Making the Mutant
Monday, June 1, 1998
Hotel de Oro, Acapulco de Juárez, Mexico
Only a few hours of local daytime were left by the time that Jim and Cameron Boehner walked into the Acapulco hotel’s lobby. The newlyweds were each twenty-two years old.
The brand-new Mrs. Boehner stood in the hotel lobby and spoke in a phone-sex voice: “Jim, it’s so sad that it’s too late to go to the beach. I packed a bikini you will love.”
“No beach? Oh, well,” Jim said to Cameron with a grin. “How on Earth will we fill the hours till sundown?”
Cameron Ripley-Boehner smiled sexily, like the highest-tipped cocktail waitress in Los Angeles who she had been until yesterday. “We’ll think of something, I’m sure. Maybe watch the cliff-divers? Visit the old Spanish fort?”
Jim looked Cameron up and down as he replied, “Right now, I’m interested in a different kind of diving.”
“Ooh,” Cameron purred, “I like your thinking.”
Jim Boehner, his bride Cameron, and José the bellman were walking across the lobby toward the elevator. The trio passed an American man and his wife, both in their forties. The older man looked at Jim’s face in surprise, then the man’s eyes dropped down to below Jim’s belt.
Jim had been imagining what he would do to Cameron in the hotel room, so Jim’s cock was fully erect inside his pants.
The older man stared at the bulge in Jim’s pants. He stared because Jim’s enormous cock was a movie star. Jim had graduated from UCLA two weeks ago without owing a penny in student loans, all thanks to Jim Boehner being a porn superstar.
As Jim entered the elevator, the fortyish man broke his stare away from Jim’s pants to look into Jim’s eyes. You’re really Dawson Jackhammer? the man’s expression said.
Jim gave the man a tight smile that said, Sorry, Dawson Jackhammer doesn’t have time for autographs today.
The man’s wife, meanwhile, had been eyeing Cameron. “Harvey, isn’t it a shame that some women feel they have to be all fake?”
Jim looked the woman in the eyes and said, “Nothing about my wife is fake.”
Then the elevator doors closed.
Riding the elevator
Three people rode up the elevator: Jim Boehner, his bride Cameron, and the bellman, José. José kept sneaking glances at Cameron.
Rather than feel jealous, Jim nodded. Of course poor José thought Cameron was the hottest thing he’d ever seen!
Los Angeles was bursting with bottle-blondes; but Cameron’s sunshine-yellow hair was all natural. Many young women in La-La-Land wore contacts, but Cameron’s sky-blue eyes were hers from birth. Cameron had cheekbones that could cut glass and—judging by her high-school yearbook photos—she had never suffered any skin problems.
It was no surprise that Cameron had become a magazine cover-girl at age fifteen. But at age eighteen, Cameron had switched over to modeling lingerie.
The reason had been utterly simple: Cameron had been sporting cantaloupe-size tits by tenth grade.
But then the woman who had walked away from magazine-cover modeling at age eighteen, in order to become a lingerie model, then had walked away from lingerie modeling at age twenty-one. Cameron had discovered that she was perpetually horny, and photographers were not enough to put out her fires.
Cameron had almost chosen to became a call girl or a stripper. But in the end, Cameron had decided to become a cocktail waitress.
Looking like she did, Cameron had made scads of money as a Los Angeles cocktail waitress, and she had never ended the night in her own bed.
In the elevator, in Acapulco, Cameron now leaned over and murmured in Jim’s ear, “I’m wet for you, and we’re not even naked yet.”
Jim was smiling as the elevator doors opened on their floor. The horniest and the hottest-looking woman on the planet was now Jim’s wife, and he was about to fuck her nonstop. At one time, Jim had been an ordinary truck driver, but now? Life was great.
Jim’s good mood continued as he, his bride, and the bellman stepped into Room 612.
The room was ritzy: hand-chiseled wooden furniture, and highly waxed, inlaid-wood flooring; walls painted a sun-yellow enamel; a king-sized bed that was covered with a bright-orange coverlet; and a sliding-glass door that led to the wrought-iron balcony. Jim knew that on this side of the hotel, if he stood at the balcony, he could see the Pacific Ocean.
But Jim was sure that neither he nor Cameron would step through that sliding-glass door till Day Three. Right now, the wetness that Jim was interested in was not the oceanic kind.
Three minutes later
In the Boehners’ hotel room
Jim ogled his bride, whose traveling clothes were a white-linen skirt-suit and a light-blue satin blouse. Both the blouse and the skirt-suit were tailored to show off Cameron’s extraordinary rack.
“You are so beautiful,” Jim said, just before he kissed his new wife.
While Jim was kissing, he was unbuttoning—first Cameron’s suit-jacket, then her blue blouse. (The kissing was going on for a long time.)
When Jim removed the linen jacket, he discovered that Cameron’s nipples were causing hard bulges in the satin blouse. Jim explored with his fingers, and discovered that Cameron was wearing a brassiere so low-cut, it did not cover her nipples.
As soon as Jim unbuttoned the blouse, he reached under the satin with both hands and palmed Cameron’s nipples.
Cameron moaned in response. “My bare nipples being rubbed nonstop by the satin—I’ve been horny since we left the wedding reception. Please fuck me now.”
Jim did as requested—he fucked Cameron. Then he fucked her twice more. After Cameron sucked him hard, Jim fucked Cameron a fourth time that night.
The honeymoon sex between two such beautiful people was everything that Jim and Cameron had each imagined it would be.
To heighten their wedding-night sex, Jim did not use a condom during any of the four times he fucked Cameron. Horny Cameron showed her thanks with a slurpy-wet pussy.
Each of the newlyweds was too caught up in their glorious fucking to ask him- or herself the question, “Is Cameron feeling especially horny tonight? More than usual?”
The answer, it turned out, was Yes, and not only because this was Jim’s and Cameron’s wedding night. Cameron was ovulating, two days before she expected to.
The next morning
Neither Jim nor Cameron had any inkling that Cameron was now a mother as well as a wife.
Jim was awakened to the delicious feel of Cameron licking his dick.
While Jim felt lucky to have a cock as long and thick as he had, there was one disadvantage to his cock: no deepthroat. Jim had yet to meet the woman who could deepthroat him—though some porn actresses came close.
By now, Cameron knew better than to try. Instead, she licked the underside of Jim’s cock, from the head of his cock to the base, and back again. When Jim was hard enough, Cameron switched techniques and took Jim’s cock in her mouth (as much as she could take).
Her lips swirled around the head of Jim’s dick, while her hand stroked his length.
What a wonderful thing to wake up to! Jim thought.
Soon everything felt so good that Jim was clutching the top sheet in a death grip.
Cameron took her mouth off Jim’s dick. “I love your cock,” she said, while still stroking him. “Your cock is a wonder of nature, like Niagara Falls.” Then Cameron went back to tonguing and stroking Jim.
Cameron had good technique, but it was her comparing Jim’s cock to humongous Niagara Falls that sent Jim over the top. It’s impressive, yes, but she thinks it’s that impressive? With that thought, Jim blasted in Cameron’s mouth.
As he came down from his climax, sleepiness warred with his love for Cameron; he owed her payback.
But Cameron put her hand on his chest when he tried to sit up. “I gave you a gift, Husband. Relax now and sleep while I take a bath.”
Jim let himself fall asleep.
An hour later
Jim woke to the sound of Cameron singing on the other side of the bathroom door.
He slid out of bed and walked to the bathroom door. He said through the door, “I’m awake now, and I want to thank you for that great blowjob.”
Cameron’s voice purred through the door: “You’ll want to ‘thank’ me even more when you see me in a minute.”
Jim waited, more or less patiently, as Cameron sang songs and did things on the other side of the door. When he had waited two minutes (by the bedside clock), the bathroom door was unlocked.
Seconds later, Jim was seeing red—tons of red, actually.
Cameron’s long, blond hair was pulled up atop her head, and a red ribbon was tied around her hair. Her feet were covered with open-toed, red shoes of fuck-me heel-height. In between Cameron’s head and feet, she was wearing red peekaboo bikini-shaped lace underwear, a red-opaque garter belt that held up red-opaque thigh-high stockings, and a knee-length, transparent-red peignoir.
Jim leaped off the bed and advanced on Cameron like a hungry beast.
“I’m going to fuck you right now,” Jim growled.
He shoved Cameron against the wall, too impatient for Cameron to sashay to the bed. Jim mashed his mouth onto Cameron’s mouth in a forceful kiss.
“I want to be fucked right now,” Cameron said against Jim’s lips. To prove her point, her hands reached into Jim’s boxer shorts and stroked his cock.
“I love your big dick,” she added.
While Cameron was stroking Jim’s cock, Jim’s hands were busy running over Cameron’s enormous tits that were covered by red lace. He felt her nipples grow hard.
It took only seconds, between all of Cameron’s sexy red clothing and her practiced stroking, for Jim’s dick to become rock-hard. Cameron wrapped her legs around Jim’s waist and ordered, “Fuck me.”
Jim’s hands went to the undersides of Cameron’s ass cheeks, to lift her as needed. Jim’s hands, and the head of Jim’s dick, were targeting Cameron’s slit. But before Jim managed to enter Cameron’s abyss, shit happened.
One second later
The waxed wooden floor was slippery, and the enamel-painted wall was slippery. Jim felt his feet slide backward as Cameron slid down the wall. Cameron’s legs around his waist pulled him down too. Jim’s knees hit the floor hard. Wham.
For Cameron, it was worse: Her ass basically dropped to the floor from waist-height. WHAM.
“Oh shit, Jim,” Cameron said—now there was nothing sexy about her voice—“I hurt my back.”
An hour later
X-Ray Room 2
Hospital de la Ciudad de Acapulco de Juárez
Simón Escobar was an X-ray technician in a Mexican city that catered to American and Canadian tourists. Simón was only twenty-six years old, but he thought he had seen it all. He was continually surprised at the new ways that tourists found to break bones.
The order from Dr. Hernandez was commonplace: X-ray a lateral view (patient lying on her side) and a posterior view (patient lying on her stomach) of the L2, L3, and L4 vertebrae.
But if the X-ray order was ordinary, the American-woman patient was the stuff of dreams. She came in barefoot, wearing her husband’s untied terry-cloth bathrobe backward, to cover her front. But what a front—the terry-cloth robe could not hide the fact that the blond American woman had the chest of a porn star! Besides, underneath that backward robe, the patient was wearing red lingerie.
Simón could easily imagine how she had hurt her back.
Simón had never become erect around a patient before. He hoped the American couple did not notice and complain to the hospital administrators, or Simón could lose his job over this. But Madre de Dios, the American woman was so hot!
As Simón did his job, while trying not to obviously stare, he had the feeling that he was forgetting something. Or maybe several somethings?
It was only after Simón had taken his two pictures, and the young American couple had left, that Simón remembered what he had forgotten to do—
Whenever the stream of X-rays was to pass close to the patient’s reproductive area, the technician was supposed to cover the patient’s reproductive tissues with a lead-lined plastic apron. This precaution was mainly to prevent sterility and/or testicular (ovarian) cancer.
The nightmare outcome would be if the patient were pregnant, and the X-rays mutated the fetus—the younger the fetus when it was X-rayed, the greater would be the harm. To ensure that the lead-lined apron was used when it was most needed, the X-ray technician was supposed to ask any female patient of childbearing age whether she was pregnant. Alas, asking this question had slipped distracted Simón’s mind.
Just as distracted Simón had forgotten all about draping the lead-lined apron over the American patient.
Still, Simón was not worried about the danger of a mutated fetus. What were the odds of one American woman becoming pregnant on her honeymoon?
Cameron’s back injury turned out to be nothing long-lasting, thanks to her youth, her toned muscles—and to Mexican muscle-relaxants. By the time that Jim and Cameron returned to L.A., her back “problem” was only an occasional twinge of pain. Three days after that, Cameron’s back pain was gone.
Nine months after the Boehners’ honeymoon in Acapulco, Cameron gave birth to a daughter. Jim and Cameron named their newborn Shara Jamie.
Cubes of Lightning
Nineteen years, one month, and four days after the wedding—
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
A little after 7 p.m.
Somewhere in Los Angeles
The stockroom of Bert’s Value Grocery was empty, as usual during shopping hours, when something unusual happened there.
A cube of lightning, four feet long on each side, appeared in the empty room. Anything caught inside that cube of lightning (such as two-thirds of an empty shopping cart) glowed sun-bright, then disappeared.
From the sides of the cube, bolts of lightning shot out. The many bolts of lightning made Vivvitt! Vvitt! noises as they snaked out to every nearby surface.
Had anyone been in the room (nobody was), or had anyone been watching on closed-circuit TV (the camera was not aimed in that direction), this observer would have noticed an odd thing—
Lightning was shooting out from the sides of the cube, but no lightning was flashing inside the cube.
Suddenly a squatting man appeared inside the cube. Lightning-light revealed that the squatting man was nearly naked. One second after the man appeared, the cube and the lightning both disappeared.
While the lightning had been in the room, it had played havoc with the grocery store’s electrical system. All of the store’s circuit breakers were tripped, so all electrical power in the grocery store was off. But though both the stockroom and the main grocery store were without electricity, battery-operated emergency lights prevented total darkness.
The man stood up. His face was expressionless. An emergency light showed him a door to exit the back of the stockroom; but instead, he walked through the two swinging doors that took him into the main grocery store.
Out in the main store, employees were swearing, while confused shoppers were saying, “Did an earthquake hit? I didn’t feel an earthquake.”
The muscular man walked along the shopping floor of the grocery store, as shoppers and employees stared at him—
He was tall, with the large, well-defined muscles of a many-times world-champion bodybuilder. Those muscles were easily seen because he was barefoot and naked, except for white boxer shorts with red hearts printed on them.
The man did not speak as he walked through the grocery store, but he smiled sexily at every adult female he passed.
The muscular man walked out of the grocery store; nobody tried to stop him.
Across the street from the grocery store was a billboard: “Aqua Net Hairspray—it keeps its hold!”
(At the bottom of the billboard, in tiny text, was this legalese: “All Weather Aqua Net Professional Hairspray™ is manufactured and sold by Slobbertime Products, Inc.”)
The muscular man stared at the billboard for a long moment, before he turned to the right and walked next door to Bert’s Value Laundromat.
In downtown Los Angeles
In an alleyway, a second four-feet-long lightning-cube appeared.
When the second lightning-cube and its lightning soon disappeared, they left behind a nearly-naked squatting man.
This man stood up. Rather than being muscular and tall, he was puny and of only average height. He wore navy-blue briefs—briefs, because they were a sensible kind of underwear; and navy blue, because it was a sensible color.
This man looked like a nearly-naked lawyer.
In his hand, the puny man held a photograph.
The photo showed a young blonde with a beautiful face, who was holding a beach ball on the beach, and who was wearing a bikini that showed off her amazing figure. (Amazing even in L.A., where breast implants were almost as common as Botox injections.) In the photo, the young woman’s stomach was rounded out a little; she was a few months pregnant.
The puny man looked at the photo and said, “Shara Boehner. I must find Shara Boehner.”
The puny man began walking, which was no fun because he was barefoot. Soon he also saw an Aqua Net billboard.
The puny man glared at the big hairspray ad.
Still elsewhere in Los Angeles
309 Calder Canyon Drive, North Hollywood
Mary Ann Winters was getting ready for a date. Her roommate, Shara Boehner, also was getting ready for a date—until she used the toilet.
Yes, even blond, blue-eyed, huge-breasted goddesses are subject to calls of nature. After Shara left the bathroom, Mary Ann remarked, “Your phone rang. It went to voicemail.”
When Shara checked the message, she heard—
“Hey, Shara, this is Bill. My past-lives coach told me I should be honest in all my relationships to increase good karma, so I’m gonna just lay it out here: My past-lives coach showed me that I’m attracted to brunettes with small tits, huge hips, hair on their upper lip, and a monobrow. You’ve got none of that, so our cosmic forces are not aligned. Anyway, I’m canceling our date tonight before our souls get more deeply intertwined. Creation’s blessings upon you.”
Shara yelled some Mexican words that her parents had overheard on their honeymoon. She added, “Wow, the first time I accept a date in two years, and the idiot vegetarian cancels on me!”
Five minutes later
Bored Shara was rereading a year-old issue of Cosmopolitan as the television droned on.
DING-DONG! The rental house’s doorbell rang.
Mary Ann yelled from her bedroom, “Would you get that? Tell Mark, ‘Two minutes!’ ”
Shara sighed as she stood up. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”
Seconds later, Shara was opening the house’s front door.
“Hi, Shara,” Mark said to Shara’s boobs. “You’re going on a first date dressed like that?”
Shara rolled her eyes (not that Mark noticed). “My date canceled. By the way, my eyes are up here.”
“Sorry,” Mark said, belatedly looking Shara in the eyes. “Is Mary Ann ready?”
“Two minutes,” Shara said. “If you want to join me on the couch, you can kill time watching”—Shara peered at the TV—“a robot spraying her hair?”
On the television, a young woman had her skin painted silver, and her long hair dyed blue; Shara figured that the TV model was meant to be a robot.
The model’s blue hair was piled high in a beehive hairdo. With robotic jerkiness, the TV model picked up a spray can of Aqua Net Hairspray and sprayed her hair.
Meanwhile, a woman-announcer’s voice was saying in voiceover, “Aqua Net—soon to be made in our all-robotic factory, so that a great hairspray will be even better!”
A male-announcer voice said, “Aqua Net Hairspray—choose Fresh Scent or Unscented, Super Hold or Extra Super Hold. Available in fine supermarkets and drugstores.”
Shara laughed. “Who uses hairspray anymore? Only women older than my grandmother.”
By now, Mark had sat down on the couch. “Ahem,” he said, “can I ask you a question?”
Mark said, clearly nervous, “Mary Ann says you don’t date. Well, except for tonight’s date—”
“Who canceled, the wuss.” Shara snarled, “I will never again date a man who has a Hillary bumper sticker on his electric car.”
“Still, Mary Ann says you usually don’t date at all, and—”
“I used to date,” Shara said. “In high school. I was out every Friday and Saturday of every weekend, till November of my junior year.”
Mark said, “Yeah, that I can understand. Beautiful face, blond hair, you’re always at the gym, and—and…”
Mary Ann’s voice came from just outside her bedroom. “Mark, you’re staring at my roomie’s boobs again.”
As Mary Ann shut her bedroom door and walked over to the couch, Mark said, “I was making the point that Shara is traffic-stopping hot, so why isn’t she dating now?”
Shara said, “For one thing, since I just started at my waitress job, I get the shitty swing shift. Who would want to date me when I tell him, ‘I have evenings free only on Tuesdays and Wednesdays’?”
Mark said, “Actually—”
Mary Ann slapped his arm.
Mary Ann told her boyfriend, “I’m sure Shara has a very good reason these days for hardly ever dating. Even though she’s never told me what the reason is.”
Shara sighed. “Jeez, Mary Ann, I’m holding out for the right man. But all the guys I date now, they’re interested in only one thing.”
“Two things,” muttered Mark.
Mary Ann asked Shara, “And how is this ‘right man’ right? What does he look like, and what’s his job?”
Shara shrugged. “No clue. No clue at all. But when I get to know him, he’ll feel right.”
Mark and Mary Ann looked at each other, but made no comment.
Two Nearly-Naked Men Get Clothed
Meanwhile in downtown L.A.
Twenty-nine-year-old Calbert Reesescup had problems. His two big problems were that he was in Los Angeles fourteen years before he was born, and that he was naked except for his navy-blue underwear.
Jawstrong Boehner had ordered Calbert to strip and to enter the time machine, and Calbert of course had obeyed Jawstrong the amazing hero. Calbert, stepping into the time machine nearly naked, had traveled back to 2017 without pants, shirt, and shoes—and without a phone, tinycomp, spending cards, cash, or coins.
Of course, Calbert’s credit and debit cards, even if Jawstrong had let Calbert bring them back in time, would be worthless in 2017; and it was doubtful that Calbert had carried any bills or coins minted forty-three years ago.
Calbert was an attorney, not an expert on time travel, but he was sure that nothing good would happen if someone in 2017 noticed she had been handed a coin stamped 2060.
So. Not only was Calbert now without clothes and lacking money that he could spend, he was also lacking a phone or tinycomp. How was Calbert supposed to find Shara Boehner before the Inseminator found her?
Meanwhile, in the rental house of Shara and Mary Ann
In the half-empty house, the wall-phone rang in the kitchen. Shara debated not answering it, but soon she was walking into the kitchen. It might be Mom calling, or Uncle Victor, about some emergency.
Shara answered the phone on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
A man’s voice asked, “Is this Shara Boner?”
Shara rolled her eyes. “That isn’t how you pronounce my name. But listen, I’m a poor waitress, so I can’t afford whatever you’re sell—”
The man’s voice now roughened: “What are you wearing, Shara Boner? Would you like to share a boner with me?”
“CREEP!” Shara yelled, before slamming the phone handset back onto its cradle.
As Shara stomped back to the living-room couch, she muttered, “ ‘If an earthquake hits, your smartphone might not work,’ Uncle Victor said. ‘So I want you to also have a regular phone,’ Uncle Victor said. ‘I’ll pay for it,’ Uncle Victor said. Well, Uncle Victor, if you were going to pay for the phone, why couldn’t you also pay for an unlisted number? Jeez, do you have any idea how many telemarketers and perverts call me in a week?”
Meanwhile, in Bert’s Value Laundromat
In the laundromat, seven women and one man were doing laundry. The women’s ages ranged from eighteen to fifty-three. Their marital statuses ranged from never married, to married, to three times divorced. While none of the women were ugly, only one was “L.A. beautiful”—an eighteen-year-old blonde who had just “had work done” three days earlier.
The Inseminator entered the laundromat. The one man in the place, a pudgy guy in his fifties, looked at the Inseminator scornfully. (Probably because the muscular Inseminator was barefoot and naked, except for white boxer shorts with red hearts printed on them.)
The Inseminator, back when he had been outside walking on the sidewalk, had been expressionless. But as soon as he saw the seven women in the laundromat, his face changed: now he wore a broad, toothy, Casanova smile.
The Inseminator also, unbeknownst to any of the women in the room, began to secrete F-Pheromones as soon as he walked through the door.
“I have no clothes. Give me clothes ssat fit me,” the Inseminator commanded in an Austrian accent.
(The Inseminator had to yell his command, because something in one of the dryers was loudly making a BOOM-BOOM noise.)
“Get a job, pal, and buy your own clothes,” the older man sneered. “You’re not getting any clothes of ours.”
The Inseminator did not show anger; instead he smiled at the big-breasted blonde. Watch this.
In addition to the F-Pheromones that the Inseminator was secreting, now he secreted M-Pheromones as he walked over to the older man.
The Inseminator walked right up to the older man. The Inseminator did not put on an angry face or make a fist, but only a few inches of floor separated the two men. The Inseminator no longer was smiling.
“Your shirt will fit me,” the Inseminator said. He commanded the other man, “Take it off.”
The effect of the M-Pheromones on the fiftyish man was immediate. His shoulders slumped, he looked down, and he began to unbutton his shirt. He mumbled, “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
When the Inseminator was wearing the other man’s shirt, the Inseminator commanded (again in an Austrian accent), “Leave here! Now!”
The slump-shouldered man slapped a washing machine, while still looking down. “Sir, I have clothes—”
“Don’t argue. Go!”
The now-bare-chested older man hurried out of the laundromat, got into his truck, and drove away.
Meanwhile, across L.A.
Before Calbert Reesescup could do anything else, he had to get dressed.
After several minutes of skulking and hiding, walking barefoot from alley to alley (ouch!), Calbert came to the edge of the parking lot for a McDonald’s Restaurant.
Calbert stared at the sign. It was a simple yellow M, though unusually shaped. Calbert wondered why he saw no “beckoning cat” picture in the middle of the M. Then Calbert realized that in 2017, Shen Wa Holdings had not yet bought out McDonald’s and changed all the signs.
Calbert wondered whether McDonald’s in 2017 offered a choice of beef or dog-meat hamburger patties, or if this was a Shen Wa Holdings innovation later on.
When Calbert finally tore his eyes away from the old McDonald’s sign, he gasped—
Parked at the edge of the parking lot was a delivery truck for “Queen of Angels Uniform Rental—Health Care, Security, Food Service, and Industrial.”
Calbert felt torn—conflicted to the depths of his soul. He was a lawyer, sworn to uphold the law; and he was sure that even in 2017, stealing uniforms out of a truck was against the law. Not to mention, stealing was wrong. Yet he had no money to pay for clothes, and he needed clothes.
Calbert reluctantly decided to break into the uniform-rental delivery truck.
He walked out of the alley, and across McDonald’s parking lot, to the rear of the delivery truck. Please don’t let the overhead door be locked! Please don’t let anyone see me!
But the truck wasn’t locked, and nobody came over to find out who was raising the truck’s noisy overhead door. Seconds later, Calbert was inside the truck. Because L.A. still had daylight, Calbert could see inside the truck.
I can’t believe my luck! Calbert thought. Then he worried that his luck was due to turn bad.
Meanwhile, in Bert’s Value Laundromat
The Inseminator walked over to the big-breasted eighteen-year-old blonde. As he dosed the girl with F-Pheromones, he sniffed deeply to take her scent. He asked her, “Do you have the clothes that fit me?”
“No, I’m so sorry. I, like, just broke up with my boyfriend.”
“Are you Shara Boehner?”
“What? No, my name is Tiffany Miller.” The blonde bit her lip. “Um, my professional name is Haley Humpsalot.”
“Why do you have two names that are very different?”
“I do adult films.” Tiffany wrapped her hair around a finger. “Have you thought of doing porn?” She added casually, “I could introduce you around.”
“I am not familiar with this kind of conversation. Do you want to fuck me?”
“Are you kidding? With those muscles you’ve got, I’d drag you off to my apartment right now if I didn’t have clothes in the dryer.”
“This will not happen. I will not have sex with you.”
“Oh shit, you’re gay, aren’t you?”
“ ‘Gay’? This is an old word meaning ‘homosexual,’ yes? I will not have sex with you because you are not Shara Boehner, and because sex with you will not fulfill my mission.”
“Ohmigod, you’re really telling me no? But I’m the hottest woman here!”
“Goodbye,” the Inseminator said. He walked away.
Behind him, Tiffany’s voice called out, “Are my boobs not big enough?”
The Inseminator next walked up to a brunette in her thirties who was wearing a wedding ring. Her nostrils flared as the Inseminator dosed her with F-Pheromones. His own nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, sniffing her.
He asked her, “Do you have the clothes that will fit me?”
Not suitable, the scent-analyzer in his nose told him.
The brunette licked her lips. “Yes, my husband’s sneakers are in the dryer, and I think they would fit you. He has big … feet also.”
“Bring ssem to me,” the Inseminator commanded.
She hurried away. At the dryer, she hissed in pain. Seconds later, she returned, handing the Inseminator two painfully hot high-top sneakers. The Inseminator was unbothered by the pain as he took the sneakers.
The Inseminator pulled on the hot sneakers. They fit. “You have done well,” he told the brunette.
She started to breathe faster.
The Inseminator said “Goodbye” and walked away, as the married brunette looked disappointed.
The Inseminator did not ask the brunette her name, because she was not blond, not big-breasted, and not young, so she could not be Shara Boehner. Also, the brunette’s scent was not suitable; and so the Inseminator could not fulfill his programming with her. Thus it was a waste of time to talk to her further.
The third woman whom the Inseminator walked up to, was in her twenties. She had no clothes that would fit the Inseminator, and her scent made her not suitable. Also, she was small-breasted; she could not be Shara Boehner.
The Inseminator talked with her for only twelve seconds before he said goodbye and walked away.
The fourth, fifth, and sixth women whom the Inseminator talked to, were the same as the third woman. Meaning, none of those three had any clothing in the washer or dryer that the Inseminator could wear; and each woman had a scent deemed not suitable.
Not to mention, none of the three women even slightly matched Shara Boehner’s description of “age eighteen, natural blond hair, blue eyes, and enormous breasts.”
The Inseminator talked to each of these three women for as short a time as possible.
The seventh woman was in her late thirties, a bottle-redhead, and overweight. She wore an engagement ring and wedding ring on the third finger of her right hand.
“I have some jeans that I think will fit you,” the woman told the Inseminator. “But the washer is in Rinse cycle now. If I pull the jeans out now, they’ll be dripping wet.”
“Do it,” the Inseminator commanded.
The redhead opened the lid on the washing machine, waited for the washing machine to stop, and pulled out a pair of wet jeans. Meanwhile, the Inseminator’s scent-analyzer had been at work; now the scent-analyzer reported Suitable.
“What is your name?” the Inseminator asked the redhead, as he began to release O-Pheromones. Meanwhile, he was pulling on the soaking-wet jeans.
“Jenette Bukater,” she said. After she panted with arousal for several seconds, she said sadly, “Now you’re all dressed. Shoes, socks, boxers, pants, and shirt.”
The Inseminator gifted Jenette with a sexy smile—which made her hard nipples poke out her blouse even farther. “Jenette”—the Inseminator’s Austrian accent pronounced it che-NET—“would you rather that I get undressed? Do you want to fuck me?”
“God, yes! I need to be fucked right now!”
One minute later, Jenette Bukater and the Inseminator, both naked, were fucking on the floor of the laundromat.
As six other women watched.
Tiffany Miller, a.k.a. Harriet Humpsalot, muttered, “With a dick that big and those muscles, it’s sad that he won’t do porn. He’d make a killing.”
Slap-slap-slap-slap. Jenette’s pussy felt full.
Jenette gasped, as her slurpy pussy was deliciously pistoned.
Slap-slap. Jenette’s muscular lover smiled at her. “Chust you wait, baby. I’m going to make you see stars.”
Jenette’s first climax hit only seconds later.
After the Inseminator and Jenette finished fucking, he kissed her on the mouth, then he murmured in her ear.
Right afterward, the Inseminator stood up, pulled on his clothes, and walked over to the laundromat’s door.
Jenette still lay on the floor. The Inseminator looked in Jenette’s eyes and said jauntily, “I’ll be back, baby.” (This despite he not having asked Jenette for her street address, her email address, or her phone number.)
With those words spoken, he walked out of the laundromat. Seven women’s eyes watched him leave, but nobody spoke.
Meanwhile, in the McDonald’s parking lot
Calbert stepped out of the uniform-rental truck and shut the truck’s overhead door (as quietly as he could).
As he did these things, he snorted at his own folly. A few minutes ago, had he really thought I can’t believe my luck? Calbert had worried that his luck was about to turn bad—and boy, did it.
Oh, he had not been caught in the truck stealing clothes—he at least had been spared this disaster. No, his bad luck was that he could not find more than one piece of clothing of any one type that would fit him.
Calbert looked at his reflection in a side window of a nearby car. He was wearing—
• a khaki work shirt with “Dun-Rite Auto Repairs” embroidered over one breast pocket, and “Bob K.” embroidered over the other breast pocket;
• navy-blue security-guard slacks with black-satin stripes covering the ward seams;
• white-leather male-nurse shoes with gum-rubber soles; and
• to keep his head warm, Calbert was wearing a white starched chef’s hat.
Calbert was disgusted. Even if he did find Shara Boehner before the Inseminator did, how could Calbert expect Shara to take him seriously when he looked like a clown?
Another thing bothering him: He, Calbert Reesescup, had stolen. He had broken the law. He felt ashamed.
An hour later, when Jenette Bukater drove away from the laundromat in her car, she drove straight to the drugstore.
Her mysterious lover had given her an order, and it was unthinkable that she disobey him.
At the drugstore, Jenette bought a home pregnancy test—and a can of Aqua Net Hairspray.
When Jenette used the HPT, she discovered she was pregnant—just as her muscular lover had predicted.
Jenette was nervous about becoming a mother again at her age. But she discovered that styling her hair into a bouffant hairdo, then setting her hair in place with several long sprays of Aqua Net, relaxed her.
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