Greta was a large girl, a Wagnerian blonde with long, shapely legs. She had hips like twin pillows, shaped for hand-holds, and operating on well-greased ball bearings. The matched mounds of her bosom stood out as a veritable Everest among female chests. I was no mountain climber, but even I felt the challenge of scaling them-—just because they were there, so to speak.
As for her face, it was pretty enough, and had about as much expression as a slope packed smooth with fresh snow. Her eyes were Aryan blue and naked of any disconcerting thought-—or any thought at all, for that matter. After having conversation with her a few nights running, I decided they were an accurate mirror of her mind, which was likewise a blank. Her cheeks were rosy, with the broad bones of the peasant, and her full, moist lips were arranged in a perpetual simper.
In short, she had the mind of a born follower and the body of a born roundheels. She also had a broken pelvis which was encased in a plaster cast. This was the result of a skiing accident some months before and was almost, but not quite, healed by the time I met Greta.
With all our fellow guests abominating like snowmen over the frosty countryside during the day, Greta’s condition and my own convalescence threw us together with the quick rapport of the mutually excluded. As shut-ins, we were drawn together by our mutual boredom—among other things. And before long, we were attempting to devise ways of relieving that boredom.
Came the night when the groundwork had been laid, and I judged Greta ready for the same. It was past midnight, all the fresh-air buffs were catching their forty so that they might he up bright and early to chase their chilblains, and the chalet was as quiet as a snowed-in graveyard. So, a bottle of Scotch in one hand and a container of ice cubes in the other, I came to the door of Greta’s room and softly tapped.
“Come in," she called in a whisper.
I entered and shut the door behind me.
“Ahh, Steve. And with schnapps!” She clapped her hands delightedly.
“It looked like a long, cold night,” I said, “so I thought perhaps—-”
“It was a lovely thought. There are glasses on the bureau.” She pointed.
I clunked in some ice cubes, half filled the glasses and handed her one.
“Prosit,” she said. She held the glass to her lips, inhaled deeply and the Scotch did a disappearing act. “Encore.” She held out the tumbler for a refill.
I poured generously and dropped in another ice cube ‘for appearances’ sake. As I handed it to her she patted the side of the bed, and I perched beside her.
“What are you staring at?” she giggled after a moment.
It was a rhetorical question. I was obviously staring at her fine Germanic breastworks playing a bobbling game of hide-and-seek with the gauzy nightgown she was wearing. But I answered it anyway. “Swiss cheesecake,” I told her.
“You say such quaint things, Steve.” She whinnied again. “I really don’t understand them, but I like the way they sound. Still, I am never sure whether you are complimenting me, or making fun of me.”
“A little of both,” I told her. I bent over and kissed her soundly on the lips.
“Very nice,” she said a little breathlessly. “But what was that for?”
“Just cementing German-American relations,” I told her.
“But are such relations really possible?” Her blue eyes looked at me with helpless candor as her red-laquered fingernails drummed a tattoo on her plaster cast.
“The Berlin Wall must come down!” I told her firmly.
“But, alas, not for another two days,” she sighed.
“Then American ingenuity will overcome all obstacles,” I promised. “After all, didn't we perfect the technique of the airlift?”
“I don’t see what--"
“I was only speaking metaphorically,” I explained. “What I mean is that where there is a will, there’s a way. Now, I take it for granted that there must have been an arrangement made for certain necessary apertures . . .”
“But of course." She blushed prettily.
“Then we’ll manage to cope with any obstacles when we get to them. But first—” I kissed her soundly again.
Her breath was warm with Scotch, her lips soft and willing. As I felt her tongue hopscotching for cavities, I slid my hand lightly down the front of her nightgown. She gasped, inhaling deeply, and her breast burned against my palm The tip quivered, straining at my touch.
I slipped the nightgown from her shoulders. Her breasts were milk-white globes in the lamplight. In the center of each was a roseate of blushing Bavarian pink shading into the red-brown of hungrily distended buttons. I kissed each of these in turn, and her whole body shuddered in response. She kicked off the blankets, and her legs moved passionately until the nightgown had ridden up over her eager thighs.
I caressed the inner surface of those thighs, and Greta began to thrash about more wildly. She flung herself over, and the plump cheeks of her naked derriere were exposed. They trembled like some Germanic Jell-o, large, smooth dumplings begging to be mashed. I took a long look and then flipped her over on her back again.
My hand dropped to the plaster cast. It was as ill-designed for our purpose as a chastity belt. But there was an indentation, denoting a tiny tunnel permitting of at least one natural function. Like a sex-mad spelunker, I set about widening this pathway with my fingernail. It was a rather long process of excavation, and we caressed each other wildly to maintain the pitch of our passion while it was going on. Finally, there was a little mound of plaster crumbs on the sheet and my finger had reached its goal.
Greta went berserk. She lowed like a lust-starved soprano as I widened the aperture still more. Finally I knelt and blew out the dust of my digging. “Whee-ee!" she screeched, and her hips thrust up so suddenly from the bed that I feared she might fracture the area all over again. “Hurry!” she panted. “Now!”
“That Hecate County fellow had nothing on me,” I murmured as I flung my body lightly over her.“ Her nails dug into my back and I thrust home. It was only then that I began to appreciate the complications—nay, the impossibility—of what I was attempting.
“Am I there?” I panted.
“Nein! Not yet! Not yet!” She clutched at me more tightly drawing blood in her frustrated eagerness.
I tried! Lord knows I tried! But the friction of invading that plaster was just too excruciatingly painful for me. After all, I was attempting it with the most sensitive part of my anatomy. And I realized after a moment or two that it might damn well be whittled down—or permanently blunted—-before the plaster was abraded. With this realization, I decided to give up. But—
But that too posed a problem. You see, I had gone too far. And in so doing, a certain excitement had swelled the implement with which I was excavating. Now I found that I couldn't remove it. Neither here nor there, I was stuck!
“What is it?” Greta asked.
“I’m stuck,” I told her.
“Stuck? You mean -”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, dear! What do we do now?”
“Well, the first thing is for you to stop moving around like that. It’s too suggestive!”
“Suggestive!” She was indignant. “Under the circumstances, that seems one hell of a thing to complain about!”
“I know. But you see, it excites me. And as long as I‘m excited, I'm not going to be able to tear loose.”
“I see.” She kept writhing, a cunning look on her face. “On the other hand, with the little more effort, Herr Victor, you might reach your goal. And after that, extrication should be no problem.”
“I don’t think so,” I said patiently. “You see, the logistics of the situation are such-—-”
“Logistics?”
“What I mean is that my intended grasp exceeds my actual reach. And you’ll simply have to take my word for it that this reach has attained its limit.”