Wind Eggs
Published in

Wind Eggs

Before you jump to conclusions about others, make sure you’re not the one with shit on your shoes

Eyes Up Front

Adventure Week

Source image by matushenko

DR. SANDRA JANE PORTER, anthropologist extraordinaire, boarded the riverboat and turned up her nose. Her guide kneeled on the deck with his head in the engine bay. The waist of his jeans had slipped into half moon position, revealing a forest of hair that spread across flabby cheeks.

The boat drifted in the current under the shade of Jacaranda trees whose boughs stretched across the river. Only a rope tethered it to the dock. It smelled of diesel and fish. And rust. Decades of rust.

Sandra’s breasts rivaled those of women twenty years younger, and without silicon to boost them. But the men she’d encountered since she arrived drooled like infants when she passed.

Sandra wished she weren’t wearing the cleavage revealing tank top, but the airline had lost her luggage and she hadn’t had time to shop for replacements. Normally she wouldn’t mind. Her breasts rivaled those of women twenty years younger, and without silicon to boost them. But the men she’d encountered since she arrived drooled like infants when she passed.

She brushed away a branch and called out to the guide. He rose without adjusting his pants, which were dragged down by a tool belt and holstered gun. “You the doctor?” As she would have expected, he’d locked eyes on her boobs. And they remained locked as he rushed to greet her, both hands reaching forward.

Sandra tapped her glasses. “My eyes are here.” Not that he was listening. He even raised his hands toward her breasts as though preparing to cup them. “Eyes here,” she demanded. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, physically tapping the bridge of her nose. “Eyes,” she barked. “Here.”

Sandra tapped her glasses. “My eyes are here.”

Something sharp bit her. On the nipple. She gasped in pain and grabbed her chest. A spider crawled from her cleavage, and the guide knocked it away. “I tried to tell you, Doc. Banana Spiders is as poisonous as they get.”

He helped her to a bench and supported her while she sat. “Only one thing to do, ma’am. I have to suck the poison out.” Without pausing, he pulled her shirt to her waist and placed his mouth over her nipple.

As she lost consciousness, Sandra’s only thought was that she must be a character in the lascivious fantasies of a male writer with too much time on his hands.

Wry Noir

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