Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [55]
After a long beat, Ms. Waboombas laughed once, sharply (or burped), then smiled broadly, again vastly amused.
“Just kidding. I’ll fuck you.”
She returned to leering at me. “From you, I might even take it up the ass.” She turned the toothpick around in her mouth, apparently thinking I was enticed. “You got a big dick?”
I laughed like a dying man. “I don’t know, I suppose it’s…”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re fun to look at, and you’re payin’. I’ll fuck ya even if it’s dinky.”
I laughed again, tried to look appreciative, and then wet myself.
It took us some time, and a change of pants, but we finally convinced Ms. Waboombas to remove the body paint—at least for the drive down. To achieve this goal, I first had to convince Morgan. He was rather petulant about her washing away all his hard work. But when I reminded him that he’d have to do the hand application again once we’d arrived, he brightened rather enthusiastically. It was, truly, the only answer. The oily colors couldn’t be removed from my dining room chair, and the thought of Ms. Waboombas bare behind imprinting the back seat of my Beemer in some permanent kind of way left me weak in the knees. At least I think it was the thought of the paint that made me weak and not her bare behind. Best not to dwell too long on that subject.
Soooo—Morgan and I loaded while Wendy showered. She, of course, invited me to join her and bring my loofa, dinky, or otherwise. But I declined, citing the time crunch to reach the convention center and hotel—of which there really was none. But I knew it would give her pause to think she’d be missing valuable comic-selling time, or valuable ‘parading around a crowded convention floor in colored skin’, time, depending on your point of view.
As she reluctantly walked away she told me she really meant what she’d said: It was okay if my dick was tiny. I assured her it wasn’t. Tiny, I meant, not ‘okay’. She didn’t seem to believe me, then paused, thinking it through.
“Is it deformed?”
“No!” I said, maybe too emphatically, a bit overly neurotic about that odd bend to the left, and last night’s thrashing about in the pool tube. “I just need to get packed. I’ll show you later. Promise.” I said, smiling. “No deformities.” I assumed that by the time ‘later’ arrived, I’d have figured out a way to get through some kind of inexpensive Russian astronautics program and rocket myself to the moon.
Morgan sneered at me. He apparently believed I really wanted to show my penis to her. We’d known each other quite a while, he and I, but evidently, most of that time he hadn’t been paying attention. If there was one thing I was not, it was adventurous enough to hand over my most prized possession to a volatile, horny bump-and-meatgrinder.
Ms. Waboombas stared at me as if I were tenderized flank-steak and smiled, unabashedly leering at my crotch as she backed away, heading up the staircase to where Woodruff waited with a towel. He claimed to have gone back to sleep after waking me this morning, owing to his nocturnal adventures entertaining my ‘roommate’ and his well-developed guest. Morgan and Ms. Waboombas had apparently arrived at four a.m., or thereabouts, likely near the time Woodruff was just getting around to removing his shirt. I forgave him, mostly because he kept getting between Ms. Waboombas and myself, and I really needed the shield. He was obviously smitten, the old pervert. As well worn as Ms. Waboombas appeared, he likely assumed his monstrosity would fit, unimpeded. I had to imagine he was right. Slow, constant wear could do wonders for enlarging things. Just look at the Grand Canyon.
Ms. Waboombas finally tore her attention from my hidden member and bounded up the steps two at a time, jiggling wildly due to the fact that she was, essentially, naked. As she neared the top, I swore I could see one of Woodruff’s pant legs fill out like an inflating balloon. Apparently he dressed right.