Well, here it finally is, the next story I am posting by Edith Bellamy. And the winner is...
This is a story about two roughnecks who go to a local whorehouse after a hard day's work and make a real mess of the place. When they wake up in the morning... well I don't want to ruin the surprise for you. I'll just let you read it for yourself. Without further ado, I am proud to present to you, Edith Bellamy's Bosom Buddies.
Most people'd say that Rock Springs, Wyoming, where I hail from, ain't nothin' but your run-a'-the-mill coal mining town. Truth is, it's the only American town with a whorehouse whose madam is a genuine witch. The whorehouse is called the Glass Slipper and the witch is the one and only Rosie Blanchard.
The Glass Slipper has serviced our local miners and, later, roughnecks from the oil fields too, for longer'n anybody can remember. Rosie don't let on she's a witch, but she is, and she's more'n three hunnert fifty years old. Where she done came from and how she done ended up in Rock Springs, ain't nobody knows. Rosie, who gets her blonde hair from out of a peroxide bottle, looks maybe thirty when you first lays eyes on her, but if you studies her up close, in bright light (which she tries to stay out of), you can see that her skin is fulla tiny wrinkles, just like a snakeskin wallet. She's got a knock-out body, though and one of them teased-up bee-hive hairdo's 'bout a foot high. You jus' can't hardly b'lieve she's goin' on four hunnert years old. It's enough to make a fella's head spin.
There's old pitchers all over the walls of the Glass Slipper, some of 'em more than a hunnert years old. They shows Rosie with a lotta her customers down through the years. Though the clothes looked diff'rent back then and the hitchin' posts out front is gone, Rosie looks 'zac'ly the same, year in and year out. There's one pitcher, from 'bout 1899, where Rosie's all gussied up in a real short skirt and mesh stockins like one of them Gold Rush Girls. And another'un with Rosie in a flapper's dress, a-wearin' a headband, with one foot on the runnin'board of a '25 Packard. Then there's one where she's a-wearin' one of them big-shouldered dresses like they wore back in the '40's. Rosie's standin' between the mayor and the sheriff. They's all a-holdin' up a great big fake War Bond between 'em and smilin' to beat the band. The pitchers could of been took yesterday—like I said, today Rosie looks 'zac'ly like she did way back then, 'ceptin' her clothes and her hair.
Rosie ain't no highfalutin' city witch neither—to hear her talk, you'd of thought that she might of been a cook on a cattle ranch. Or maybe waited tables at a truck stop… Or be the madam of a Wyoming whorehouse. She don't have no trouble dealin' with the men neither—all kindsa men, from your oil company bigshot in from Houston who's payin' a visit to the Slipper "just outta curiosity," to your scruffy cowpoke who might take a dip in a stock tank out on the range once a month and call it a bath. Don't let Rosie fool you, though, she's smarter'n a whip. Ain't nobody can get one thing over on that old girl.
The Slipper sure ain't new, but it's always clean as a whistle, inside and out. Rosie gets it painted ever' four or five years, reg'lar as clock-work. The funny thing is, nobody never sees hide nor hair of the painters theirselves. And then, 'bout every ten years or so, the whole place gets a re-do (includin' the second floor "guest" rooms). 'Cept for the old pitchers on the walls, ever'thin's all fixed up like new, and jus' like the house paintin', all of its finished overnight and without no sign of a workman or a truck deliverin' the new stuff. Ever'thin' in the rooms is always the very best money can buy. But since our Rosie's a witch, we kinda suspect she don't need no bank account to get what she wants.
Rosie's girls? They's all good-lookers and are they ever hot to trot! They's always nice and clean, real sweet-smellin' and all dolled up just as fine as one of them Hollywood movie stars. They's real good dancers, too, but if you're just after a female to chew the fat with for a while, all the Slipper girls are mighty good listeners. If you're like most fellas, though, and you want a hot fuck, well, Slipper girls got the finest pussy money can buy 'round these parts. Let's put it this way: I ain't never heered a' nobody complainin' when they come back downstairs, that's for sure.
It's the damnest thing, but Rosie ain't got no girls over thirty at the Slipper. Way it happens is that one fine day a couple a' the older ones is gone, and two new young fillies is always right there that evenin' all ready to be saddled up, so the Slipper don't miss a beat. The ole boys ain't figgered out yet 'zac'ly how Rosie works it. Maybe they's got a idear or two, but since they likes 'em as young as they can get 'em, nobody don't say nary a word 'bout the switcheroo. I knows how for sure how she does it, but I ain't sayin' nothin' neither. You is jus' gonna hafta read this here story if'n you wants to find out.
'Course nobody don't really live in them fancy bedrooms on the second floor. They's stric'ly for fuckin'. For sleepin', the girls bunk down two to a room up on the third floor of the Slipper. Don't nobody in town sees hide nor hair of none of them girls when they ain't workin', though. That goes for Rosie, too. So who does the shoppin' and where the supplies comes from is another one of them things don't nobody never talks about.
They ain't no question that Rosie's a honest-to-goodness witch that uses her magic for the good of the Slipper and its customers. 'Course, Rosie don't never let on she's a witch, but we all knows it anyhow. None of us wants to look that gift horse in the mouth, so we don't talk about it none, 'specially not with out-of-towners—or with Rosie herself. Like lightenin', cyclones, earthquakes and other forces a' nature, Rosie's treated with a whole lotta respect 'round these parts. Us boys always makes sure to keep on her good side, so the Slipper ain't hardly never needed no bouncer. Ever'body always uses their company manners at Rosie's or she'll make 'em wish they had.
Until come last Friday, when Claude McCracken and Jake Blodgett blew into town. The Slipper could of used a big ole kick-ass bouncer 'bout then.
Claude and Jake was two of the most good-for-nothin', lowlife sumbitches ever to set foot on the Wyoming oil fields. Bosom buddies ever since they was young 'uns back in the Ozarks, they was little, bitty short fellas, but meaner'n rattlesnakes and tougher'n nails. They was both white boys, but Claude had dark skin and a headful of black, curly hair, while Jake was jus' the opposite—pale-skinned and blonde-headed. Like lotsa short fellas, they was always in bad need of provin' theirselves to be bigger'n they was. They was real quick with their fists, too, and, like lotsa short fellas, they was always braggin' on how good they was at fuckin' women. To hear 'em talk, girls was always just swarmin' all over 'em like flies on cowpies.
So when Claude and Jake showed up in Rock Springs one Friday with two week's pay in their Levis, they was trouble just a'waitin' to happen. And, wouldn't you a'knowed it, they done picked out the Glass Slipper to cause their ruckus in. But it ditn't take them boys long to find out what a stupid move they'd done made.
First off, they done accused Izzy, the barkeep, of waterin' down the drinks, after, mind you, they done chugged down six straight Seagrams VO's apiece and done scarfed up all the hot wings in sight. Not payin', they moseyed over to the dollar slots and blew all their wages in no time flat. So now here they was, broke as can be, fifty miles from their bunkhouse and without no way to get there, 'cause they ditn't even have no bus fare. 'Course, nobody knowed that 'til later on, when it ditn't matter no more, nohow. Anyways, they hung around acting like assholes 'til one of the other fellas offered to buy 'em another coupla drinks just to shut 'em up.
So they drifted back to the bar and ordered up another platter a' hot wings, half a dozen pickled eggs, some pigs' feet and a couple drafts to wash it all down with. Ain't nobody could b'lieve just how much them little fellas could hold! 'Course, pretty soon, they had to get rid a' some of the booze they done took on board. When Jake came back from drainin' his lizard, he bitched in a loud voice that the gents room was "too goddamn clean for real men." Claude started chewin' a plug a' Red Man and spittin' on the floor, even though the Slipper had plenty a' spittoons sittin' 'round. Both boys was mighty free with their hands whenever the waitresses passed by, causin' one of 'em to spill a whole tray of beers on the floor.
Pretty soon Rosie caught sight a' their carryins on, made her way through the crowd at the bar and tapped 'em on the shoulder.
Soon's they turned 'round, she asked,"You fellas new 'round here?" Rosie was a-standin' with her fists on her hips and her head kinda twitchin', the way she always does when she's got her dander up. Her bee-hive hair-do has a habit a' vibratin' when she's pissed off. Which don't happen too frequent. But when it does, watch out!
The two stared at her real hateful-like but ditn't say nothin'. Then Jake sneered, turned to the side, and spat a big gob on the floor again. It hit with a splat.
"That your answer?" Rosie said, watchin' the tobacca juice hit the floor and smilin' sweet as can be, like she was a-teachin' a Sunday school class. You could of heered a pin drop in the Slipper 'bout then.
"Right, lady. That's our answer," Jake replied.
Rosie looked them two boys up and down and said to Claude, real calm-like,"Looks like you and your sidekick here needs to l'arn you some manners." Us ole boys could tell by the way she said it that she was madder'n a wet hen, but Rosie was one old girl who knew how to keep her cool. "Seein' as you're new here in town," she continued, "I'm a'gonna cut you some slack this one time. Jus' don't even think 'bout spittin' on none a' my floors again, or you'll live to regret it."
Rosie always gives new fellas the benefit a' the doubt the first go-round. Who knows? Maybe these pissants would straighten up and become reg'lar customers. But right away Claude shot another big gob a' Red Man juice at Rosie's feet, jus' missin' her by a couple inches. Without nary a word, Rosie turned on her heel and walked straight outta the bar, givin' Izzy a special wink.
Our Rosie's a peace-lovin' woman. She'll avoid any kind a' commotion whenever she can, but when she finally decides to deal with a situation, you better git outta her way less'n you're dumber'n a fence post. I knew, even though the other ole boys ditn't have no clue, jus' what Rosie had in store for these here pissants.
Claude and Jake laughed at their little "victory," drained their beers and called for a couple more VO's, which turned out to be their last drink of the evening. After jus' a couple swallows, their eyes rolled back up in their heads like they was doll-eyes, and if it hadn't of been so crowded, they'd of hit the deck like a pair a' sash weights. But they just slumped to the floor kinda gradual-like, out for the count. Ole Izzy's pretty slick with a Mickey.
Soon's their heads hit the floor, Izzy came out from behind the bar, a'wipin' his hands on the big white apron what always covers his belly. "How's 'bout some of youze guys lendin' a hand with dese here creeps," he croaked in his raspy voice that sounds like coal goin' through a crushin' mill. "We gotta get 'em upstairs and let 'em sleep it off. I t'ink Rosie's gonna make 'em woik off dere bar tab tomorra, so we gotta keep 'em here. Dey owe da house eighty bucks each."
Izzy's from Brooklyn, case you can't tell. His pappy ran a tailor shop back there, but Izzy ditn't want no part a' that business. So he bought a Greyhound ticket to Rock Springs—by mistake. He really wanted to go to Palm Springs, but it was nine dollars less to Rock Springs, and he thought one Springs was just as good as another, so he's been here in Rock Springs ever' since 1958. I don't think Izzy knows the diff'rence. Or if he does, he don't care none nohow.
Zeke 'n' I grabbed Claude, 'n' Izzy 'n' Lawton grabbed Jake, slingin' 'em like sacks a' grain by their hands 'n' feet. We had to lug 'em all the way up to the third floor. 'Course, it weren't hardly no chore, since they couldn't of weighed more'n a hunnert thirty pounds apiece drippin' wet. The door to only one of the rooms was standin' open. Izzy made with his head that this was the place. It was just a plain bedroom with a couple twin beds, two chests a' drawers, a mirror, a closet and a little bathroom with a commode, a sink and a shower—there weren't no room for no tub. There was pink flowery curtains on the winder with a frin ge a' little pink balls, and a old yaller windershade. We dumped Claude and his buddy onto each of them beds after we pulled off their work boots—not to do them pissants a favor, but to keep the bedcovers from getting dirt all over 'em.
After we got outta there, Izzy double-locked the door and dropped the key in his apron pocket. "I bet doze joiks'll have a rea; diff'rent take on t'ings in da mornin'," he said, brushin' off his hands at a job well-done.
We all went back down to the bar, had a few more shooters, then went off with the girls we'd done picked out and clean forgot all about them two assholes snorin' upstairs.
'Course Rosie ditn't forget. She had some real big surprises in store for them two come mornin'.
It weren't 'til well after ten that Claude and Jake done woke up, when bright October sunlight was a-streamin' into the room, 'nough to give any fella with a hangover a real bad headache. I had done left the windershade up a'purpose so's them boys wouldn't have no trouble seein' what they was a'dealin' with once they woke up and came to their senses.
Jake done woke up first and sat up in bed, a'scratchin' his stubble. He had that sinkin' feelin' you git when you knows somethin's bad wrong but you ain't quite figgered it out yet. In less'n a minute, he done figgered it out, all right—somethin' heavy was a'tuggin' at his chest! Still half asleep, he looked down to see what it was. His cowboy shirt was pokin' out in front. A lot. The top two snaps had done popped open durin' the night, showin'... showin' what you see in the middle of them girlie magazines like "Hustler" or "Playboy." His hands jerked up and felt a pair a' full boobs a'strainin' tight against the cotton cloth of his shirt, makin' narrow little ovals a' skin between the snaps that hadn't done popped open yet. When Jake came up with them two handfuls a' tits, he near 'bout passed out right on the spot!
"Sheee-it!" he said, but not too loud, 'cause he ditn't wanta wake up Claude—not yet nohow. First off he wanted to have a good look at hisself in a mirror. Claude was still a'snorin' away, his face to the wall, as Jake got outta bed quiet as a mouse and tippy-toed into the bathroom, his heart poundin' like a triphammer. The mirror over the sink weren't real big, but it was sure big 'nough to see all what needed seein'.
Jake stared at his bulgin' cowboy shirt with his eyes practic'ly poppin' outta his head. He reached down with shaky fingers—watchin' in the mirror the whole time—and tried to ease open the snap that was under the mostest strain—the third one down, since the top two had already done popped. The snap gave with a noise like a squirrel gun and the front of his shirt busted open. Out came a pair a' extra-large tits with big, dark red nipples size a' beer coasters. They jiggled a couple times a'fore settlin' down. Even though they was big, they wasn't saggy or nothin' like that. Nope, these was some of the best-lookin' jugs Jake had done ever laid eyes on. They was real fine—if only they'd of been on a purty girl 'stead of on some stinkin', scrawny roughneck like him.
Jake almost choked to see 'em. Right away he reached down to feel hisself in his Most Important Place: all his stuff was there, thank God! He was still a fella, all right, but a fella with… tits! Big ones! He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Claude weren't awake, 'cause he ditn't want his buddy to see him in this humiliatin' fix. He heered Claude's reassurin' snore, so he took a couple minutes to check out his new equipment.
They really was a jim-dandy pair a' knockers! They was a-strainin' against their pale skin like a coupla ripe pears just burstin' with juice. The skin on 'em was softer'n a baby's bottom, and they was terrible sensitive, too. Jake could make out lotsa fine blue veins just under the surface. The least little touch on the nipples made 'em tingle and harden up like ripe Bing cherries, which they had the color of.
Jake stole back into the bedroom, his jugs a-jigglin' with each step, to have a look at his pal. He wanted to see if the same thing had done happened to him. You know how misery loves company: if a fella's gonna be hanged, it makes him feel a whole lot better to know another fella's gonna be hanged 'long with him. No sooner'n Jake came back into the bedroom, Claude gave a loud snore and rolled over, so that his back was to the wall, givin' Jake a eyeful of his chest. Jake saw that Claude's cowboy shirt was pokin' way out in front, too, the top snaps all popped open—meanin' his pal was carryin' some tolerable heavy extra baggage of his own.
"Sure 'nough!" Jake said to hisself, "Claude done also grew a pair a' knockers! I ain't alone!" Feelin' a bit better, Jake quietly stepped back into the bathroom and closed the door. He took a leak whiles he looked down at his own big tits like he was some kind a' side-show freak.
Then he tried to snap up his shirt. It weren't easy—he had to let out his breath all the way and tug on the cloth, but he finally managed to close all the snaps. But it only made things worse: from the waist up he looked like some big-busted pinup girl dressed like a cowboy, 'ceptin' his face, a' course. His shirt was so tight he couldn't hardly lift his arms, and he could see the teeny-weeny bumps on his nipples through the cloth. "May as well go bare," he thought. "Leastways I'd be able to move." He tore off his shirt and tossed it in the corner.
Holdin' his jugs to keep 'em from jouncin', he sneaked back into the bedroom, slipped into his bed, pulled up the covers and waited to see what would happen when Claude finally woke up. He turned his face to the wall, so's Claude couldn't see his tits, and pretended to be asleep.
Jake ditn't have to wait long for his buddy to wake up. With one loud snore, Claude sat up in bed and began rubbin' his eyes with his fists. He was still too sleepy to notice a shift in his balance 'cause of the considerable extra weight he was carryin' on his chest.
"Jesus H. Christ!" he muttered, "What a fuckin' headache!" He looked 'round the room to get his bearings, and saw his buddy on the other bed, face to the wall. Claude yawned, commenced to scratch hisself here and there and then stretched like a cat, throwin' his arms straight in front of him. That's when he noticed his boobs. Jake could tell 'cause he heered kind a' horrible chokin' gurgle comin' from Claude's direction.
Just when Claude looked down at the front a' his cowboy shirt, the key snap—the one that was a-holdin' ever'thing in—suddenly gave, lettin' his boobs pop out, like when you break open one of them cardboard tubes of raw dinner rolls, and the dough pops out through the opening. His boobs bobbled and bounced as they fell inta position, then kept jigglin' with each breath. They had soft, puffy, rose-colored nipples like itty-bitty cones. Claude brought his hands up and cupped hisself. Yep! They was real tits, all right! And sensitive as hell! Claude grabbed for his jewels, just like Jake did. He was powerful happy to find they was still there. "Lord a-mercy!" he thought, "Leastways I'm still a fella where it counts!"
Claude looked around for a mirror. There was a full-length one between the two chests a' drawers, on the wall opposite the window. He stood and approached it, his jugs a-swingin' like crazy, since he ditn't know the right way hold hisself, or how to walk proper, to keep 'em from bouncin' around. But he stopped midway. "No, better go into the bathroom," he thought, "I don't want Jake to wake up and see these here tits on me!"
Once in the bathroom, Claude, like Jake, wanted to snap up his cowboy shirt. But he couldn't: his tits was just too goldurned big. He tore his shirt tryin', so he ripped it off and threw it on the floor in disgust. That's when he noticed Jake's shirt a-lyin' there. A little light went on in his head, and he wanted to get right back to the bedroom to check out his pal.
So he took a leak, flushed and came out of the bathroom naked from the waist up, his white boobs a- jigglin' in the sunlight comin' in through the window. He grabbed 'em to keep 'em still and tippy-toed over to Jake to see if his buddy shared the same fate. But Jake was still turned towards the wall. So Claude climbed into his own bed and pulled the sheets up around hisself, determined to wait 'til Jake woke up.
Can't you just see these two busty roughnecks, each pretendin' to be asleep, neither one wantin' to be the first to let the other see his new equipment? But there wasn't no way this farce could last. Jake was the first to give in. He sat up in bed, a-clutchin' the sheets to his tits, just like a girl. "You awake, Claude?" he whispered, knowin' very well that the other was just pretendin' to sleep.
Claude made believe he was wakin' up for the first time. He slowly sat up in bed, desp'rately a-clutchin' the sheets to his tits like Jake was doin'.
The two turned to face each other.
"You OK, Claude?" Jake asked. "You look like somethin' the cat done dragged in."
"Got one hell of a hangover. How 'bout you?"
"Me, too," Jake replied.
"You gonna get up?"
"Yeah. I guess. You gonna get up?"
"Yeah. I guess. Pretty soon."
They remained silent for a minute or two, clutchin' their sheets like a coupla blushin' girls, and lookin' uneasily at one another, each hopin' the other would show hisself first.
"Hey, Claude. Why you holdin' them sheets up that way?" Jake suddenly blurted out.
"It's chilly in here, that's why. Why you holdin' your sheets up?"
"Same reason. It's chilly in here," Jake replied.
Another long silence. This time Claude broke it.
"Look, Jake. Somethin' funny happened to me last night," he said.
"Yeah? Well, somethin' funny happened to me, too."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"I think it's the same funny thing that happened to you."
"Oh," replied Claude, like he couldn't be less innerested in funny things happenin'. 'Course, he was secretly glad to learn that the same funny thing that done happened to him done happened to Jake, too.
"Look, Claude, we can't sit here all day holdin' up these dang bedsheets," Jake said, after a long pause.
"I know it."
"Then hows about we count to three and drop 'em, and stop fartin' around. OK?" Jake proposed.
"OK. It's a deal."
"Ready? One, two..... three!"
Both dropped their bedsheets.
"Jake! You got tits!" said Claude.
"So do you, Claude. Yours are bigger'n mine!"
"Yeah," Claude responded, "Mine are bigger, but your nipples is better. My nipples is all soft and puffy."
"Your tits jiggle when you move," Jake said, pointin' at Claude.
"No more'n yours do."
"Can't help it. They's like bags fulla jelly!" Jake said indignantly. "They's all over the place ever' time I move!"
"These'd be great, if only they was on a couple of girls," said Claude.
"Well, they ain't. They's on us. So what're we gonna do? No tellin' what else could happen to us in this joint!" said Jake, imaginin' the worst. "We're lucky we ain't actual girls already, for Chrissake!"
"We gotta get outta here right now, before we are!" said Claude. He went for the door and tried it. "Locked from the outside! We's trapped!"
"So, what if it wasn't locked?" asked Jake. "We can't go nowhere lookin' like this! We each got a big problem. Actually, we each got a coupla big problems."
"You got that right," Claude agreed. "Ain't no way we can hide tits like these, 'specially mine: they's humongous! We couldn't set one foot in the bunkhouse to get our stuff! We'd be dogmeat in two seconds flat. We're gonna hafta figger somethin' out, all right."
"Hate to say it, Pardner, but before we try to figger anythin' out, we need to get us some bras. These here tits bouncin' around is drivin' me nuts. Besides, they's goddamn heavy," he bitched, heftin' 'em like they wasn't even his. "There here tits must weigh ten pound apiece! I guess this is what girls hafta put up with all the time."¨
"Yeah. It amost makes a fella feel sorry for 'em. But where we gonna get bras?"
"How 'bout them dressers over against the wall? This here's a whorehouse, ain't it? They's prob'ly chock full a' girl stuff."
The pair approached one of the dressers, their jugs swingin' free, pale white against their tan chests. Claude yanked open all the drawers. They was filled with women's duds: all sorts a' lingeray and pantyhose in the top drawer, blouses, sweaters, jeans, shorts, scarves and all sorts a' other girl things neatly folded, in the other drawers. Jake pulled open the drawers on his dresser and found a identical assortment a' girl things.
Claude pulled out a bra—a lavender push-up one in stretch lace. He dangled it in disgust, like it was a dead catfish. "Hell!" he said, "This thing's too goddamn small for me. What's this here label say? …36-C." He pulled out another. It was the same size. Of the dozen or so bras in the drawer, they was all 36-C's.
Jake was goin' through the same thing at his dresser. He pulled out a lacy model and held it up by one strap. "Too goddamn big," he muttered. He looked at the label. It said 36-D.
"Let's switch dressers," says Claude. "36-D is bigger'n 36-C, ain't it? I'll bet the one you're you're holdin'll fit me jus' fine."
"And that thing you're holdin' up looks jus' right for me. I could do without all that there lace, though."
They switched dressers and rummaged through the bras, each selectin' the plainest one he could find, which weren't easy, since mosta them was fulla lace and satin and other fancy stuff that girls like next to their boobs. They was real careful to keep their hands offa the panties and other lingeray things, like they could of caught some bad disease jus' from touchin' 'em. Anyhows, each ended up with a seamless underwire bra in somethin' called "white microfiber." Jake's was one of them "demi-cup" ones, but Claude chose a "full-coverage" bra, which was smart, seein' as how big he was.
"Christ! These here things look like some kinda animal snares. How're we supposta get into 'em, anyways?" Jake asked, lookin' at all the straps, little buckles, hooks and eyes like they was some kinda Chinese puzzle.
"Um. I'll help you, then you help me. OK?"
"OK," Jake responded. "I'll go first." He put his arms through the shoulder straps. Then, just like a woman, he leaned forward to catch his tits in the cups and straightened up, holdin' the ends of the bands behind him. He turned his back towards Claude, who fastened the bra for him. Then Claude went through the same thing (only he pinched his breasts in the underwires the first time), and Jake fastened his bra for him.
Now all snug in their bras, the men found movin' about to be a whole lot more comfortable. But they needed new shirts. So the two looked through the closet and found a couple cowgirl shirts in exac'ly their sizes, with darts sewn in all the right places, and put 'em on. The shirts fit 'em the way cowgirl shirts usually fits, that is, instead a' hidin' their tits, the shirts showed 'em off real good.
"Sheee-it! Might as well just walk around with no tops at all," complained Claude, lookin' at hisself in the mirror.
"Yep. We still got a big problem," said Jake. "Let's face it: we's both real stacked, 'specially you!"
"What're we gonna do?" Claude whined, beginnin' to sound scared.
"I dunno, but we'll think of somethin'."
The men ditn't get no chance to think of nothin', because right then they heered a key turn in the door. Claude and Jake folded their arms real quick high up on their chests, to cover their boobs best they could, then faced the door to see what was comin' through it.
The door of the room slowly creaked opened to admit… none other than our own Miss Rosie Blanchard, who sashayed in lookin' fresh as a daisy. She had with her Babs and Jan, the Slipper's two senior whores—big girls—who was both smilin' like the cat that swallowed the canary. Each girl was carryin' a breakfast tray with covered dishes. Rosie held a large thermos of coffee.
"Mornin', boys," Rosie said, goin' over to a dresser and settin' down the thermos. "You both slept good, I reckon?"
Sensin' that here was the woman who somehow done gave 'em their boobs, neither man spat on the floor this time. If this woman could give 'em spectacular bustlines, well, then, there was no tellin' what else she could give 'em (or take away), and they ditn't partic'ly want to find out, neither. So goin' along with whatever Rosie wanted seemed like a good plan.
"Yes'm," Claude meekly answered, hunchin' his shoulders and bendin' forward tryin' to hide his boobs. Which was like tryin' to hide a couple melons under a hankie.
"Yes'm," said Jake, who was standin' the same way. "We both slept just dandy. Thanks a bunch for askin'."
"Tickled to hear it, boys," Rosie continued. "Figgered you two might be pretty hungry by now. Y'all ain't et nothin' but some hot wings last night in the bar. Plus a few pickled eggs and some pigs' feet, I heered. Not hardly enough for real men like you. Babs, Jan, give'm each a tray. You got grits and gravy, scrambled eggs, ham, bacon, sausage, toast and flapjacks. Coffee's over there on the dresser."
The girls shoved a tray towards each man. To accept 'em each would hafta show his boobs, a' course. The men by now was awful hungry, and, besides, even with their arms folded high up on their chests, it was clear as day even to a chile that they was… well, that they was stacked, puttin' it mildly. In other words, they basically had nothin' to lose by takin' them breakfast trays.
Red-faced, they took 'em, revealin' their stoo-pendous bustlines.
Rosie opened her eyes wide in fake surprise. "Well, heavens to Betsy! Get a load of the knockers on these two fellas! I've heered of 'bosom buddies' before, but this here takes the cake!" she declared.
Babs and Jan covered their mouths with their hands and tee-hee'd.
"Listen up, boys," Rosie commanded, "Go and put them trays down on your beds and c'mon back over here. We wanna get a closer look at them there tits a' yours. Your breakfast can wait a couple minutes."
Claude and Jake put their trays on their beds and hauled theirselves up in front of the three women like it was some kinda military inspection.
"Don't slouch!" Rosie said, pokin'' Jake in the ribs. "Stand up straight! Shoulders back! Suck in them tummies… I mean, stomachs!"
The men did what Rosie told 'em to, makin' their tits strain even tighter against their cowgirl shirts.
"Lookin' good, boys!" Rosie said. "Lookin' real good! Now take off them cowgirl shirts! We wanna see what you really got."
The men ditn't have no choice. They looked at one another real sick-like, then removed their cowgirl shirts, which Babs took from 'em. They stood at attention again, wearin' nothin' but their Levis and bras.
"I see you done already helped yourselves to the lingeray," Rosie observed. "Good thinkin', boys. You can't go around without no support when you got tits like yours—you'll droop and get stretch marks. But I can't hardly agree with your choices. Somethin' lacy would've looked better on you," she said, pointin' at Claude with her finger, "And as for you," she continued, tappin' Jake right between his tits with a long red fingernail, "Your cleavage'd look a whole lot nicer in a push-up. But don't fret none—you'll catch on right quick about what you look your best in. Now off with them bras, both of you!"
"Do we have to?" whined Claude.
"Take 'em off, boys, or in ten seconds you'll be modelin' panties for us right here in this room—and you'll be built for 'em, too. So if you're hankerin' to be a coupla busty panty models, just leave them bras on," Rosie said bluntly. "Ain't no skin off my back. I'll even make sure your panties match your bras."
The idear of bein' turned into girls on the spot—into panty models, no less—did the trick. Rosie could of carried out her threat in two shakes, and Claude and Jake knew it. They was suddenly more'n ready to take off their bras. "Babs, Jan, give 'em a hand," Rosie said. "They can't reach behind theirselves and undo them little hooks and eyes. Remember, they's still just fellas. Leastways for now."
The girls stepped behind the men, who was quakin' in fear, and undid their clasps for 'em. Claude and Jake shrugged off their shoulder straps and slipped out of their bras, lettin' their breasts hang free, all soft and white. They handed their bras to the girls. By now the men was red-faced and sweatin'.
"Now that's what I call some real tits! You fellas oughta be right proud of 'em!" Rosie said, fingerin' the men's boobs like a slave trader, pokin' 'em, liftin' 'em up and feelin' their texture. Rosie was enjoyin' herself. She decided to rub it in even more. "Now, shoulders back again, boys! Hands up to your tits! Go ahead, grab 'em. Squeeze 'em. Feel how heavy they are. Tickle your nipples. Don't be shy. That's right," she said, as the men did like they was told. "Remember, they's yours, so's you can feel yourse'f's up any ole time you want."
After a minute Rosie said, "OK, that'll do. Now how's about you have some breakfast?" The men, glad that inspection was over, relaxed and stretched out their hands to the girls so's they could get their bras back and put 'em on again. Babs and Jan was about to return 'em, when Rosie held up her hand like a traffic cop.
"Nothin' doin'," she said. "They's gonna have their first topless breakfast. It'll be a great learnin' experience for 'em."
Eatin' breakfast off a tray whiles sittin' sideways on a bed ain't easy for a braless girl with big tits, 'cause when she bends over to fork in a mouthful, they's always gettin' in her way. It weren't no diff'rent for these two, 'specially Claude, who was as busty as busty can be, as I already done told you more'n once. They ate without sayin' nary a word, whiles the three women watched, whisperin' behind their hands and laughin' every time the men's boobs got in the way.
When they was done, Babs and Jan took their trays and carried 'em out into the hallway. By the time they came back, Rosie had the men standin' before her again with their tits stuck way out, like girls in a bathin' suit contest. Only they ditn't have no bathin' suits on.
"OK, boys," she began, "You can relax. The girls and I done had our fun for the day. It's been worth the eighty bucks you ran up at the bar, so's you can go now. Them bras and cowgirl shirts are on the house. It's been real nice knowin' you. Come back and visit sometime and tell us how you make out in the oil patch with them tits of yourn."
The men looked at each other, then at Rosie. Neither one made to leave.
"What's the matter?" Rosie asked. "You don't wanna go? Well, you can't stay here. The Slipper don't need no fellas with big tits. So go on! Git!"
"Give us a break, lady! We can't go outside like this! Change us back," pleaded Jake. "Get rid of these here tits, then we'll go."
"Sorry, fellas. No can do. Them tits is yours to keep. Think of 'em kinda like free samples. Only way to get rid of 'em is to have 'em cut off, and that'd be a damn shame, 'cause they's some of the best tits I've ever done gave to any fellas—anywheres and anytime."
"You mean, you done this to other fellas, too?" Claude asked.
"You bet. Lotsa times. How d'you think the Slipper gets its girls?"
"Whaddya mean?" Claude asked, his voice gettin' panicky.
"Listen, Claude. That's your name, ain't it?" Claude nodded. "It's like this. Ever' once in a while, we get some real pissants in here, just like you two last night. Funny thing, but they always wakes up with big tits the next mornin', jus' like you done, and then I make 'em a offer."
"What kinda offer?" Jake asked, his voice quaverin' like a bad cassette tape.
"In case you ain't figgered it out yet, I'm a witch, OK? I can do lotsa things, but there's limits. It ain't no big deal to give a fella tits, but I can't take 'em away just like that." Rosie snapped her fingers. "It's against all the rules. The witch manual says I gotta change a fella 100% in one direction a'fore I can change him back, see? And tits rate only 20%, so you two got a whole lot further to go a'fore you can be changed back into titless fellas. But if you let me do the whole nine yards on you, then you'd have a chance to get rid of 'em. That's what the offer's about."
"What's 'the whole nine yards'?" Jake asked. "Does that mean you's gonna turn us into girls?"
"Bingo!" cried Rosie. "You're not as dumb as I thought!"
"You gotta be out of your head, lady! Ain't no way you's turnin' me and my pal here into no girls!" protested Claude.
"Whoa, Claude, don't get your panties—Oops! Beg pardon, I mean your shorts—all in a knot! Nobody's forcin' you to be girls, mind you. It's your say-so: I'll turn you into girls only if and when you agrees to my deal. Otherwise, you's free to leave right now, no questions asked. But you gotta keep them tits. Think about it."
Claude was about to protest again when Jake cut in, "Look, Claude. Ain't no way we can keep these here tits and still be real fellas. Let's face it: we's freaks. Our lives is ruined if we stay this way. So let's hear her deal."
"OK, I'll listen, but I ain't necessarily buyin'," Claude said glumly.
"Glad you wanna be reasonable," Rosie said. "Give 'em back their bras, girls. They need all the support they can get right now. Help 'em put 'em back on. Now, you boys sit right down over there and I'll explain the deal." The men struggled into their bras again, assisted by the two prostitutes.
Claude and Jake sat back down on one of the beds, wearin' just their Levis and bras, while Rosie sat opposite 'em on the other bed. Babs and Jan remained standin'. The two prostitutes was now smilin' even more'n before, like they'd just won the state lottery. Jan nudged Babs and whispered somethin' in her ear, but the others couldn't hear it.
"Here's how it works," Rosie began. "If you agree to the deal, I turn you into girls and you start workin' tonight, right here at the Slipper. You get free room 'n' board, free clothing, makeup, hair stylin' and manicures. And free maternity care, if you're dumb enough get yourse'f's pregnant. How long you stay girls depends on your ages. You looks about twenny-five, so you'd hafta stay girls for five years, 'cause I don't want no girls over thirty workin' here at the Slipper. So, after five years, I'd change you back into fellas again, just as soon as I found your replacements." Here Rosie glanced meaningfully at Babs and Jan. "Plus, you can keep half what you earn on your backs. And if you wanna stay girls, that's up to you—it's less work for me. It ain't a bad deal, when you look at all the angles. Bein' fellas with tits like yours ain't hardly no choice at all," Rosie concluded, lookin' expectantly at the two men.
"We're both twenny-seven," Jake said slowly, considerin' the offer. "So we'd have to be girls for only three years, right?"
"Right. You're a reg'lar mathematical genius. But they's more. You don't hafta like bein' girls, but you hafta be good in bed. Real good. If I get complaints 'bout you from the customers and you don't shape up, you're outta here on your pretty little butts and you're girls forever. Another thing: you ever tell anyone 'bout how I run things 'round here—same result: you're outta here on your pretty little butts and you're girls forever. And if I change you back and then you blab, I'll know it. I'll find you wherever you is and change you right back into girls, so you'll be wearin' bras and panties for the rest of your lives without no chance for a re-prieve. Got it? So, what's it gonna be, boys?"
"The way you put it, lady, speakin' strictly for myse'f here, I just might take bein' a girl for a while over stayin' this way for life," Jake said. "But supposin' we do agree to this here deal? We don't know nothin' 'bout bein' girls. We can't walk like 'em, talk like 'em or do nothin' like 'em, much less work as whores. And we'd make pretty ugly girls, anyway. We'd be real bad for your business."
"Ain't no problem a-tall. When I get through with you, Jake, you'll be a knock-out strawberry blonde, nice and petite, but built like a Playboy centerfold girl. And Claude here would be the cutest brunette with all them curls—and them Dolly Parton tits. Just look at Babs and Jan here. They was 'bosom buddies' once, too: fellas with big tits like you. Right in this here room. And as for not knowin' nothin' 'bout how to walk like a girl or talk like a girl, and do all them other girl-things you's worried 'bout, if I turn you into a girl, Jake, you're gonna not only know how to walk and talk like one, but you'll automatically know how to fold laundry, iron clothes, wash out your undies, sew on buttons and knit. You'll scream whenever you sees a mouse or a spider. You'll be bitchy a few days each month 'round 'bout when you get your period. And you'll automatically know how to hike up your dress, pull down your panties, lay on your back and spread your legs, just like a reg'lar girl. When you's a girl, fuckin's the most natcheral thing in the world, and it's all part of the deal. If you don't believe me, ask Babs or Jan."
Jake and Claude looked towards the two statuesque whores.
"Rosie's right," said Babs. "Eight years ago, Jan and me was a coupla hell-raisin' cowpokes from Cheyenne. We was twenny-two years old and the world owed us a livin'. We came down here to the Slipper one payday, got drunk and busted up the joint real good. Woke up with tits the next mornin', big'uns, just like you fellas got. We done took Rosie's offer. Ditn't have no choice: can't be no range cowboy with tits. Now, I ain't always enjoyed bein' a girl, mind you, but most of the time it ain't all that bad, the food here's pretty good and we done socked away 'bout twenny grand each. I ain't had no partic'lar trouble with girl-things, 'cept I got knocked up last year and had to go down to Laramie and get me an abortion. As for fuckin', most a' the time it's real fine, and other times when you's jus' plum tuckered out and you's on your back for the tenth time that night with a fella pumpin' away in you and a-suckin' at your nipples, and you got to pretend like you's goin' wild with lust… Well, to tell the truth, you'd rather be doin' your nails or readin' a romance novel. Anyways, we's turnin' thirty in a couple days and our time here is up. So you two is jus' what the doctor ordered."
"Yeah," agreed Jan. "Like Babs said, it really ain't that tough bein' a girl a lot a' the time. You kinda get used to it after a few months. Even havin' periods, which can be pretty scary at first. And when you's a girl, you kinda like gettin' all dolled up in silky lingeray and dresses and garter belts and stockin's and such-like, doin' up your hair real fine, usin' makeup an' takin' long baths. 'Course, we can't tell no jokes no more 'cause we always forgets the punchline. But when you's a girl, Rosie's right: bein' on your back and gettin' fucked by a fella comes real natcheral. It feels powerfull good—take my word for it. But now we's tired of all that after eight years. We hopes you take Rosie's deal so's we can get changed back into fellas and get outta here—no offence, Rosie. And Rosie's on the level—she means what she says and sticks to a bargain. So please, you fellas, tell her you'll agree to her deal and let her turn you into girls so's we can be fellas again. Give us a break!"
The two men now began to consider Rosie's offer seriously. They hefted their tits a few more times, then stood, went over to the mirror and looked at theirselves full-on and in profile. They hefted their tits again. They held a whispered conference together. Finally, Claude turned to Rosie and said, "Me 'n' Jake'll think it over for a day or two. Bring us a TV and three squares a day. We'll letcha know by Tuesday mornin'."
"No dice," Rosie replied. "This here's a one-time only offer. Take it or leave it. You got five minutes. Otherwise, the deal's off. If you don't wanna take it, you're free to go right this minute, like I said before. It's up to you. This is your last chance, boys. Be fellas with big tits forever, or be girls for three years. It's a real gen'r'us offer. Like I asked before, what's it gonna be?"
"Please say yes!" cried Babs and Jan in unison, claspin' their hands and practically jumpin' up and down (Jan actually wet her panties a little, she was so excited.) "Pretty please! Jus' say yes! We don't wanna be no girls no more!"
"Whaddya think, Claude? Ain't no way we can work in the oil patch with tits like these."
"And be whores for three years? I sure as shootin' don't want no fellas fuckin' me." Claude replied, feelin' his tits again and lookin' over at Babs and Jan. It was hard for him to believe such knock-out girls had ever been fellas. But then, it was just as hard to believe that he done got hisself a set of Dolly Parton knockers, either.
"You boys got three minutes. Better hurry up," Rosie warned.
"I say we take the deal, Claude," Jake argued. "With tits like these, we's all washed up as real fellas. But if we agrees to be girls for jus' three years, at least we got a chance of gettin' turned back into real fellas again. Plus, it sounds like the pay's pretty good. Better'n what we can git in the oil patch, and the work's nowhere near as hard—all you hafta do is lie on your back with your legs spread apart, and go "Ooo! Ooo! Ooo!" at the right time. Try to look at the positive side, Claude: at least we'd be knock-out girls, like Babs 'n' Jan here, not some ugly ole wallflowers. Babs 'n' Jan say they was range cowbows and just look what gorgeous girls they is."
"Two minutes!" Rosie called out.
"You sayin' you wanta be a broad, Jake? A gash? A cunt? You wanta get fucked by cowpokes ten times a night for three years? You goin' crazy on me?" Claude asked.
"Nope. I ain't crazy. Jus' bein' practical," said Jake, who was a'gettin' real curious about jus' what it might feel like bein' a girl. He was lookin' at Babs and Jan, who ditn't appear none too unhappy even though they said they wanted to be fellas again. Jake sure liked the feel of his microfiber bra on his tits, and was busy a-thinkin' jus' how nice a pair a' silk panties'd feel on him if he was a girl and could actually wear 'em. The idear a' bein' a knock-out, petite strawberry blonde was startin' to excite him, and his nipples had got all hard and tingly. He was almos' ready to say "yes" to Rosie's offer.
But Claude still wasn't buyin'. "We could find us a plastic surgeon somewheres, and have these goddamn tits cut off," he grumbled.
"Yeah, right. Great Idea," Jake replied. "It'd take us more'n three years to come up with the scratch to pay a plastic surgeon to lop off our tits, and then we'd have these scars all over our chests. We'd just be a diff'rent kind of freaks, that's all. But if we take this here lady's deal, we'd be girls for only three years. And we might even like bein' girls, Claude. Babs and Jan done jus' now told us it ain't all that bad mosta the time. And the food here's pretty good, judgin' by that breakfast."
Claude shook his head."We'd be whores, Jake, whores. I don't wanna be no goddamn whore!" he said.
"And I don't wanna be no fella that got to wear a bra for the rest of his life, neither! I say let's go for it." Jake was now practically pleadin' with Claude. "For all you knows, when you's a girl, you might kinda like bein' fucked ten times a night."
"One minute left!" Rosie was lookin' at her watch now, ready to count off the seconds.
"No way no fella ain't never gonna fuck me!" hollered Claude.
"C'mon Claude," said Jake. "You're nuts! Go into any bar 'round here with tits like yours and you's roadkill. I'm takin' her deal, even if you ain't!"
"You go ahead and get yourse'f turned into a cunt if that's what you want, but not me! Not for one cotton-pickin' minute!"
Jake had done made his decision. Drawin' hisself up to his full five feet and four inches, he turned to Rosie and said, "OK, lady. I'm takin' your deal. I'm willin' to be a whore for three years."
"Good call, Jake, you're on for a girl in jus' a couple a' minutes. But what about your bosom buddy here? He know what he's doin'?" asked Rosie. "He got only twenny-five seconds left."
Claude looked down at his Dolly Parton boobs and hefted 'em one last time. It was true: he'd be a freak as a fella, but he could be one helluva cunt, if this witch was tellin' the truth. The others was right: bein' a whore with big tits for three years was a better deal than bein' a fella with big tits for sixty. But he couldn't bring hisself to say he'd take Rosie's offer. He couldn't condemn his own manhood for three years—from his own mouth!
"Ten seconds! Nine! Eight....."
Claude finally gave in. Jake saw it in his eyes. At the same time, he knew that Claude couldn't say the words sentencin' him to three years of bein' a woman—and a whore.
"Look, lady, I know he wants to say yes," Jake cried, "But he can't! Let him jus' nod his head, OK?"
"That'll do. But he better nod his head 'yes' in the next two seconds, otherwise he's a 36-D forever..."
Eyes overflowin' with hot tears of humiliation, Claude McCracken nodded assent to Rosie Blanchard's proposal, his heavy boobs jouncing in his full-coverage bra as he did so. Babs and Jan started a-jumpin' up and down and a-huggin' each other like high school girls do when their football team makes a touchdown.
"Welcome to the Glass Slipper, girls!" Rosie said. "I jus' knowed you'd make the right choice!"
* * * * * *
That night two clean-shaved cowpokes named Bob and John was seen out on Interstate 80 hitchin' a ride toward Cheyenne. And that same night two young, fresh-faced girls started in at the Slipper, eager and willin' to be saddled up. They was both real knock-outs. They called theirse'fs Claudette and Jacqui. Claudette was a full-figured, curly-haired brunette with a body like Pamela Anderson's. Jacqui was a petite and curvy strawberry blonde. Both was real stacked, 'specially Claudette, but Jacqui had a nicer butt. They was both great in bed, too, so after less'n two weeks they was the most pop'lar girls at the Slipper.
Claudette and Jacqui rooms together, eats their meals together, sits together in the bar together and always tries to get took upstairs together by their tricks. I oughter know, 'cause I've done had 'em ever' Thursday night for goin' on three years. Together. First I have 'em get each other off, then we flips a coin to see which of 'em I fucks first (Jacqui always calls tails). I ain't lookin' forward none to their thirtieth birthday.
And the word is… when Claudette and Jacqui turns thirty pretty quick and they has to leave the Slipper, they's each plannin' to find a good fella to marry up with and start raisin' a brood. And they don't want no roughnecks and no cowpokes, nowhow. They's got their eyes set on them rich oil company big-shots from Houston. Too bad I'm just a old cowpoke myse'f. Them two is real treasures. And they's real Bosom Buddies for sure.