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Wisper. That was Ms. Nuckeby’s name.

What an interesting name. I wonder where it came from? Did she have a brother named ‘Shout’? A sister named ‘Normal Speaking Voice’? A dog named ‘Sparky’? Would they approve of her behavior—getting naked in closets with strangers? Throwing garland over them? Rubbing her bare breasts on their backs?

Gloop.

I had to admit, once you’ve been touched by breasts, especially warm ones, it was difficult to imagine going back to not being touched. I supposed that was why drug pushers sometimes gave free samples.

“Here. Just feel a little a that, hunh? Nice, right? Now, you say you wanna go off and do a little Mindie, instead? Awww, that ain’t gonna get you where you need to be, my friend. Come on. I got a little more Ms. Nuckeby right here, and it’ll only cost you half your inheritance. Just half. Come on. Feel it again. You know it’s worth it.”

Forgetting Ms. Nuckeby was clearly going to take more than a single night of savagely roughing up the corporal. Replacing Wisper with Mindie on the fantasy list—perhaps a lot longer.

Wisper. What a lovely name. Wissssspeeeeer.

I began to wonder if it might not be all right for me to continue thinking of her, or at least various parts of her, even after Mindie arrived this morning. Maybe even on into the future, at least until Mindie eventually, possibly, theoretically, allowed me fondle various parts of her. Certainly there was nothing wrong with enjoying memories of Ms. Nuckeby, as long as they remained private, without Mindie intruding upon them in any way.

Wait a minute. Thoughts of Mindie intruding upon memories of another woman?

Last night I had agreed, in absentia, to marry Mindie. Was this a common theme among the newly engaged? To fondle yourself and fantasize about other women the day after said engagement? Hell, the very evening of? Was this some sort of reflexive reaction, wanting to grab hold of singlehood—so to speak—take independence in hand— so to speak—and keep it firmly in one’s grip for as long as possible?

So to speak?

Or was it something more?

Something someone had said to me recently was floating around near the occipital lobe of my brain (which, I believe, is in the front). Something about acceptability, or meeting one’s mother, or some such. I really should pay more attention when people are talking directly to me.

Whatever the thought was, I felt certain it had something to do with this Mindie/Ms. Nuckeby thing. I was so lost in trying to reclaim the memory that when someone knocked at the door I told whoever it was to ‘come in’, completely unaware that I was once again wanking on little Corky like there was no tomorrow.

Woodruff entered and acted as if he’d seen it a million times before. He probably had. I believe I’ve mentioned my predilection for this type of thing.

“Morgan Wiggen wishes to see you, sir.”

“Oh. Right. Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

Woodruff quickly—for him—backed out the door. “I’ll tell him you’ll be down once you’ve finished expelling, sir.”

“Right ho,” I said, and valiantly carried on.

I entered the kitchen to find Morgan eating cereal at my breakfast table with a large black woman in spandex.

Actually, she was more coffee-and-cream—heavy on the cream— and she wasn’t ‘fat’ large, more tall and muscular, and accessorized with rather exceptional ‘accoutrement’, if you follow my lead.

Big’uns is how the porn magazines refer to them, I think. A Queen Latifah type with augmented breasts. Augmented to make them larger, that is, not smaller. She had a magnificent figure, but her mammaries seemed overly immense, even for her six-foot-plus size, and would have definitely given Mindie’s a run for their money. If they ran, which I’m sure they didn’t. At least I hoped.

Running breasts. What a disturbing thought.

“Morgan,” I said flatly.

“Hey, Corky! You’re up,” he said, looking back at me over his shoulder, then gestured to his friend. “This is Wendy. Wendy Waboombas.”

“Waboombas?” I asked.

“It’s Italian,” Morgan said, giddy with her very existence.

“Actually,” she