"The Man Who Liked Women"

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ensmallen
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"The Man Who Liked Women"

Post by ensmallen » Tue Mar 16, 2021 8:20 pm

In the vein of jeffrey-dallas's series. This one's a bit wordy so I can only post snippets.

The Man Who Liked Women
by Marc Brandel

Bascombe Fletcher Was Living with a Goddess.

Bascombe was a man who liked women—and he made love to them in astounding numbers. So when Venus, the Goddess of Love, decided to pay a good-will visit to Earth, she naturally picked Bascombe to be her mortal host and protector.

It didn't matter that she was only an inch and a half tall. She was delectably formed and growing larger every day. And in the meantime, oh my, the ways she found to make Bascombe happy!

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/267 ... iked-women

ensmallen
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Re: "The Man Who Liked Women"

Post by ensmallen » Tue Mar 16, 2021 8:25 pm

IT WAS JUST getting light when Bascombe woke up. The air had cleared with the night’s rain and there was a freshness in the sky: that sense of a new beginning, a rebirth one can feel, even in cities, on some early mornings in May.

Bascombe felt it at once. His headache was gone. He was surprised to find himself lying naked on the floor. He had no recollection of his painful labor, his collapse the night before. He stared up at the ceiling, relaxed, relieved, as though some pressing demand that had driven him all his life had been taken off his mind while he slept. He could remember standing on the King’s Road in the rain and then, dimly, a taxi, his desperate urgency to get back here before something happened. What? He wasn’t sure he had ever known. He started to get up.

He almost trod on her.

He did not realize all at once what it was he had almost trodden on. She was at that moment only some small white creature that moved on the carpet beside his foot. The movement startled him. He snatched his bare foot away as reflexively as he would have from an insect or a mouse. But it wasn’t an insect. And it wasn’t a mouse. Even standing up he could see that.

After a few seconds Bascombe knelt down. He bent forward. Slowly, compulsively, he lowered his head to the floor, resting his chin on the carpet and approaching his eyes as close to whatever it was as he could get them.

He closed his eyes. He recited his own full name, Bascombe Helmut Fletcher, silently to himself. He opened them.

It was still there.

Almost imperceptibly, so as not to frighten it, Bascombe inched his finger toward it. He touched it.

It was as real as his own flesh.

He touched it again, stroking it with careful gentleness, with a wondering tenderness that was like awe. It was unmistakably a human being, stark naked, evidently female, and standing proudly erect as she was now, about an inch and a half tall.

Bascombe’s later relationship with this tiny creature was so intense, so engrossing and exclusive, that he was always glad to remember afterward that his first articulate thought about her was one of concern. He thought she must be cold.

He was still too unsure of her absolute reality to risk withdrawing his eyes from her long enough to find something warn, a sock or a handkerchief occurred to him first, to cover her with. Rounding his mouth like a man cleaning his glasses, he huffed a little warm air toward her instead.

She seemed to appreciate it. She parted her legs, standing astride, and putting her hands on her hips, threw back her head. She swiveled her shoulders and thrust her hips forward, sunning herself in the warmth of his breath.

It was such a familiar feminine posture, recalling so many pleasant memories of Fire Island, that it brought home to Bascombe fully for the first time just how physically complete she was. Her hair was so fine that it looked in the mass like a single strand. But it was a strand woven of shifting, changing threads of gold. Her arms were as slender as the pistils of a tulip, but they swelled slightly between the shoulder and the elbow and tapered to her Wrist. Her breasts were no larger than two seed pearls, side by side, but each rose delicately to a point, and although they appeared colorless to the naked eye, he could just make out the two specks of her nipples.

She might be less than two inches tall, but she was no embryo and no infant. She was a fully grown, a perfectly developed woman.

Bascombe had run out of breath. She took her right hand from her hip, holding it up for a moment in surprise, and then began waving it imperiously under his nose. He could see that the hand was partly open, two fingers the thickness of eyelashes extended, the other two doubled back to the palm in the traditional Latin gesture of demand. He refilled his lungs, bent quickly forward, and began exhaling again.

Kneeling there, stark naked on his bedroom carpet, huffing at an equally naked woman who would have fitted comfortably into an eggshell, he was already too completely engrossed in her to feel there was anything strange about what he was doing. Once he had recovered from the first astonishment of discovery, he had simply accepted the whole situation. As she stopped waving at him and basked once more in his breath, he made a further discovery about her.

She did not find him strange. She was obviously not in the least frightened of him. Wherever she had come from, whatever kind of world she was used to, there must be people roughly like him there, too. She appeared to feel now that she had warmed the front side of herself enough. She lifted one foot out of the pile of the carpet, turned, and presented her back to him. He was struck by the graceful ease of her action. There was none of that darting briskness in her movements which he associated with more familiar creatures her size, tropical fish or hummingbirds or lizards.

He took another deep breath and slowly let it out again. Her buttocks were no larger than raindrops but each of them was a pear-shaped jewel, the hairline of the cleft between them dividing into two perfect arcs that underlined their oval symmetry. They might have been the buttocks of some peerless girl sunning her self a hundred yards away down the beach. Bascombe could have stared at them all day.

She did not let him. With the same graceful fluency she turn and began waving her arms at him again. He started to breathe in. That wasn’t, apparently, what she wanted this time. She walked toward him. The pile of the carpet came almost to her knees, and it must, he thought, seem as resistant to her as gorse. She strode through it with careless ease. She was obviously very strong for her size. A dozen steps brought her to his chin, almost out of his sight. By rolling his eyes down until they hurt he could just see her beneath the double image of his nose. He felt a sharp prick at his lower lip. He jerked back his head. She had her right hand raised, the index finger pointed like a needle at his mouth, ready to jab him again. She wanted something and she wanted it now. But what?

She fluttered both hands impatiently and let them fall to her sides. He heard the thin, high-pitched sound of her palms slapping against her thighs. In spite of its faintness it was unmistakably the sound of flesh striking flesh. The implications of this fascinated him so much he missed her next movement. By the time he had brought his concentrated attention back to her, she was standing astride with her hands on her hips again, shaking her head at him in obvious irritation. He moved his face a little closer to her. She nodded encouragingly, then thrust her right hand pointedly toward her own mouth.

She was hungry.

Bascombe rose instantly, obediently, to his feet, but he could not imagine what to feed her. There was some fruit in a bowl in the living room, but it seemed to him that if he managed to cut an apple or a pear into pieces small enough to fit into her mouth, its consistency would still be too coarse for her to swallow. Even put through a blender it would seem as thick as pitch to her. She might even choke on it.

It was the idea of the blender that suggested milk. The bottle in the refrigerator felt inappropriately cold for a naked woman’s first meal of the day. He put it to warm in a saucepan while he washed and dried the smallest saucer he could find.

She was sitting cross-legged like a guru, facing the door, when he returned to the bedroom. From a distance of more than a few feet it was impossible for him with his rather clumsy human vision to discern the expression on her face. But as he knelt to put down the saucer he saw a tiny crescent of white between her lips. It was the first time she had smiled at him. He felt as proud as a new father. He smiled back and slid the saucer toward her.

She forgot him instantly. He remained kneeling, watching her, fascinated, as she strode over to her breakfast. The rim of the saucer reached exactly to the tiny golden triangle at the vertex of her thighs.

She paddled her fingers experimentally in the milk first, then cupped her hand and raised it to her mouth. It surprised him that milk with its high surface tension could form a drop small enough to fit into her palm. But she seemed to be drinking all right. It was several seconds before she lowered her hand again. She would have to swallow it slowly, he thought, like vichyssoise.

She rested a moment. He saw those pearl-like breasts rise and fall as she took a deep breath. Then, instead of scooping up another handful, she vaulted lightly over the rim of the saucer and began splashing around in it, kicking the milk up with her toes until the carpet was speckled with white beads. He could see now how small a drop of milk could be.

He was struck by the silence of her performance. The slap of her hands against her thighs had just carried to him. But her splashing was noiseless to his ear. It occurred to him that because of her size she probably lived within a different decibel range from his own. She might be able to hear all kinds of things he never could. A butterfly landing on the grass. A bud unfurling. The lapping of the milk against her face now as she knelt and drank with her lips to the surface. He was just thinking that it this were true his own movements must sound monstrous to her, when a noise exploded from behind his head that startled even him.

It was the telephone. He had time to see her raise her hands to her ears before he leaped back and, falling across the bed, snatched up the receiver. He looked at her, She had climbed out of the saucer and was standing in her familiar legs astride position, shaking her head at him reprovingly. He pressed the cup of the phone tight against his lips.

tbc

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Re: "The Man Who Liked Women"

Post by jeffrey-dallas » Sun Mar 21, 2021 5:53 pm

I haven't read this, but I remember some of the book covers it had. (1972)
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"You're like, really tiny."
"Thanks. I had no idea."

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