and a
family of goats breezily feeding on the grass growing up between the
potholes.  After about a quarter of an hour in the sweltering sun, a large
bang and a noxious cloud of blue smoke signaled the imminent arrival of our
transportation.

   The driver careened around the corner in a Morris Minor that had not
seen a garage since Churchill was in office, and as he rumbled to a stop,
the left front fender came unhinged with a loud clang.  Out jumped one of
the smallest, ugliest men I have ever seen.  He banged the rebellious
fender back into place with his hand, and hopped up on the curb to corral
us before we could turn around and head for another plane out of town.

   "ahhhha Mister and Missy, how fine to be seen by you today, how is your
trip, welcome to the marvelous city town of Braazaville, one of the most
hysteric places in all of Africa it is my journey to help you with your
trip and becoming one of the most useful mens you will ever know" he
chattered, grabbing six suitcases, a steamer trunk, and Mariana's rump all
without missing a beat.  She whacked at him and he ignored her, reaching
instead for the rest of the equipment, tossing it into the back seat of the
Minor with all the care and delicacy of a longshoreman handling bags of
cement.  I looked at Tess and grinned.

   "Local colour, eh?"

   She smirked back and me, and pushing Mariana ahead of her, the two of
them ducked into the front seat of the Morris.  I hadn't noticed it before,
but there was a very tattered, and mysteriously stained, old sofa in the
front of the car, obviously truncated to about half it's former length and
serving as the forward seating area.

   "Mister wait here I be back before you know it we fit no more into car
right now or it break down so I take Missy and Missy to hotel staying at
where you are in very few hours and minutes then come right back for you ok
ok ok?".  Before I could protest, he had scampered around the front of the
car, climbed in through the window, and, with a speed belying its age and
obvious mechanical decrepitude, the car shuddered away from the curb and
sped off into the brown haze.  Just before it disappeared from sight, I
swear I saw his arm reach over and pull Mariana's head down into his lap,
but I couldn't be sure.  Another explosion from the tail pipe, a cloud of
bluish smoke, and the car was gone.

   Nearly twenty minutes later I'd had enough standing around, and,
resisting the blandishments of the various Pakistanis to partake of their
somewhat ill-looking water ice, decided to walk to the hotel.  Getting
directions from the few local residents who seemed to be alert enough to
tell, I followed my nose and the random automobile part until I could see
the hotel about three blocks in the distance.  As I looked around, I
realized that Braazaville was full of buildings that were in the midst of
construction, probably dozens in the midst of destruction, and some that
seemed caught in both circumstances at the same time.  It looked like
mostly poor quality Soviet concrete, painted in ugly French colors, and
spotted here and there with windows more yellow than clear.  Finally I got
to the hotel, and inquiring of the desk clerk in my finest French pig
latin, where the rooms I'd rented were.  He pointed up the stairs and said
"Four."

   There were no fixed ropes, so climbing recklessly, and with no regard
for my own safety, I was desirous only of reaching the peak before sundown.
At the summit, I made my way down the hallway, attempting to find the rooms
we'd paid for.  Three rooms in a row had no doors on them, much less
occupants.  Near the end of the hall, however, I started to hear what
appeared to be rhythmic grunting, and a slightly less loud, but no less
animated, female moaning.  Turning into the room from where the sound came,
I was astonished, but not surprised, to see our dark, miniscule new friend
vigorously pummeling his cock into the upthrust loins of Mariana.

   And it wasn't the sight of that chocolate brown rump pistoning back and
forth between the widely splayed thighs of our assistant that caught me off
guard, so much as the eight or ten of Braazaville's biggest black men
hovering around the bed.  Waiting their turn, apparently, two of the larger
ones stood on either side of the copulation, holding Mariana's legs as
widely apart as they could without having to make a wish.  Tess, bless her
voyeuristic little heart, was scribbling notes furiously, a wispy stray
tendril of hair occasionally being `pfffed' away from her face.  I
sauntered over towards the window, hoping to take advantage of the slightly
moving air that breezed by.  I had not quite become re-accustomed to the
somewhat briny odor of the natives and that plus the overloading of
pheromones in the air was wreaking havoc with my nostrils.  As I passed, I
heard the taxi operator grunt forcefully several times.  I could see in my
mind's eye the opening of his penis expelling several fluid milliliters of
rich, virile African semen into the no doubt receptive womb of the young
woman beneath him.  She squealed in pain/pleasure, as I'm fairly sure she
had not had a full sized penis enveloped in her body for some time.

   One of the wishbone-holders turned to me and flashed a large, leering
grin accented by the gold tooth in the middle of his mouth.  "Welcome to
Aaaafrica, boss" he boomed.  I acknowledged the greeting, not wishing to
break the news that I'd been back and forth to Africa for perhaps longer
than he'd been alive.  While we exchanged pleasantries, a second man had
moved forwards and made himself at home on my hotel bed.  He fisted what
appeared to be a rather pain-inducing penis prior to penetrating the
pudendum of my protégé.  Her shriek confirmed my diagnosis.  The equipment
was from 10 to 12 inches in length, I'd estimate, and probably five inches
in diameter.

   Tess showed up at the window, and whispered "Mbuto nearly forced himself
on her when we got here.  She resisted at first but when he started mauling
her breasts I think it flipped the switch in her.  You know how sensitive
she is there," triggering a memory of a rather randy evening we'd once had
with her...I'll have to tell you about that one later..

   "All these other fellows followed us up in the elevator - I don't know
if he gave them a secret wink or what, but I was pretty much powerless to
stop them.  Once I realized their intent, and Mariana's and my relative
ineffectiveness at deflecting their desires, I decided that the safest
thing to do was let them have their way with her.  I don't believe they
have violence in mind, only sexual release.  This will make a fascinating
chapter in my history of this trip." She spoke so calmly whilst a few feet
away, her bosomy assistant was being soundly rogered by the third fellow.
We hadn't noticed before but a line of white liquid ran nearly unbroken up
Mariana's belly, ribcage, between her breasts and half way up her face. 
Apparently, the second fellow with the oversized gonads had come unstuck
just at the moment of his climax.  The evidence of his coitus interruptus
was copious, to say the least.  I saw Mariana lick her lips to swallow some
of the spending and wipe a glob of it from her eye.

   At that moment one of the fellows standing around, who had been
vigorously masturbating his own penis, was unwilling to wait his turn.  He
strode quickly up to us, and before you could say "Duck!" his penis
exploded a huge burst of semen.  I managed to dodge quickly to my right
without falling out of the window, but Tess, bless her heart was not so
lucky.  The first wet missile impacted heavily square in the middle of her
forehead and spread silvery droplets across the top of her head.  She was
so flabbergasted in shock that the "OH!" her surprised mouth made became
the landing zone for the next impressive amount of African semen.  I
watched in amazement as her lips closed around the amount of injected
liquid and her face rapidly became the canvas against which our Congolese
Dali expressed his muse.  At least six or seven bolts of semen made contact
with her cheekbones, across the bridge of her nose, and draped themselves
down over one eyebrow in languorous repose.  When the fellow had finished
disgorging his prostate paint he staggered over to collapse in a heap on
the floor beneath our feet.



   "Honestly sweetie, I just don't know what the excitement is all about
firing semen at a woman's face," she said somewhat thickly, the semen
collecting in her mouth still being subsumed into her warming belly.  "I'd
always thought this somewhat messy act was only a figment of visual
pornography but I think I may have to alter my judgment of it.  I believe
that that young fellow did this on purpose."

   I smiled at her as she wiped the spending off her features.  Even her
notebook had been struck by several daggers of semen.

   Tess's face was festooned with several streamers of white semen, which
she slowly collected with a dainty fingertip and transferred to her mouth,
under my astonished and, I must add, not entirely surprised gaze.  She did
have somewhat of a fetish for the taste of semen, one of the many things
that had endeared her to me so long ago.  I felt my own stirrings as she
rapidly cleared her visage of the emission, a sparkle in her eye.

   "Hmmm..I must say, this is a rather more delectable dousing than I
expected - somewhat nutty, even sweet, if I may say so, and not at all
bleachy or distasteful.  I wonder what parts of their diet have this
effect." Her professorial discourse on the discharge made me chuckle.

   "Somewhat better than that time in Sarajevo?" I reminded her.

   Tess smiled.

   End of Chapter 2

   To Be Continued
   

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