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Seasons of Mitzi


        They don’t mind the chill autumn breeze, being well covered in their sweaters, chatting in lawn chairs on the back patio, Saul and Leah, Isaac and Naava, Ephraim as usual in his business suit and yarmulke, mixing martinis for everyone.  The talk is about the new cantor, Judah Steinberg, not a great voice but inventive in his phrasing, particularly during the ma’ariv.  The breeze blows away the smoke, from Isaac’s and Naava’s cigarettes, Ephraim’s pipe, Saul’s cigar.  During a lull they look over to Mordecai, with his artist’s stand and easel in its usual place on the lawn, in front of the now closed-up pool.

        “How’s it going?” Saul said.

        “Almost done with this pose.”  Mordecai, with his bohemian scraggly beard and smock and deliberately-out-of-place heavy work boots, is scratching some final shadows with his charcoal pencil.  He calls out into the wind.  “Half a minute more, Mitzi!”

        “Good, I’m getting stiff.”  Mitzi has been holding that fake sword above her head for five minutes.  Goose-pimpled, her stiffened nipples making her breasts seem even larger, her toes squirm with strain on top of the varnished tree stump.  The wind ruffles the lush pubic bush between the slightly-opened legs.  Now time is up and she hops down and scampers across the lawn to Ephraim who gives her another cigarette.  She holds the lighter in her cupped hands as she fights the breeze until the cigarette draws well.  Now, cigarette in hand, hand on hip, she says, “Judah tries hard.  He doesn’t have that great voice that Aaron had, but I like him.”

        “He’s good with the kids, the schul choir,” Naava says.

        Mitzi nods, puffing again.  She takes one long drag and helps herself to Ephraim’s martini.  Now, cigarette still in hand, she stretches her legs, leaning on one knee, then the other, as they talk.  With one final drag she throws the butt into the top of the tall ashtray.  She goes back onto the stump for the next pose, her back to everyone, legs together, holding her arms up so that her body makes a big letter “Y”.  Her butt twitches a little as another breeze kicks up.  Her breasts can be seen from behind, half-moons peeking out from each side of the thin torso.  She has an itch on her calf and raises the other foot to scratch it with her toenails.

        This pose lasts ten minutes, with a short break at five to shake herself loose.  Then she walks over to see Mordecai’s work.

        “You made my butt too big,” she says.

        “Let me see it again.”

        She turns her back to him and points down.

        “No I didn’t.”

        With a playful slap at him Mitzi scampers inside, to make the snacks for the meeting.


        The slap of bare feet coming down from the split-level kitchen to the conversation pit is a sign that everyone should sit on the couches and get organized.  She puts the chips and dip and sodas onto the recessed round table, bending over, her breasts wobbling, her bare foot kicking back to balance herself, almost hitting Leah in the face.  “Sorry!”  Now the agenda is collected as she circles around, everyone attaching notes to the little lanyards she has just clipped to her nipples.  She sits cross-legged down on the floor, next to her husband up in his chair, and the Endowment Committee is called to order.  One by one she unclips each note from the lanyards and hands it up to Ephraim.  They vote to collect next week for the Quemoy and Matsu Fund.  Do they contribute to the baseball team’s trip to Milwaukee for the World Series?  They did last year.  “The Braves are so good that we can assume they’ll go next year also, three in a row.”  Isaac disagrees.  “Burdette is fading, I think.  And Spahn is getting old.”  They vote “yes” anyway.  “Anyone who can make the Yankees lose, has my vote,” Saul says.  Now, a vote on adding to the Kibbutz Scholarship.

        Mitzi, being the Recording Secretary, diligently and obediently takes down the proceedings in her quick but neat left-handed script, her arms splayed wide to stay clear of the swinging lanyards.  When the meeting ends she unclips them and holds ice cubes from her soda against her nipples, exhaling with relief.

        She stands up in front of the fire facing everyone and warms her bare butt with rubbing hands, breasts jiggling, her iced, stiffened nipples poking out at everyone.  Behind her on the mantlepiece are pictures of her family, Ephraim’s, various friends, their wedding day, at the beach, at the new synagogue dedication.  Mitzi can’t help but upstage people in every photo she’s in.


        They are eating lunch at Lem and Rifka’s house, hungrily because Rifka is such a good cook.  They were impatient with Rabbi Seth’s prayer, which was rather long.  The gefilte is particularly good, which in Mitzi’s terms means it is less gooey than usual.  Now Rifka says to her niece, “When are you and Ephraim going to finally have kids?”  It’s her common refrain.

        “We don’t know,” Ephraim says.  “Whenever she wants.”

        “Time is running short,” Rifka says, in her Yiddish lilt.

        “I’m only thirty-two,” Mitzi says, wiping off a spot of sauce that had fallen onto her nipple.  “I have time.”

        “Being pregnant is a big deal,” Leah says.  She has had six children and was glad when, as she put it, “the factory closed” a few years ago.

        “Yeah,” Saul says.  “Mitzi, you might not like having big boobs.”

        “Oh Saul!” Rifka scolds.  Though the joke succeeds in causing some good-natured snorting around the table. The rabbi suppresses a smile.


        Martini in one hand, cigarette in the other, standing in a foot of snow on this winter night, Mitzi is explaining Isaac’s plan to Sarah Landau.  They have walked out to the edge of the rise, overlooking a downward slope and then a clutch of trees.  The others are in the house.  It’s one of Isaac’s dinner parties.

        “Isaac will clear away that part, next to that big rock, then put in a brick grill.”  She sweeps wide with the hand holding the cigarette.  Then she takes a puff, then a sip.

        Sarah, bundled up in a parka, glances down at her stadium boots next to Mitzi’s bare feet and legs, and thinks it was a mistake to wear capri pants.  Her legs are freezing.  Then she peers into the darkness.  There are no lights in that parcel of land that Isaac just purchased and she can barely see what Mitzi is referring to.  The lights from the house throw elongated shadows in front of them in the snow, Mitzi’s quite a bit shorter than hers.  The voices inside get louder as someone opens a door and people come outside.

        “Oy!”  Mitzi squeals as a snowball hits her on the butt.  By instinct she turns around.  “Akk!”  Snowballs hit her breasts, her face, and squarely on her pubic hair.  “Gevalt!!”  Sarah runs away and Mitzi awkwardly tries to run to her left, hopping through the snow, still holding her martini and cigarette.  She gets hit on the side.  There are six men at the party and it seems like all six are busily creating ammunition and then firing, blasting her side, making her left breast jump.  The snowballs are soft and don’t hurt, but each leaves a tattoo of impacted flakes on her skin.  Now she turns to her right, still running, but is no better off.  She is like a toy duck being shot at in a carnival booth.  Then she drops what she is holding as she falls down the slope.

        There is a cease-fire for a few seconds.  In the dim light they see Mitzi’s head, her black hair blasted with white, rising like a ghost from behind the crest.  Her fall caused a long rollover tumble in the snow.  She is now encrusted down to her bare toes.  She stumbles toward the house, her hands held up to block more incoming white projectiles.  However the bombardment has stopped.  Everyone has gone back inside.

        She tries the sliding glass door but they have locked it!  “Let me in, people!!”  She leans against the glass, beating it overhead with her fists, her breasts pressed against it like big balloons.  Half laughing now, she stands back and does what some women do in the bedroom as a joke, pulling her breasts forward one after another like twin howitzers on a tank, except for her she needs two hands for each breast.  “I’ll get you!  Boom!  Boom!  Boom!  Boom!”

        She catches her breath and hugs herself.  She is pretty much immune to cold (or rather, she doesn’t let it bother her) but even she has her limits.  “Let me in, people!”  She stamps her feet, wiggling her toes to get some feeling back.  “It’s COLD out here!!”

        She disappears, darting around to the front of the house, and gets in the front door before Saul can get there to lock it too.  “You people!!” she says, shivering, dripping all over.  Sarah brings out a towel which is quickly returned when Mitzi has dried herself.  She keeps shivering as her warmth is restored with another martini.  Later, she gets back at Saul, who was the main instigator, by mushing a snowball in his face when they go out to leave.


        “I can’t believe this is going to go over well,” Mitzi says, as Mordecai paints another flower onto her concave tummy.

        “This film will be the backdrop to my multimedia presentation.”

        “Ha!” Saul harrumphs.  “Suns on her boobs, planets on her butt, stars on her toes.  Now flowers.  You and your beatnik friends.”

        “If I can get that old 8 millimeter to work, it will be ‘out there, man’.  We don’t have to use those bright overhead lights any more.”

        Ephraim watches silently, as usual.  He has just arrived and is wearing his “going to court” suit.

        Leah says, “It is pretty.  A sunflower?”  Indeed it is, centered around Mitzi’s navel.

        They’re standing in a circle around her, in Mordecai’s studio, a converted barn.  Their always-nude friend is posed in front of a white screen.  Because she’s a lot shorter than Mordecai, she’s on a pedestal.

        “Sorry!” he says.  A little glob of yellow paint has fallen, separating into three pieces on curly black pubic hairs.  “That won’t come out soon,” Mitzi says, a little peeved.  “People look down there, you know.”  As she cranes her neck forward to look down past her breasts, she says, “I should take better care of it.”

        “What can you do?” Leah says.

        “Maybe have it trimmed?”

        This makes Saul laugh, and also Leah and Isaac and Naava.

        “Not so funny.  I feel like I’m . . . like a gorilla down there.”  Which is not quite true, although Mitzi does have an unusually luxuriant forest, going halfway up to her navel and spilling over a bit onto the insides of her thighs.  It is as jet black as the hair above.

        “Women do trim down there,” Mordecai says.  “It’s called Brazilian waxing. . . . There: finished.  Now to film.”

        Half an hour later, after he is done with his camera, which took in her whole body except for her face, Mitzi runs outside.  “I can take it any more!  This dried paint is icky!”  Ephraim has the honor of squirting the cold jets of the garden hose at his wife, as she in a methodical way offers every part of her body to the cleansing water, beginning with her shoulders and turning and twisting bit by bit until down to spreading her toes and the stars get washed off.


        Wednesday night tango lessons!  They have been a success, and Gesualdo is a popular instructor despite, or maybe because of, his unsteady command of English.  Fourteen couples in the synagogue basement, stepping and sliding, heels clicking on the floor and the men’s shoes stomping, and the slapping of one pair of bare feet.  Now the ladies twirl.  For the third time, Mitzi misses Ephraim’s hand and swings past him.

        “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!”

        “Let us see you to dance again, this the step number three,” Gesualdo says.  “It is the step the more difficult.”

        Ephraim and Mitzi try again.  Ephraim, a meticulous dresser, is in an all-black ensemble of silk shirt, flared pants and pointed shoes.  He clutches his wife’s hand, then spins her.  Again she misses, this time almost falling forward.

        “It’s my boobs, they throw me off balance.”

        Gesualdo, hand up to his chin, carefully evaluates the source of the trouble.  Then he looks down.

        “You are . . . descalza, no shoes, angle diferente, so you can move the hips the more.  Swing like this.”  The recent Spanish immigrant gives an exaggerated sway of his pelvis.  “Like Señor Presley.”  At this everyone laughs.

        Mitzi, brow knitted uncertainly, undulates her hips.  Her breasts wobble then come to rest, then rise up as she inhales.  She starts the step with Ephraim, and it works.  The exaggerated pelvic swing and sway makes it easier to find him again, compensating for the unavoidable swing and sway above.

        “Good!”  Gesualdo goes to the record player.  “Now the music again. . . Not Elvis!”  He smiles at the laughs.


        Ephraim stops by Mordecai’s studio to pick up his wife.  Being a refinished barn, it is cavernous.  At first he looks around and thinks the place is deserted.

        “Help me, Eph!” comes a voice from above.  His open-mouthed stare is at a tied-up Mitzi ten feet above him.  Suspended from a single rope, she is facing downward, a lariat in her hair holding her head up, her bowlined arms folded behind her, her shins tied to the backs of her thighs so that her heels dig into her butt.  Her breasts are looped at the base so that they stick out from her body even more than usual, bulging unnaturally and dangling, as big as pomelos.

        “Hi, Ephraim,” Mordecai says casually.  He is in his stocking feet and Ephraim sees that mattresses have been placed on the floor.  The artist hops onto one of them and lobs a tennis ball at the left pomelo.  It hits her painlessly but achieves the effect of making the breast wobble like a punching bag, slapping against the other breast which wobbles too.  The impact causes Mitzi to slowly rotate.  She exhales in irritation and wiggles her fingers and toes.

Ephraim notices that there are dozens of tennis balls strewn around the studio.  Now with exasperation mixed with a little amusement he says, “Mordecai, take her down.”

        Mordecai waits until Mitzi has rotated halfway, then throws a ball at the right breast.  This reverses the rotation of the suspended nude.  “In a moment.”

        Ephraim, in his business suit as usual, takes off his fedora and shakes his head.  “Honey, how could you let him do this?”

        “It sounded like fun.  But not when he -- tied my boobs with this verstunkener rope -- it’s like -- barbed wire.  And I feel all squeezed.  The circulation is cut off.  Mord, if you -- put one of those infernal clips on me again I wouldn’t feel it.”  To the side is a small table with various nipple “adornments”, alongside a new Revere “Eye-Matic” movie camera.

        “You exaggerate.  Anyway, Eph, I’m doing an installation next week on how our society misuses the female body.”

        “Looks like you’re the one misusing it.”  The staid lawyer watches as Mordecai throws another ball; this one grazes a distended nipple.  “You’re just reenacting what looks like a 13-year-old boy’s fantasy.”

        Mordecai laughs.  “Yes, I always wanted to do this with Sylvia Grabowski.”  Now he tries one from the front.  It hits the right breast and because of the angle it doesn’t touch the left one.  “See that?  Each boob rebounds three times.  The left one, sometimes four times.”

        Ephraim smiles and, to his wife’s wide-eyed horror, picks up a ball that has rolled to his feet.  “Sorry, hon.”  Poor Mitzi’s breasts are now barraged by rapid-fire tennis volleys from the two men.  The pomelos dance and rebound and jostle wildly and she is made to rotate again, then swing back and forth.  The men are not throwing hard; it’s more like pitching horseshoes.  “Stop it! Stop it you . . . schlumppen!”  In her frustration at not being able to fight back, her arms and legs shake, which only causes her to swing more widely.  Mordecai and Ephraim try curveballs, jump shots, hitting the pomelos from every angle.

        In the car on the way home, Mitzi is still annoyed.  She pushes her breasts this way and that, checking for rope marks.  She has always been a good sport about being Mordecai’s model, she’s flattered by it, but sometimes he goes too far.  “It wasn’t terrible but . . . You didn’t have to join in.”

        “I, too, was once a 13-year-old boy.”


        “Do any fishing here?”  This is Harold, a new visitor on the boat, nibbling on a knish.  He shields his eyes from the sun as he stands next to Sam and Moe, looking over the bright flat horizon.  Also trying not to show that he is getting seasick as the twenty-foot cruiser, half a mile offshore now, its motor idling, lurches gently.

        “ohh . . . ohhh . . .”

        “Not really,” Moe says.  “I hear there’s good fishing here, or at least up near that jetty, but I don’t have the patience for it.”

        Sam, who does fish, says, “It’s mostly trout and smallmouth bass.  The trout are mostly steelhead.”

        “ohh -- OHH! OHH! OHHHH!!”

        After the expected followup gasps, the men continue their conversation, this time joined by Moe’s wife Jessica, who has brought out a sandwich for him.

        “How about swimming?”

        “Well,” Moe says, the water’s pretty clear, but it’s always cold.  What can I say?  It’s Lake Michigan!”

        “Mmmm . . . mmmm . . . ohh . . .”

        “We went in once,” Jessica says, stuffing her own mouth with a deviled egg.  “Once was enough.  Hi Sid!!”

        It’s another cruiser, smaller and blue instead of red, coming within about fifty feet.  As Sid waves, Ephraim emerges from the cabin and shouts out, “I shouldn’t even be talking to you!”  Ephraim, like the others, is fully turned out in “boating” attire and deck shoes.  He even has a captain’s hat on.

        Ephraim is not being snooty, but jokey.  Mr. & Mrs. Ephraim Lichtenberg have been invited to the Governor’s Banquet, probably because his assistant is one of Ephraim’s clients.  “Congratulations!” Sid shouts out.  Now his wife comes out and says it too.  Then he adds, “I see your wife is having her usual good time!”

        Everyone briefly glances at the quivering, sweating nude crouched face down on the wide gunwale.  “Ohh . . . ohh . . .”

        Sid zooms off at ten knots and now Leah comes out with drinks.  They sit a little unsteadily on the deck chairs as Sid’s wake passes, then sip idly.

        “OHH!  OHHH!!  OHHHHHH!!”  They know this is the last one.  For about an hour now Mitzi, her legs drawn up under her, has been planted on the twin prongs of the rope cleats, which vibrate with the hum of the motor.  Her body undulates as she rubs her nipples against the non-skid surface of the gunwale.  She has a climax about every three minutes or so, but likes to have a really strong one at the end.  Now she sits up, her orifices still gaping, and catches her breath.  Then rolls over the side with a loud splash into the sixty-degree water.  She slithers and twists as she circumnavigates the boat then climbs up a minute later, and with water running off her nipples bends over the cooler to get a beer.

        The conversation turns to the banquet.  What to wear?  For men the answer is simple: a tuxedo.  But women are always faced with decisions, even Mitzi.  “I’m wondering what to put on,” she says.  They all know what that means -- sprinkles or not? earrings? what kind of makeup?  She spreads her legs and looks down.  “I should get this trimmed.” She listens to Moe talk about his vacation next week to Saskatchewan.  Then she climbs up onto the roof, stretches herself out spread-eagled, and takes in some sun.


        “O.K., it’s traffic time!  Construction on I-90 west of the Elgin exchange going eastbound.  The accident on U.S. 14 at Ridgefield has been cleared.  Illinois Route 31 at P - Prairie Grove has been shut down due to f - flooding.  All operators of commercial vehicles are advised of the new regulation as t - to engine b - braking in residential areas.  This is the Illinois Highway Authority station KR12CS9, operating at 530 kilohertz. . . O.K., it’s t - traffic time!  Construction on I-90 west of the Elgin exchange going eastbound.  The accident on U.S. 14 at R - Ridgefield has been c - cleared.  Note: Illinois Route 31 at Prairie G - grove is now open for all t - traffic . . .”

        She has the day shift on Mondays and Wednesdays.  She was bored sitting around the house and persuaded Ephraim to let her earn some pin money.  Sitting at the desk next to the teletype, she only has to read from the little screen once, and press the green button to loop it back, except when the red light flickers which means the alert has changed.  Even if it’s just one word, she has to read the alert all over again, and if it’s changed again, all over again, until the light goes off.  The alerts are inputted by a dispatcher in Rockford, whom she’s never spoken to.

        Mitzi has a good clear voice but it’s getting harder to concentrate and speak now that her supervisor, Conchetta, has taken to sliding under the desk and licking her while she reads.  It’s just the two of them, in this squat little building on the newly built I-94, next to the radio mast and the big salt depository.  Mitzi drives the five miles from their house and has the key to the gate from the back road.  The building is just four rooms, the broadcast room, a snack room, Conchetta’s office and a bathroom.  Sometimes the maintenance crew comes by but otherwise it is a lonely place, occupied only by the nude broadcaster and her boss, and usually the scent of female musk.

        Mitzi struggles as she announces to truckers and motorists across the Upper Midwest.  “C - c - caution is advised on the rough road on U.S. Route 45 north of Mundelein.  This is the Illinois Highway Authority station KR12CS9, operating at 530 k - kilohertz.”  The red light has gone off and she can finally press the green repeat button.  Now her voice comes in over the monitor. “O.K., it’s traffic time! . . .”

        The real-time Mitzi moans as Conchetta intensifies her attack.  The besieged nude spreads her legs further and brings her feet up to the desk, her toes gripping the edges.  Her orgasm is all the stronger for having been suppressed for ten minutes.  Conchetta, age 44, has vast experience at this and was quick to map out in her mind Mitzi’s points of sensitivity, the best routes to orgasm.  Ephraim does not know about this.


        “Your toes are very educated, Mitzi!”

        “How can they not be?”

        Keiko, rather ostentatiously dressed in a kimono, is looking up as the novice wiggles her toes and squashes her soles and gently pokes her heels into the shoulders of the moaning Mr. Greiner on the table.  Taking this course in “Ashiatsu” is another way of getting out of the house, and Mitzi enjoys it.  She signed up as soon as she saw the sign in the new storefront.  She is about to get her certificate and Keiko is seriously thinking about taking her on as an assistant.

        There was some local resistance because “Oriental Touch Therapy” sounded like a “massage parlor”, but it’s not.  Keiko Hayakawa is a serious businesswoman and after six months has won the town’s respect.  She and her sister are now running a successful clinic, and have even gotten referrals from Dr. Scheiner and Dr. Wasselman.

        Now Mitzi places one foot between the shoulder blades and the other to where Mr. Greiner’s sacrum meets the towel (the clients cannot be naked, of course), and pushes her feet apart, stretching his back.  She switches hands on the ceiling bar and seems about to fall; Keiko had to make adjustments to the training positions on account of Mitzi’s breasts, the likes of which one rarely sees in Japan.  Now Mitzi’s footing is secure and the overweight 50-year old gives another grateful moan as a crack or two is heard.


        “U.S. Route 30 east of P - P - Pecatonia has . . . uhhh . . . been c - cleared.  The R - Rockford exit to I-39 has . . . uhhh . . . b - been c - closed for -- ”

        Conchetta has put in a backless chair so that she can now attack her nude employee from the rear.  The first time Mitzi felt a tongue poking in back there, her knees jolted and hit the underside of the desk.

        “T - truckers are advised of the new regulation as t - to engine b - braking . . .”

        “Ten - eight! Gorgeous George, you read me? Banana Man here!”  This is Simon McQuage, booming down I-74 south of Davenport, Iowa at 75 mph, in his big Mack rig.

        “Ten - two! Gorgeous here!  How about that chick on the traffic alerts??”  This is George Gentry, on I-80 west of Sheffield, Illinois.

        “Yeah, what’s wrong with her?  She keeps stuttering and falling over her words!”

        “Can’t they get anyone who can talk? . . . That girl sounds like she needs some loosening up.”

        “Well if anyone can make her reach the Promised Land, you can, George!”

        The loud laugh is easily heard over the static.  “Ten - four to that!”


        The smell of (kosher) hot dogs mixes with that of denatured alcohol as Maribela goes to work.  “Outdoors is best, if you can,” she had told Mitzi.  Mitzi had the idea of making it a party.  She hesitated for a moment, thinking she might be showing off, and showing off the fact that she and Ephraim were going to the banquet, but after talking with Ephraim she decided to go ahead with it.  Also . . . “I’m going to need some support to get me through this.”

        It’s almost like dinner theater, everyone munching as they watch, Saul and Naava and Isaac and Leah and Moe and Jessica and Hillel and Sarah and Sam, and Ephraim sitting to the side.  She’s up on the picnic table, legs spread as wide as she can spread them, leaning back on the legless “floor chair” Maribela has provided, as the waxing specialist continues her work.  She wanted a drink but Maribela has restricted her to a soda, which she sips uneasily as she pokes her head forward and looks down.  Maribela’s dark skin (she is from Mozambique) makes her stand out, as does her colorful wrap-around dress.  She has finished snipping away the larger curls and is now using a battery-operated razor, tightening the design.

        What kind of design?  Maribela had shown them her catalogue.  It was a weird experience, looking through an album of women’s vulvas, and all the haircuts.  Hearts, spiky flares, ocean waves, blocky squares and triangles . . . Mitzi and Ephraim laughed when they turned the page and saw a Star of David design.  Why not?  Well . . . some of the people at the synagogue might be offended.  It is difficult for newcomers, especially, to get used to being around Mrs. Lichtenberg.  Better not make it worse.  They finally decided on a “V” design, the corner of the “V” starting about half an inch above the clitoris.  It would be a big, tall “V”, given Mitzi’s lush endowment.  “You have a lot to work with,” Maribela said, meaning it as a compliment.  “Some women, they are so sparse, they don’t have many options.”

        Indeed there is now an impressive pile of black curls in the little bag at Maribela’s elbow as the “V” takes shape.  “It looks like you’re in the R.A.F.,” Saul says.  Isaac laughs.  Both were in the Normandy invasion and spent time in England waiting for the big day.  So they know about inverted chevrons.  “Private Lichtenberg!” Isaac says.  “No, she would be a Lance Corporal.”  “Oh . . . right.”  “The Women’s Auxiliary should have shaved themselves by rank.”  “How do you know they didn’t?”  Everyone explodes at this.  Mitzi’s belly laugh makes her clitoris hop up and down. Maribel has to pause for a moment.

        Now Mitzi winces as the safety razor comes out and it tugs at the clipped hairs.  Her toes wiggle uneasily.  The shaving cream burns.  But this will not be the worst of it.  Everyone has been told about the process and they are breathless, knowing what will come next.

        She does indeed need support.  Leah holds her left hand, Naava her right.  The soft strips are pressed in on both sides.  At first she looks down but then decides to raise her face to the sky, eyes shut, teeth gritted. “AIIEEE!! . . . AIIEEE!”  Her cries echo off the house and out into the woods as she squeezes her friends’ hands with the ripping off of the strips.  She tries not to move but cannot prevent her butt from rising off the table.  And now she almost cries at the ferocious sting of the alcohol-drenched gauze.

        The hard wax part is not so bad.  People feel more comfortable now, the worst being over, and crowd around.  “You wonder who first thought of this!” Naava says, to nodding heads.  Now Mitzi is made to turn around and get onto all fours as the anal area is denuded.  She has been assured there will be no damage.  “The sphincter is very sensitive, of course” -- Mitzi knows this quite well, having been subjected to some of Mordecai’s weirder ideas -- “but there are no hairs there.  It’s just the area around it.”

        As instructed, Mitzi brings her hands around to pull her butt cheeks apart.  This forces her head down onto the table so instead Leah and Naava do it for her, each grabbing one little cheek with both hands and leaning away.  Mitzi’s hanging breasts swing from side to side as she gets up and plants her hands on the table, arms locked straight, looking up to the sky, her face a picture of distress.  Her nipples point downward, stiff with fear.  “Wider,” Maribela says.  Leah and Naava lean back further, using their full weight as leverage, as if trying to pull their friend asunder.  Mitzi’s breathing becomes labored at the strain.  She gets a good laugh when she says, “C - call Sid about this!”  Sid, their neighbor, is a proctologist.

        “Akk!” she cries out as her crack is filled with the gooey hard wax.


          “What a lebediker your wife is!”  That’s Ephraim’s client, Joshua Berger, Special Assistant to the Governor for Eleemosynary Affairs.  The two men in tuxedos are watching her from behind as she engages with the Governor’s wife and her friends, talking about some woman’s thing or another.  Her completely nude backside contrasts with their formal gowns.  Her tight little butt twitches as she laughs, champagne glass in one hand, her little “clutch” purse in the other.  She looks down and admires the Illinois First Lady’s sparkly heels, and points to the little embroidered flower with the big toe of her bare foot.  Women talk about fashion a lot.

        Mitzi turns and one sees that she is fully decked out herself, an emerald barrette in her hair, understated makeup on her face, red lipstick, hoop earrings, gold-plated bracelets on the delicate wrists, and a Star of David necklace which hangs between her breasts, bouncing between one and the other as she moves and talks.  The huge nipples which always announce her approach are rouged, with sparkles over her prominent upper slopes.  And of course, the big “V” below.  There are pearls clipped to the points, via special attachments which she purchased from Maribela’s catalogue, and a tiny conch-shaped brooch which serves to cover the clitoris.  Her fingernails are painted a muted burgundy, but her toenails are a shimmering nacreous turquoise and seem to glow.  She has an anklet with little hearts dangling from it.

        As she approaches one sees that her most prominent features have been especially “dressed up”.  The rouge is just a “foundation” for further decoration.  The tips of her nipples have been touched with white, like little snowy mountain peaks.  Around the base of her nipples is a thin circle of tiny gold stars (the five-pointed kind).  And her areolas, which are about three inches across, are circled with bright red glitter.  The whole works was carefully applied at the house by Mitzi’s favorite “breast beautician”, Naava.  It looks like Mitzi is toting two bull’s-eyes which point at whomever she is talking to, and gently sway with her motions.  The effect is both arresting and charming.

        Flamboyantly dressed as she is, she is properly modest on the welcoming line as the Governor passes.  He clasps her hand as she bows and curtsies, bringing one foot back, the one with the anklet, toenails clicking onto the floor.  Having walked around the huge hall for an hour now, her sole is unavoidably blackened, except for the arch.  Mitzi has high arches.


        This is unusual, filming in Mitzi’s own home for an “installation”.  But, as Mordecai pointed out, the “theme” is intimate.  He has spent a lot of time on the design, using a gynecologist’s chair he got from Jonas Cohen, who was retiring.  Mitzi herself had sat in that chair several times.

        It’s mounted in the living room and as always, Mordecai has kept his promise to not film her face, though that really is a shame, because her face is by far the most interesting thing to watch, enough expressions for an entire Shakespeare play: shut eyes and gritted teeth; wide-eyed surprise; upcast eyes as if praying; biting of the lip; brows furrowed as if in pain; and as the evening advances, disheveled hair sticking to the sweaty forehead.  Instead, he has one camera on the rest of her body, and another on the exquisitely cuffed male hands working the knobs.  He is sure to pan up to their arms to show that they are wearing white coats, as if they are researchers in a lab, which is not far from the truth.

        “Nnnhhh! Nnnhhh!!”  Her toes curl in the stirrups as her strapped-in pelvis quivers and then jumps on the unseen prongs.  Now Mordecai intones loudly, “Number four!”

        Saul takes Nathan’s place and, being an observant man, by now knows how to proceed.  He cuts back on both knobs, then slowly turns the black one, the one on the left.  Mitzi catches her breath, her concave tummy heaving in and out, and another wave of pheromones sweeps over the room.  The men are getting sweaty in their lab coats, and their wives, sitting around on couches, can wisely guess about the erections hidden by their pants and underwear.

        Saul takes about three minutes to get his reward, a violent bucking that shakes the chair so that the base almost moves.  “Number five!”  He gets up and proudly takes a flamboyant bow, to loud, jokey applause.  As if to join in the applause, Mitzi, eyes closed, gasps, “Oh God . . . that was a big one . . .”

        Mordecai’s mind races as he thinks how revolutionary it would be, if just the face could be filmed.  It would not only be more intriguing, but the lack of nudity would get him into a lot more places.

        Isaac, being naturally shy, does his best and brings Mitzi to an o.k. climax.  As he gets up he shrugs, as if to say, “What can you expect from a klutz like me?”

        Now it’s Ben’s turn, then Moe’s.

        The last turn belongs properly to Ephraim, who as one might expect is a virtuoso on his home turf.  He twiddles the knobs mysteriously but expertly.  They all see now that she is “getting close”.  Then he twirls both knobs to zero!  Mitzi, gasping, manages to blurt out a pitiful, pleading “Please . . .”

        Again Ephraim brings her up, this time to where she can see the Promised Land but not cross over.  And again he cuts back.

        Mitzi’s heavy-lidded eyes open and give him a death glare.  Her hands, constrained by cuffs, stretch in his direction to the extent they can, as if threatening to choke him.

        Ephraim sadistically brings her up again, farther this time, until she opens her eyes.  Her whole body flushes and this is where she usually holds her breath before she shrieks.

        Ephraim cuts back.

        With great effort Mitzi, eyes shut, gathers up her breath and says, “Ephraim Lichtenberg, if you don’t make me c - climax right now, I will divorce you! -- OHHH!!”

        Her husband has abruptly turned both knobs up to “High” and she screams and jerks and sniffles and moans.  The breasts bounce around violently on the small chest like mountains of gelatin.

        She goes on and on and on.  Such that Moe says, “Wow!”  Then a few last, irregular spasms, as Ephraim slowly turns the knobs down to “Low”.  She is now so still, like a corpse, it’s as if Jonas’s chair is an electric chair and she has been executed.

        More applause, and Mordecai has to shout to be heard over it.  “Number nine!  That’s a wrap!”  He turns his cameras off.

        The dazed nude is unstrapped and Ephraim leads her faltering bare feet to the couch.  She nuzzles up against him, legs folded underneath, and falls asleep.  Ephraim brings her head to his shoulder and kisses her sweaty hair.  His gin and tonic is across the room but he doesn’t want to disturb her, so he asks Moe to get it.


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