Message-ID: <1443eli$9706122104@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!not-for-mail Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: Subject: (<500 words) "The Harpooner" From: Previously posted Contest Entry. <500 words, not including title, author and copyright line. THE HARPOONER by MrSpraycan New Bedford. The smell of the sea, the promise of women. That moves me. It's a whaling town, and the season for sailings. Along the quays, squat vessels are moored. I stroll by, warming myself in the sun. There's a sense of adventure. This is the Yankee whaling fleet that sails halfway round the world in search of right whales, sperm whales. To bring back the oil that lights the long New England nights, and the whalebone that stiffens the corsets of those already-so-stiff women. The hope of finding ladies not of Puritan inclination leads me to the 'Saucy Pelican.' Loud with fiddle music and drunken laughter. Coarse, male laughter, but I hear girlish giggles too. It's gloomy, the air thick with pipe smoke. At a makeshift counter a scowling innkeeper tries to keep pace with his rowdy clientele and its raging thirst. Where are the women I heard? There, at a table in the back. Two friendly looking tarts in dresses that are a little too small, showing more of the female bosom than I am used to. So white, so round. So ... I feel my harpoon stiffen in my thick canvas trousers. Two ruffians are there, passed out, dead drunk. The tarts don't seem steady in their seats. "Hey, young fellow! Sailor boy or farmer's boy. Whatever ye may be ... won't ye buy two lovely damsels a drink?" one calls out, with a huge belch. The other gazes at me, eyes like a dead cod. The innkeeper pushes a jug of ale and three glasses across the counter, and I pay up. "Bound for the South Seas? Or Greenland?" The first one says, pouring a glass. "I'm Molly McIver. And who might ye be?" "A traveller, ma'am." "Ha! A sailor boy in his dreams, I seen it all before," she mocks. "Well, a calm voyage, buckets of sperm, and thank ye for the grog. Nan," she nudges her companion. "Gentleman wants you to have a drink with him . . ." The other tart is quieter, cleaner, with more teeth. She's also pale and somewhat queasy. "Excuse her, we've been here since yester eve, " Molly confides. "No place better for entertainment, so (burp) here we stay." "I like the look of this fellow," Nan says, her eyes swiveling alarmingly as she drinks. "Then, away upstairs with him before ye change yer mind," Molly scolds. And impelled by some urge I have not felt before, I follow the lurching tart up steep, narrow stairs. To an attic, where she is already half out of her clothes. I watch in awe as she pulls her drawers down, and shows herself naked, like the day she was born. White breasts, pink nipples, the mysterious hairy triangle! And beneath it? Paradise! My harpoon is throbbing, in bowsprit position. "They calls me Nan Tucket, farmer boy," she laughs. "Rhymes with fuck it. And what do they call ye, harpooner?" "Call me Ishmael." Copyright (c) MrSpraycan, 1997. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /