Corky dreamed he was falling.
Slowly he dropped through an endless dark tunnel, drifting helplessly downward. The air was close and humid; the walls, covered in elaborate floral wallpaper, seemed to pulsate about him as if alive. The tunnel seemed to have had previous inhabitants—occasionally he passed coatracks and bookshelves. Once he drifted by a framed needlepoint sampler with the legend "EAT ME".
As he fell, the walls of the shaft narrowed, closing in on him. His headlong tumbling became a slower feet-first descent. And then he heard a distant sound. The moment the muffled, rhythmic noise reached his ears, he knew with a wash of terror what it was. He tried to look down, but was unable to do so. He tried to brake his slow passage, but to no avail. And all the time the enormous teeth gnashed below him, awaiting his arrival.
He woke with a start to find that someone was knocking timidly on the door of his room.
He shook his head, trying to clear it. The quiet knock came again. "Come in, Beatrice," he croaked in a sleep-thickened voice.
Beatrice slowly opened the door, carrying a tray. Corky silently congratulated himself on his cleverness. No other Dalrymple woman would actually await permission before entering a room.
"Mother made you some breakfast," she said, still standing by the door.
"Thank you, Beatrice," he said, sitting up and yawning. "You can put it here."
She carefully placed the tray on the bed, then stepped back again shyly.
He poured himself some tea, sugared it, and took a sip. "Are you going to have some with me?"
"Oh, I already ate!" Beatrice said hastily.
"Well, wo'n't you come sit with me anyway," he suggested.
She stepped over to the bed, and sat, careful not to disturb the tray. There was silence for a moment as he buttered his toast.
"I'm beginning to get used to waking up in pajamas I didn't put on," he ventured at last.
Beatrice blushed and giggled. "I hope not—it was awfully heavy getting you up the stairs."
Corky darkened a bit himself at this image.
After a moment, Beatrice stood. "Well, I suppose I should be going."
"Must you?" Corky pleaded. "It's very good to talk with someone who's kind and gentle after the last couple days."
"Oh, you mustn't say that, Mr. Brandywine! Mother likes you an awful lot, I know she does! And Maggie is very fond of you, too!"
"Beatrice— I'm sure they do, but their manners are, are, are rather exhausting. I feel like I must be on my guard at all times when they're about. And even that doesn't always seem to do much good.
"But you," Corky pleaded, taking one of her hands in his own, "your fine, ladylike manners, your exquisite maidenly modesty!"
Beatrice blushed quite darkly at this, and lowered her eyes. "Mother can be rather forceful," she conceded.
"Rather forceful?" Corky laughed, "She's positively—" he checked himself before saying something potentially tactless. He thought of a replacement phrase and discarded that as well. A third proposal also proved unsuitable under scrutiny. "—she's extremely forceful," he settled on at last, more from desperation than satisfaction.
"Oh, Mr. Brandywine—" began Beatrice, gazing beseechingly into Corky's eyes.
"William."
"William. I'm so glad that you've come to stay with us. I feel that you— That you and I might—" She stood suddenly.
"I should go."
"But Beatrice—"
"I'll see you this evening, William."
And she was gone.
The instructor gazed at Corky's drawing with narrowed eyes. In careful words, he complimented the subtlety of the shading, the vividness with which he had captured the bowl of fruit that was the day's assignment. Corky got the impression that Mr. MacKenzie was groping toward saying something else. Finally he put the picture down and gazed sharply at Corky's face. "There appears to be an unfortunate degree of continental influence on your current style. Do you catch my meaning, Mr. Brandywine?"
"No, sir. I'm afraid I do'n't."
"These apples," said his instructor, pointing with the mouthpiece of his pipe, "bear a distinct resemblance to the gluteus maximus of a female."
"Sir?"
"The posterior region."
"I, I, I understand, sir,"
"Not so startling in itself. The resemblance has been noted by numerous poets through history, many of them—such as King Solomon—fine, churchgoing men."
"Yes sir."
"But these grapes here, also manage to resemble a sort of cluster of glutei maximi, a homology not suggested in the literature. The oranges, on the other hand, display a resemblance to portions of the female bosom. Do you follow?
Corky was blushing furiously. "I believe I do, sir."
"Perhaps a transposition is occurring," his teacher suggested, stroking his grey beard. "I wonder if, when we move on to figure drawing, you will be submitting studies that resemble great mounds of produce."
"I shall endeavor not to, sir."
"Capital. Why do'n't you take the rest of the day off, Brandywine."
"Sir?"
"I think you may be overtaxing yourself. One's beginning at University is a draining experience. Try to get a little rest."
"Yes sir."
Corky made his way back to the Dalrymple residence, hands deep in his pockets, lost in thought. This was the ideal chance for escape! No-one would be expecting him there—he could slip in and out before his landlady had even noticed his arrival.
But what of Beatrice? Perhaps he could come and visit her afterwards, once he had found more suitable lodging...no, the thought was ridiculous. He would just have to forget about her, as difficult as that might be.
Corky entered the little alley behind the boarding house and tried the door of the back entrance. Fortuitously, it was unlocked. The sound of a piano came from within—apparently Beatrice was practicing again
Corky crept along the corridor, cautious of creaky boards, desperately trying to remember from his previous exploration which doors led where. As he passed the door to the parlor, he noticed that the piano music had stopped. He heard voices and paused to listen.
"What do you have there?" came Maggie's voice.
"Nothing that's any of your concern," Beatrice answered tartly.
"It's a book! What is it? Why wo'n't you show it to me?"
"I told you—it's none of your concern."
"It's a randy book, is'n't it? Who gave it to you? Show it to me, do!"
"Why should I let you see the blasted thing, anyway?" Beatrice demanded.
"So I do'n't tell Momma you said 'blasted,'" her sister retorted.
"Oh, you're incorrigible! Here, take the stupid book."
"'Tales of the Beginning, by Ruddy Kipper'" read Maggie aloud.
Corky heard the rustle of turning pages.
"How Gamahuching Was Discovered" Maggie read. "My, that is saucy. Where did you get it?"
"A schoolmate lent it to me," Beatrice admitted.
"Is it any good?"
"See for yourself, if you're so keen for it!"
"Oh, do'n't be cross, Beatrice. Give me a kiss."
"I do'n't want to give you a kiss."
Oh, don't you!"
Corky heard the sounds of a brief struggle, then a long liquid noise, culminating in a muffled groan from Beatrice.
"You're going to have to struggle more convincingly if you want to fool Mr. Brandywine," Maggie finally said, a little short of breath.
"Mr. Brandywine is a perfect gentleman."
Corky's heart swelled to hear her speaking well of him.
"Mr. Brandywine is—"
Beatrice interrupted. "Now read the story before you make me cross again."
"Very well."
How Gamahuching Was Discovered
Once, long long ago, when the world was young, there dwelt a Man and a Woman, O Best Beloved [Maggie read]. They lived, not in a yurt, and not in a tipi, and not in an igloo or a quinzee, or a bungalow or a cottage, not even in a cave or a crevasse or a cavern, but in a teeny tiny deerhide tent just exactly in the center of the deep dark pine forest at the very beginning of the world
"This is a randy book?" Maggie asked.
"Keep reading." said Beatrice.
And each day, the Man would strike off to the North or the West, and he would hunt and gather and fish, and the Woman would head off to the East or South, and gather and hunt and dig, and at the end of the day they would meet again by their teeny tiny deerhide tent, by a little merry red fire, and share the good food they had found, and tell each other stories of their adventures, and make up tales of what the world was like before the world was made.
And when night fell, they would lie together in the teeny tiny deerhide tent, beneath their deerhide blankets, and the Man would feel the soft warm flesh of his Woman against his body, and know that the world was good.
And he would hold her soft heavy breasts in his big hard hands, and smell the smell of her long tangled black hair against his face. And as she pressed her round warm bottom against his hips, his manhood would thicken and lengthen and harden until it was throbbing with need as it slid between the soft and welcoming cheeks of the Woman's bottom.
And as he pressed his rigid manhood against her back, and nibbled at her soft neck with his sharp teeth, and breathed his hot breath into her ear, as he squeezed her soft breasts in his hard hand, and twined his limbs about hers, her womanhood would warm and swell and moisten until it was throbbing with need.
And when the Man ran his fingers through the thick and tangled hair between her legs to the hot and slippery folds of flesh, and ran his thumb across the hard little center of her desire, the sharp smell of her filled the little deerhide tent, and she raised her bottom from their bed of pine needles. He would kneel behind her, and slide inside, enjoying her heat and wetness, until his hips were against her bottom, until her hot little mouth was full.
"Oh, this is rather nice," Maggie admitted.
"Well, do'n't stop now," Beatrice urged her, "keep reading."
...until her little mouth was full. And she would shake her broad brown bottom, and toss her thick black hair, and rub her slick little nubbin. And he would thrust his hips and groan and shout and squeeze her breasts.
And in time she would arch her back and all the muscles of her body would tense and shudder and then relax, and then he would grab her waist and pound against her so that her whole body shook with his rutting, and he would roar and spend his seed inside of her.
And then they would dash, all naked and damp, down to the little stream that ran through the heart of the woods at the beginning of the world, and they would plunge into the chilly waters and laugh and splash and roll together on the smooth stones of the streambed, and then they would run, shrieking and shivering, back to their teeny tiny deerhide tent, where they would roll up in their deerhide blankets huddled tight against each other, and go to sleep.
But the night came when the Woman had to walk far and dig deep to find enough food, and when the Man curled up beside her in their teeny tiny deerhide tent, he found that she was already fast asleep. And the next night, when he became hard and hot, and she became swollen and damp, and she raised up her hips and he slid inside of her, he reached his climax and spent his seed within her before her own peak had arrived.
And it seemed to that Man and that Woman that the rhythm of their lives was indefinably disturbed, though neither spoke of it.
One day the Woman set out to the south, but she did not gather, or hunt, or dig. She walked and walked until she came to the hut of the Cunning Old Woman, who lived at the Foot of the Mountains. She had lived at the Foot of the Mountains since the World began, and some said she had lived there longer, that she was from the World before the World began. And she called out, "I am the Woman of the tent in the middle of the Woods at the Beginning of the World. I bring you a deerskin blanket to exchange for a little of your wisdom." The Cunning Old Woman had little need of the blanket, but she was kind as well as cunning, so she took the Woman in and listened to her troubles.
And when she had heard the Woman's tale she said, "Go at once to the great dead Oak Tree to the east, where the fierce Bee Clan lives. You must use your magic to put them to sleep," (for in those days everyone was magic,) "and you must steal the sweetness that they gather in their palace.
"Smear that sweetness from your lips down to your Yoni, and when you next see your Husband, give him a kiss; and your love for each other shall be restored."
The Woman did as she had been told. She crept into the palace of the fierce Bee Clan, and stole a single handful of the sweetness that they hoard with their little daggers. She made her way back to the Tent in the middle of the Forest at the Beginning of the World. By the time she reached it, night had fallen and the shadow of the trees lay all about and the buzzing of the insects filled the air. By a little merry red fire squatted her husband, gazing into the fire, lost in thought.
She removed all her clothes there in the chill and dark of the forest outside the clearing, and she smeared the sweetness of the Bee Clan in a broad line from her chin, down her neck, between her heavy breasts, along her smooth round belly, into the thick black tangle of the hair betwen her legs,
"What are you doing?" interrupted Beatrice.
"A little dramatization," Maggie said, amid much rustling of fabric.
"You're not wearing drawers!" Beatrice exclaimed.
"Mother does'n't."
"Keep reading.
...into the thick black tangle of the hair between her legs, and down to her little nether mouth where its fluids mingled with her own. And she stepped into the clearing, and into the light of the fire.
To the Man, it seemed as if one of the wild spirits of the forest had taken form and strode towards him now, naked, hips swaying, with a bewitching smile upon her face. Her feet trod bare upon the soft needles of the forest floor, and her wild tangled black hair flowed behind her. Her dark eyes sparkled in the firelight. Without thinking, he rose to his feet.
"Hello Husband," she said, and kissed him. Her dark nipples brushed against his deerhide jerkin. Her breath was hot, her lips full and moist, sticky and sweet. He lapped the sweetness from her lips and chin, and her hands gripped his head and guided him down to her neck. He ran his tongue along the tendons of her neck, down to the hollow of her throat, and she cried out, her voice swallowed up by the surrounding dark.
"Rub my yoni a little, wo'n't you, Beatrice?" Maggie asked.
"I might," pouted her sister.
"You'll like it," Maggie urged, "it's all wet and slippery for you." Then a moment later: "Oh, yes, that's lovely. Just keep rubbing right there."
Corky's hands were quivering fists at his sides. He would not masturbate himself in the corridor while eavesdropping on his landlady's daughters. The very idea was grotesque. Instead, he should clearly take advantage of their distraction to make his escape.
...she cried out, her voice swallowed up by the surrounding dark. He licked down the center of her chest, pausing along the way to suck at her fat nipples, hard and crinkled in the cool night air until she pressed at his head, and he lowered once again to press his face against the taut skin of her soft brown belly.
He slid his tongue inside her navel and sucked out the sweet fluid within, then followed the trail of wispy black hairs that led down to the hair between her legs, as wild and black and tangled as the immense forest they stood at the center of. And from that patch of hair rose a rich, bewitching smell, sharp and floral, sweet and animal all at once. And the Man buried his face in the Woman's hair, and heard her sigh a sigh he had never heard before. He brought his mouth lower, and tasted the sweet, slippery folds of the Woman's sex. He felt her strong little fingers twining in his tangled black hair, pressing his face against the fulcrum of her desire. He lapped away at the pungent and slippery folds until the sweetness stolen from the Bee Clan was but a memory, and continued to lick as the sweetness that flowed from the Woman took its place. He held the broad strong cheeks of her bottom as she twisted and ground herself against his tangled black beard, until finally her legs trembled, her fingers gripped his shoulders painfully, and she shrieked out her pleasure to the sky above.
She looked down at the Man and smiled in contentment, but a wild rage was in him. He seized her and threw her to the earth, then he pushed her legs up to her shoulders, laying open the sticky black fur and slick rosy flesh at their joining, then plunged his aching member within, and rode her with a fury soon matched by her own, so that they rolled and scratched and bit upon the pine needles beside the merry little red fire.
And when the Man howled and spent his pleasure within the Woman, he rolled off of her, and lay panting among the pine needles, while she, pursuing further enjoyment, brought her hands to her now-tender but still unsatiated parts. And when the Man heard her moans, he sprawled between her legs and tongued the ardent little nubbin until her legs clamped about his head, her heels drummed upon his back, and she gave voice to a long, low wail, and then pulled him up and lay twined with him gasping for air beside their little fire in the middle of the Great Forest.
It was many minutes before they found energy to move. They walked with slow steps and aching limbs to the stream, where they washed each other in the chill gurgling water, then went into their teeny tine deerhide tent, wrapped themselves in deerhide blankets, and fell asleep twined tightly together, knowing that all was well with the world.
Corky heard a muffled pop as Maggie slammed the book shut.
"Oh, I'm so close, Beatrice! Do lick my yoni."
"I might," Beatrice teased.
"Please, oh please! I'm longing to feel your sweet mouth between my legs!"
"Oh, Maggie darling, you know I love to lick you." And then a moment later: "My, you certainly are wet." Maggie groaned softly. "Tasty, too."
A series of liquid noises were followed by a moan that soon reached a piercing shriek. Convinced that anyone else in the household (or possibly even in the block) would immediately come running, Corky sprang from the doorway, and dashed desperately away to put as much distance between himself and the commotion as possible.
When he reached his room, he shut the door, and sat down on the bed, heart pounding wildly. After a moment to catch his breath, he recovered his suitcases from the closet, and began to hurriedly pack the clothes and belongings that Mrs. Dalrymple had carefully unpacked two days before. It wasn't a task he was used to, and it took him several tries before he was able to get all the cases to close. Finally he managed to shut the latch on the last one.
At that moment, there came a knock on the door.
END Part 4
[Author's Notes: Thanks to Oosh for help with latin grammar and a little stylistic inspiration for this chapter (read her "Tales my Mother never told me"—they're great fun). And thanks, as always, to you, for reading. —Vinnie]