tagSci-Fi & FantasyWorld Literature 101

World Literature 101


I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Denny Wheeler for proofreading and editing major parts of this story and to JCX for helping me with the French and general proofing. Remaining errors, and there are probably plenty of them, are mine. I also express gratitude to my good-humored fellow travelers, whose only mistake was to accompany me on the trip and who have paid for it dearly by receiving unrelenting derision of their personae. Even their own words of demurral and correction have been used against them shamelessly.

"World Lit. 101:- A Fantasy Train Story"

"No, NO, NooOOO!!!" I screamed.


I sat up drenched in cold sweat. I hadn't heard the alarm and my watch told me I was late. Louie's car would be here at 5:00 AM to take me to the station. I fairly flew through my morning shower and shave and raced downstairs to have a quick breakfast. No time for the usual, sausage and eggs; I reached for the cereal. Funny, I'd swear that the leprechaun on the Lucky Charms box was smirking at me.

I was still gulping down my bowl of nutritious "frosted whole-oat cereal with marshmallows" when I heard the horn -- sounded tinny. Walking out of the front door, I looked out toward the street but didn't see the limo. "Down here!" came Louie's sarcastic voice.

"What the fuck?" I exclaimed as I looked down on the green, nineteen-foot long, two-foot high vehicle.

"You told me how `long' you wanted it; you didn't say anything about the height," the green imp smirked.

"How do you expect me to get into that?" I asked.

"I don't. I expect you to make it worth my while to enlarge it."

"Damn you! I'm already paying you a shit pot full of gold to charter the Fantasy Train today. A free limo ride to the station is the least you could do."

"Never done much business with leprechauns, have you?"

I lunged for him but he ducked and I banged my head on the side of the miniature automobile, "Ouch! You bastard. Oh, shit! How much?"

Louie named an outrageous figure and I agreed. Smiling contentedly, he gave a little nod and the limo started growing taller. It stopped at about four feet.

"Is that it?"

"You said you wanted to be able to get into it."

I lunged again but only succeeded in adding a second bruise to my forehead. Accepting defeat, I scrunched myself into the passenger's seat. Tucking my knees into the impossibly small compartment, I gave ironic thanks for my Third-World ancestry that permitted me to travel this way. "I hope you didn't make the women ride in this kind of inconvenience," I scowled.

"Of course not. They are my guests and I am a gentleman."

"No they are MY guests and you are NO gentleman, but thank you, anyway. Did you have any trouble persuading them to come?"

"No, I spewed them the line you gave me. `The Fantasy Train was being misused for all sorts of juvenile shenanigans - Star Trek spoofs, visits to strippers, a scavenger hunt! We are supposed to be authors of sophisticated erotica, not sophomoric pranksters. This was their opportunity to go into the past and visit real authors and their characters.' Of course I also promised they'd be able to bonk the source of their inspiration," he grinned.

"Yeah, I thought that would get them. They all have literary pretensions but they are horn dogs, too. So, no problems?"

"Of course there were problems when they found out who was inviting them! I believe it was Allison who stated it most succinctly, `No way! That little fucker just wants to get me alone so he can knock me up. How stupid does he think I am?'"

"But you explained about ..."

"The `Magic Diaphragm,' yes. I promised on my word as a leprechaun that so long as they wore it, no one would be able to get them pregnant."

"And they believed you?"

"People always believe leprechauns; we cannot lie."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell them ..."

"Shut up! Do you want to spoil the climax of your own story?"

"Er, no, certainly not the climax!" I agreed. Sometimes Louie wasn't such a bad imp.

"Well, here we are at the station. I'll be going to the train."

"Thanks," I said trying to extricate myself from the ridiculous vehicle and maintain as much dignity as possible. After all, I was trying to make a good impression on six of the greatest writers in the ASS community. They were already at the station, standing on the platform watching me and trying not to laugh - not hard enough. I had never met any of them before, but it was easy to distinguish them.

Allison was the cute one with short brown hair, flipped slightly on the ends. She looked ready for her first day at university in a knee-length full skirt and blouse. I didn't have to wonder what she wore under the skirt.

Miss Behavin' had on a tailored cream-coloured business suit with the skirt cut about four inches above the knee. That's where the slit started. There wasn't much business transacted at her office when she wore THAT, I thought. Her hair was straight and blond as the day it was dyed.

Virago Blue was even taller than her tales would have you believe, a tower of a woman with hair the color of polished brass that threw back the first hint of dawn. Supple skins clung to her massive but shapely figure. And leather-thong sandals with 5" heels: now that was hot! Her eyes appraised me sternly.

The contrast with Maria could hardly be greater. The hot little Latina stood hardly taller than Louie, although there was a lot of girl packed into her curvy form. She wore a tight red mini with a lacy white blouse, her dark breasts clearly discernible. She looked as if she had just come from strutting in a mall.

Bronwen was much younger than she'd led us to believe. She must have noticed our surprise. "I had Louie pick me up several years ago; I wanted to look my best," she announced with a don't-you-wish -*you'd*-thought-of-that smile that brought glares of resentment from the other women. Very straight, like her stories; she had almost delicate features and dark hair. Her blue eyes and firm chin gave her face a burning intelligence. LW could hope that Allison looked as good when she grew up.

Janey, on the other hand, was exactly as she had pictured herself. She was tall and had long brown hair with a touch of gray - she hadn't told us about that, but ...

"Hold on Vargas!" Janey yelled. "I'll accept the 'gray.' I'll even accept 'brown,' though it's really ash blonde. (Look at the Clairol bottles in the drugstore to find out what that is.) But NOT 'long.' Long brown hair with gray in it is 'Cambridge' -- double-plus tacky. No! No! NO! 'short' hair! You better pay attention! I'm bigger than you are!"


Janey, on the other hand, was exactly as she had pictured herself. She was tall and had short, ash-blonde hair with a touch of gray that Miss Clairol had missed - she hadn't told us about that, but it was sexy as hell. She had chosen a long skirt with a slit high enough to make nudists gawk and it fell from the hips of - a woman.

"Hey, Homer," shouted Louie from the cab of the train, "Cut out that shit about their eyes and hair and chin for chrissake! Tell us about their boobs. The guys that read ASSM want to know how big these babes' titties are. And be descriptive. They want to hear about `humongous hooters,' `bountiful bazookas,' `magnificent mammaries!'"

"Shut up, Louie; I'm writing this story!" I yelled back. "I don't *write* about ladies' bust sizes! This is a serious literary exercise in which six well-known writers, each admired for her ASS, ... work, are going to encounter the fonts of their artistic imagination. You can't expect me to insult women like that by talking about their bra sizes!"

"I'm a 34B," piped up Allison.

I covered my face.

"Hmmp!" sniffed Miss Behavin', "*I*'m a 36C."

"Very cute. What do you call them, 'Dow' and 'Corning?'" Janey asked, cattily.

"These babies are all me!" Miss Behavin' retorted giving her boobs a venomous shake in Janey's direction.

"My SOs never complained about these 36Ds," Bronwen added smugly.

"Mine may be small," Janey announced, "But all the men go ape over them. These little jobbies get so hard, my last lover pierced his tongue on my nipple."

I felt like crawling under a rock.

"My `chichis' look cool like this!" Maria interjected, throwing her head down and holding her arms up behind her as if suspended from her kitchen ceiling.

"I think you girls are trying to make mountains out of mole hills" boomed Virago Blue who silenced the women's silly prattle by pulling aside her wolf-skin bodice to reveal a set of humongous hooters. This woman was stacked like a brick shithouse! I mean, she had a bodacious brace of bountiful bouncing bazookas, a tumescent twosome of toothsome mammoth mammaries, a ...

The sound of Louie's giggle stopped me.


The sight of six such amazingly beautiful, totally different women took my breath away. The women were equally surprised to see me. "Disappointed" would be a better word. Maria had probably guessed what a Vargas would look like, but the others had entertained vain hopes of someone taller and more rugged, maybe a slightly older Ricky Martin or Antonio Banderas. "Oh, well, I wasn't planning on fucking him, anyway," said six sets of eyes.

"Thank you so much for coming this morning to the Fantasy Train, ladies," I said, smiling in the face of their dismay. "Shall we board?" I stood by the tall step of the rail car and offered each authoress my hand, being gentlemanly, as my Southern mama had taught me. She didn't say I couldn't try to peek up their skirts as I did so. Even better than the furtive glances was the aroma. Ahhh! What can smell better on a chilly morning than a warm pussy?

Maria's twat had a delicious, homey smell with just a hint of Jalapeno. Virago Blue's fragrance called to mind wild, windswept heaths and - I thought Generic Joe was having us on - she really DID have a chain-mail thong panty. Miss Behavin' had little aroma at all, probably having been licked too clean that morning by her husband or one of the assistant husbands in her polyandrous household.

I wasn't disappointed by Bronwen. Her pussy didn't smell properly English at all, but wild and exotic -- "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" Janey's smelled surprisingly sweet, a familiar odor -- of course -- creme brulee! Either she'd had her husband up to some funny business this morning or she'd OD'ed on them the night before. Allison had a nice tangy odor, but as I inhaled, enough light filtered through her dress to allow me to read the citation tattooed neatly by her panty-less pussy: "If you can read this, you are too dammed close to my wife's vagina. Cease and desist or I'll habeas your worthless corpus so bad you'll wish you had an amicus curiae: - LW."

With the last crotch sniffed and pussy peeked, I pulled myself aboard and gave Louie the signal to embark. I could feel a slight vibration as I walked into the spacious club car where the women had settled, sitting, talking, sizing each other up. Out the window, genres, typefaces, and proofreaders' marks were flying by.

"So now that we're all on board, tell us how this works, Homer," Janey demanded.

"Quite simple," I replied, "We stop at the time and venue of some important writer and one of you gets to alight to "interact" with him and any of his characters that you may find. What you do is pretty much up to you. I'm just playing host as a token of the high esteem in which I hold each of you."

"You're playing host because you're hoping you can get us pregnant," responded Allison, "But it's not going to work. Louie gave us each a magic diaphragm and promised us on his word as a leprechaun that so long as we keep it in, neither you or anyone else can get us pregnant. We can fuck anyone we want to, right girls?"

A cheer went up from the assembled women.

"And don't get your hopes up, little man," snapped Miss Behavin'. "With several centuries of real and imaginary men to choose from, I think we can do a hell of a lot better than YOU."

"Ladies, please. Such cynicism! I just want to help you have an interesting literary excursion," I replied with as much dignity as I could. "We'll be stopping in chronological order. I thought a nice beginning would be Chaucer. Nothing much written before him is recognizable as English. Who'd like to visit him?"

"Excellent idea. I would." Bronwen spoke up. "He's very funny and his `Canterbury Tales' was sort of the ASSM of its day. I wonder if he's as sexy as his stories?"

"I'll bet it's not Chaucer you're after, you horny cow," Janey taunted. "You're just hoping to meet up with that young Squire.

"So hoote he lovede, that by nightertale
He slepte namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale,"

quoted Janey - the show-off!

London, circa 1390:

We found Geoffrey Chaucer in a well-lit room of a London palace. He was dressed richly, sitting at a sturdy writing table. A lute played in the background. Royal patronage definitely had its advantages. His eyes lighted up when I introduced Bronwen, now dressed in full court regalia. He had no difficulty understanding that we came from a far future time. Bronwen bowed her head in a most fetching manner. Are English girls born knowing how to do that?

"I've admired your works since I studied them in school, actually since I found the parts we did NOT study in school," she smiled.

"In school?" he asked, obviously fishing for compliments.

"Yes, everyone has to memorize:

`Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
...The droghte of March hath perced to the roote'"

she recited.

"Bronwen is an authoress, herself," I pointed out, "One of the best on ASSM."

"ASSM? What is that?" Chaucer asked.

"Oh, a very large compendium of bawdy tales," Bronwen explained. "Master Rey Del Sexo has collected thousands."

"I hope that Master Del Sexo has a rich patron as I have in John of Gaunt to provide him with quills and parchment in abundance," Chaucer remarked.

"If it were only that simple, Geoffrey. Rey has to pay for a server, line charges, beaucoup bandwidth; it's very expensive. That is why he needs all the people who read ASSM stories to contribute to making it possible for him to continue," I explained.

"Can he not require money when someone buys his book?"

"ASSM" is not really a book, Geoff. It's sort of like being in the public domain. Like, how long has it been since *you* got any royalties?"

"Tell me!" he groaned. "Christie's just auctioned off one of my manuscripts for 7.5 million bob. How much did I get? Zip! Terrible! So how DO Master Del Sexo's patrons provide him with support?"

"Thought you'd never ask, Geoff. They just go to on


to get information."

"I hope our visit here will encourage some of those who read this story," Bronwen turned and nodded sweetly to the online readers, "to read your stories again."

"Why, thank you!" Chaucer beamed.

"That's not the only reason I came, however," Bronwen admitted, a gleam in her eye. "I was wondering if I might have a word with John."

"John? You mean the Carpenter of the `Miller's Tale?'" Chaucer asked.

"Yes, I've developed a soft spot for the bloke. My own dear is a good bit older than I and it's not that long ago that I was a `newe wyf and wylde and yong,' Bronwen said, casting a cool glance at the unseen Janey as if to say, "See? You're not the only one who's read `Canterbury Tales' in the Middle English."

"I could conjure him, if you wish," Chaucer replied.

"Actually, I prefer to pay him a visit at his shop. And with that, Bronwen stepped through an invisible wall into a carpenter's shop where a middle-aged man was absorbed making a yoke.

"Good morrow, John," Bronwen greeted him. She was now dressed in the simple garb of a townswoman.

"Good morrow, ...." he was confused to see an unfamiliar face, though it was a very pretty one.

"Madam Bronwen," she stated.

"Well, Madam Bronwen, have you come to buy a spatula or a mixing bowl?" he inquired.

"No, John, I've come to talk to you about Alison."

"Hey, you misspelled my name," shouted Allison. "I HATE to see my name spelled that way!"

"Tough, that's the way Chaucer spells it," I replied. "Now go away; you're not supposed to be in this section of the story."

"Alison?" the man replied, his face lighting up at the thought of his beautiful wife. Then it clouded.

"Alison," Bronwen repeated. "You have a good girl there, John. With care she'll become a good woman."

"Indeed, I love my Alison more than my life," he sighed.

"But she won't be yours long unless you do something, John."

"Do something?"

"John, I can't put this a delicately as Bob Dole would, but if you don't start getting her off more often than off 'n' on, she'll be looking for it elsewhere. I've got to warn you there is a lawyer with golden curls named Absolom who has the hots for her. And Alisons have a weakness for lawyers," Bronwen added. "She's eighteen, John, and you're ... forty five? ... fifty? She needs more than she's getting at home."

"Aye, Madam Bronwen! I fuck her as often as I can, but she is a minx. I give her everything she asks and keep her at home as much as I dare. What else can I do?"

"Take one of these tonight," Bronwen smiled shaking a large blue pill from a Viagra bottle, "and call me in the morning." With that she walked back through the invisible wall into the room with Chaucer and me.

"Anachronism! Deus ex machina!" Janey tried to interject from a higher level of the narrative, but Bronwen silenced her. "Viagra is like my American Express card, my dear. I never leave home without it. Never can tell when the old man may take a notion to jump me."

"Very thoughtful of you, Bronwen," I said, "But I actually expected you to ... er ..."

"Fuck one of Geoff's characters? All in good time, Homer. Now, excuse me." And again she walked through the wall.

"Good morrow, John. How was your night?" she grinned.

"Fabulous!" exclaimed the happy but slightly disheveled carpenter. "I haven't been so hard or kept it up so long since I was fifteen. And Alison loved it! Woke the neighbors, I'm sure. Where may I purchase more of this marvelous potion?"

"Well, there are several internet sites, but they won't do you much good. I will leave you a supply, but you'll have to ration them - your anniversary, her birthday, St. Valentine's Day."

"So I can please her only when I take the potion? And when it is gone?" he asked forlornly.

"Hold out your hand, John. ... Humm. Better trim those nails, but nice long, strong fingers."

"I don't understand."

"Let me see your tongue,.... Farther out ... Make it rigid. UuuHu. ... Can you curl up the edges like this? ... Good! John, I'm going to show you how to keep Alison a happy woman," Bronwen said, flipping the sign on the shop door over into the "Closed" position and lifting the hem of her skirt.

"Forsooth! My Alison doesn't wear panties, either," John exclaimed as he gazed on Bronwen's bare, moistening pussy.

"Alisons often don't, " Bronwen remarked as she drew the face of the astounded carpenter between her legs.

Without boring you with otiose details, I can tell you that Bronwen proved once again the Franciscan dictum that it is only by giving that we receive.

"Oh, shit, yes! Suck it John baby! Uuuoo! Yeah! Soooo goooood! Oh, God! I'm going to come agaiiiiiinn@!"


"So you figure that between the Viagra you left for him and his new skills as a cunninglinguist, John and Alison will live happily ever after?" I asked the obviously self-satisfied Bronwen back in Chaucer's studio.

"Well, that's not all I left him. He's a carpenter, so he didn't have any trouble making a replica of this!" she smirked as she pulled a wicked-looking dildo from her handbag. "Something else I never leave home without. Never know when the old man may NOT take a notion to jump me."

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