He turned the little brown statue over in his fingers, thinking. "How much?", he said
“$75,000" said the shop owner. He pushed his glasses up on his nose.
"Shit." He said. “That’s nuts.” He felt the shop owner’s eyes on him, taking his measure.
"You know,” he said, “Old Mick Jagger was here two weeks ago. He offered me $110,000."
"He’s a collector, and you’re talking about a guy used to getting more pussy than Frank Sinatra. But I don’t think he can handle this. She’d sweat him down, burn him out, give him a dam heart attack and there goes the music. I think he's got one more record in him and I’d hate to see him go."
"So, you're trying to tell me she's the real thing. The rumors are real."
"So, you're trying to tell me she's the real thing. The rumors are real."
“Men have killed for her.”
“$75,000. And I can get better than that.”
The little statue lay heavy in his palm. It was a figure the size of an apple, a woman with enormous, pendulous breasts, no face, wide globe shaped hips and triangular legs with what would be a thick looking mound of pubic hair and tiny feet together that ended in a small point. The warm weight of her in his hand was doing things to him. He reached into his pants pocket as though looking for his wallet and discreetly adjusted his tented crotch. “She's that good? So why haven’t you tried her out?”
"Ask me how I know it works."
"Because you tried her?"
“Let me ask you,” said the shop owner. “You can tell I haven’t tried her out and you’re right. Now, ask yourself how you know that. And I’m not the one who keeps staring at her jugs. Her tits change at night. I’ve seen it. Here’s another thing - You're calling her ‘she’ like you know each other already. You notice that? Like she's picked you up, not the other way around. She’s giving you a real stiffy down there brother and you don’t even know who she is yet. You don’t pick her, little buddy, you just think you do. The goddess picks you."
"How old would you say?"
"Early Neolithic. 12,000 years if she's a day."
"Damn. $75,000 is a lot."
"Don't buy her then," the shop owner held out his hand.
He tried to hand her back, yet there was a numbness in his wrist. And a terrible desire. $75,000 was more than he had, he’d be in hock up to his eyeballs for this little thing. But.
"Didn't say I wouldn't." The thought of giving her back made him want to weep for himself.
The shop owner’s open hand remained in front of him. The man snapped his fingers impatiently.
"The goddess picks you, that's what you say?"
"It's in your eyes," said the shop owner softly. "You poor bastard. $75,000, only as long as you don’t piss me off or unless I get a better offer. And I will. Jagger's got an attack of the cheapies too but he'll be back in here sniffing around for her. He’s got the same look you got right now, and he’s got money. He’ll be here personal because he won’t trust his assistant or anybody else to do it for him. He’ll take her to a hotel, shack up for a week. She'll drain him dry and they’ll find his dead old ass in the bath tub. I'll bet he knows it and I'll bet he don't give a shit because that’s the one thing no woman ever did for him. There's worse ways to die than being fucked to death by a goddess."
“Yeah. Right.” Damn, if the little thing didn't suddenly have nipple nubs sticking out on her he hadn't noticed before. "Can I change my mind later? If I have to?" The stone or ironwood or whatever this thing was made of, was getting pretty warm. Smooth, almost soft. Almost but never soft the way a woman could be soft.
"Why? Like if she doesn’t fuck you to death? You should come back when you know what you really want, brother.”
“I think I know what I want.”
“Everybody thinks they're some kind of stud, until you really have a way to find out. But you can only do so much. Right? Last guy came in here, what was left of him, handed her back and just ran. And he was right. "
He handed the little woman thing back defiantly to the shop owner, went out the door and got as far as the sidewalk.
He went back in the shop and put her on three credit cards.
He placed it on the night stand next to the alarm clock. He reached down and gave the breasts a friendly little rub with his fingertips as though she might be the Aladdin’s lamp of pussy and then went off to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. He always slept in his underwear, but on impulse he pulled his t shirt over his head and then his briefs down and kicked them away. It was just what he wanted to be at the moment. Nothing to do with the little woman thing. Not at all. To feel the night air on his skin. Not just naked. Nude.
He turned out the light and lay on his back in the dark looking up at the ceiling fan, feeling its breeze on his hot skin. 50,000 years my ass, he thought. Probably some asshole in china cranks them out by the bushel basket and sells them to tourists.
So, stud. What will you do?
So what will I do if a ghostly hand pulls back the sheets? Am I going to suddenly stop being an atheist on the spot and believe in God? Or at least in Goddesses? How about horny goddesses who put out? If there was a ghost lady suddenly lowering her pussy down over my face to lick would I rather have a deep interview about life in the afterlife? This wouldn't just be the fuck of the century, sorry you're missing out Mick, but it would be a refutation of reality itself. That’s why I’m doing this. It’s this scientific experiment I’m doing.
Someone was shining a light. A warm and buttery light was spreading over the ceiling, flickering off the turning fan blades like flower petals.
He sat up in bed and looked at the night stand, before he looked out the window. The little woman thing was gone, maybe rolled onto the floor. But the window - but the moon - the moon was coming down.
The moon was drawing closer. Closer to the earth, filling the sky. No - not the moon.
A breast. An enormous, boundless, impossible breast was descending to earth, slowly, stately, glowing behind the tree in the yard, filling the sky to the horizon. All the world could see it and it was filling the sky above his house. Then the breast was turning until he saw it profiled against the stars and then facing towards the direction of his house, there, a vast and quivering nipple.
And oh how he longed, ached in his loins for it. The warmth and brightness of it drew him like a moth. He wanted to embrace it, melt into it, lose himself eternally on it. Ride it to the stars. He rose from the bed and felt the heavy thrum of his erection bobbing in the night air. He looked down and even that seemed to have changed, this was a penis like a war club
He wondered could he jump out the window and catch its surface, like a trapeze partner. The breast was turning towards him, gigantic, disembodied and anonymous, then a nipple came into view, but not such a nipple as he had ever imagined. A nipple the size of a small city. A nipple such as it might look to a flea walking on a woman’s chest. Brown, dappled and in the center jutting out as erect as a tower, the tip of the nipple. It revolved, turned to him, offering itself to his view. To his reach.
The disc tip of the nipple was only ten feet or so away from the window sill. It was two stories down. But there was no question of refusal or hesitation. There was nothing in all the world except this beckoning surface drawing him to itself like the moon drawing up the sea.
He put his knees on the sill, then his feet, crouched, measured the distance with his imagination and leaped.
For an instant he felt the brush of warmth as his skin met the surface of the giant nipple, and then bounced away. Frantically he scrabbled at the nipple tip, caught it with both hands and held on tight. His legs dangled, but against the smooth oily skin, with its buttery light there was no way to get a hold. He dangled for only a few seconds before his arms slipped and he fell.
He landed hard in the bushes, and then on the ground. His cheek stung and for a moment he wondered if he had chipped a tooth. Above him in the sky, as though disappointed, the nipple turned away, the breast ascended back into the sky.
He rolled over and felt the electric zing of a broken bone in his arm. He turned his head, expecting horror but there was nothing to see. His arm looked intact but he couldn’t form a fist. He looked at the sky and felt a great longing as the breast receded to the stars.
He let himself back into the house with a fist sized rock in a back door window. With one hand he dressed and drove to the emergency room and had his arm dressed. He would skip work that day, go back and wait for the night.
It was the night. He was waiting for the night as though it were a drug. Twice he masturbated to relieve his desire, a raging urge he hadn’t felt for years. In spite of his pain, he felt exhilarated as though his youth had been given to him on loan for a while. It seemed as though all the women in the world were suddenly and equally beautiful and desirable. As the sun began to set he lay naked on his bed holding the little statue in his hand waiting for the night.
When she came to him again, it was not as a breast. He smelled her first, or the smell of her pudendum. The tree outside the window, profiled in the dark seemed to have grown bushier, as though there were twice as many leaves. As the bushiness had seashore aroma such as no tree had ever had. And the bushiness grew into a huge delta and he realized it was hair. A woman’s body hair, thick, wiry, dense and uncivilized. Larger and larger until a man might lose himself in there and never find his way out again. And he realized that was what he wanted. To give himself to her, utterly, with oblivion. With perfect surrender.
The hair grew until it reached the stars and blotted them. And then level with his window, a mollusk shine glistening in the light. Wet, and shivering. The night parted, cloven in two between gigantic pussy lips, each as tall as a tower, reaching to the stars. His phallus filled and stiffened at the scent and the sight. He wanted to be inside, to penetrate, to insert his relatively microscopic dick inside the cavernous vault of her sex. To bury and lose himself in her depths and remain there as though returned to the womb to stay.
The glistening lips brushed close to the house as though she would rub herself against it.
Windowsill. Feet. Knees. Harder to climb up now with his left arm in a cast. But no matter.
He belonged to her and her alone. Forever.
He dived. Head foremost, penetrating, his whole body launched like a cock of relative insignificance, so small she would barely feel him as though it may as well be the tip of his little finger. The slickness, the aroma, the palpitating sensitive skin received his head and shoulders with the momentum of his launch. He nuzzled, wriggled, buried himself further, until all was dark and hot and snug and sticky and he could barely breathe.
He felt her move, receding, walking traveling somewhere. He felt, contrasting the heat of this new world entirely of aroused skin, a gust of strange cold as though they might be in space, walking to the moon.
Here, he thought my home.
He put out his tongue, flat and broad. He licked the wall of skin as though it were an ice cream cone. The skin shivered in response. He licked again. The skin answered him. He caressed the wall of skin, towering far past above him. He caressed it with his hands, licked it. Finally pressed his body against it and rubbed himself, his body, rubbed and writhed his cock against the wall of the goddess’ infinite pussy until he felt the urge boil up. Urgently he banged and thrust himself again it until he felt himself boil over and pour his cum tight between her and his belly pressed tight against her.
He felt himself throb and drain, blind in the lightless dark and feeling the throb of her heartbeat as yes- the vagina that enclosed him far beyond him began to pulse rhythmically and suddenly clench.
She clenched hard in her ecstasy. Hard enough to break his right leg. Hard enough to squeeze his bones and shoot him out into space.
This time, airborne he landed like a missile against the side of the house and knew no more.
When he opened his eyes, he was naked. He was in the grass. The sun was coming up. His right leg, mercifully numb, was at a strange angle. He would not be able to drive himself this time and it would be a long self-drag to find his way to the back door and call 911. And how would he explain this to the insurance?
When he returned from the hospital, the climb up the stairs may have been the last hundred feet of Everest. He couldn’t stand on his right leg, now also in a cast, and still manage his left arm. He sat on the stairs, holding the hand rail in his right hand and hauling himself up one step at a time. Though it was only one floor up it took forty minutes.
He reached the landing, balanced against the wall and hobbled into the room. The little statue was on the night stand as though waiting for him. He heard the back door open. Someone was in the house.
She’s come, she sees me. She sees my worthiness. She sees I’m willing to pay the price for her love. She has torn me and broken me and I’m still her own. “Here!” He shouted. “Here, in the bedroom.” He took the little figure and kissed her breasts frantically.
The person who entered was not a plump woman with enormous breasts. It was a man. Thin, haggard, desperate. And he had the eyes of the hungry.
“It’s you,” said the stranger. “You got her.” Through sunken eyes he was staring madly at the little figure. “Hand her over easy and nothing has to happen.” The stranger held out his hand.
With his one good hand, he slipped the stature under a pillow and bared his teeth.
They fought, grappled rolling on the floor. All pain was forgotten, there was only the goddess and he would show, oh- he would show - how he would fight for her. How he belonged to her. The stranger was strong, but he brought the rock hard cast of his left arm down hard on his skull, drawing blood and the stranger went down. He put his teeth on the man’s throat and tore it out.
Two days later he arrived back at the antiquities shop, on crutches, with the statue in his jacket pocket. The shop owner stayed where he was, looking sad but offering no help as the man hobbled in, struggled with the door with one arm and a crutch.
The shop owner whistled. “So, how’s she treating you?” he said.
“Buy her back.”
“No buy backs, no refunds,”
“Then for God’s sake take her back! Before I’m dead.”
The shop owner held out his hand. He put it in the man’s hand and stepped away, leaning on his crutch.
“Mick was here this morning,” said the shop owner, closing his fist over it. “I can call his assistant, unless you change your mind.”
He made it as far as the sidewalk. He stood in the summer sun leaning on his crutch, with his broken arm, and a dead body festering in the bath tub, staring at the black pavement, sweating. He pushed the door back open and went in to the cool of the shop.
“How much,” he said softly. “How much to buy her back again?”
“How much you got, son?” The shop owner looked at him sadly. “What I mean is - how much you got left?”