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"Breast Man"

by Albert Simpson


Sir Knight 

Vol. 1, No. 12,  1960

     Orrin Conway was an authentic genius. His brilliant pioneer-work in astral physics had done more than the work of any one man to put America and the world on the road to space. He was also an authentic breast man. Women were his sole hobby, aside from his work--and the larger their bosom measurements, the more he adored them.
     Dying at 38, as a result of a collision with a drunken laborer's car on the Santa Ana Freeway south of Los Angeles, he lay clear-headed but hopelessly broken in body on a hospital bed, speculating upon the what lay beneath the starched white bosom of the nurse who sat at his bedside.
     Rather to his surprise, he felt little pain. Perhaps, he thought, his injuries were so severe that his nerves were unable to convey the messages of agony to his brain. He knew that he was dying, but there was nothing he could do about that. It was something he had accepted even ahead of the doctors who had struggled vainly to patch him up.
     "Honey," he said to the primly pretty young nurse.
     "Yes, Dr. Conway?" He hated being called "Doctor," but did not intend to waste any of his precious remaining time arguing the point.
     "Honey, I'd like to know what you're carrying around under that starched shirt-front you're wearing."
     She colored--he realized she was either very young or very inexperienced. "A slip," she said softly--he smiled, because he knew she must have been ordered to humor him.
     "And under that?" he asked.
     "A bra," she replied, her blush growing deeper.
     "And under that?"
     "My--I mean, nothing." Her face was a glorious, sunset crimson.
     "Not nothing," he said sternly. "May I see your breasts?"
     Her blue eyes pleaded with him, but his regard was remorseless. After a long moment, the tip of her pink little tongue ran over her lower lip. "Do I have to?" she asked helplessly.
     "Please!" he said firmly.
     "Very well." She showed a charming flash of spirit. "I'm a forty-one."
     He pursed his lips and whistled. "Honey," he said, "you're my kind of woman. If I get out of this pad, how about a date?"
     The blue eyes flashed anger. "Dr. Conway," she said sternly, "I should think, in view of your condition, that you'd have better things to think about than the size of my bosom."
     "You name something better, and I'll think about it," he told her.
     She hesitated, then said, "I mean, you're a genius. You should be thinking about our race against Russia to get into space, about helping man to the stars and--and..."
     "...and all that jazz," he finished for her. "Oh, well--anything to oblige a beautiful girl, especially one with a forty-one-inch bosom..."
     He did think about the intricate calculations that would take a spaceship not merely to the Moon, but to Venus, to Mars, perhaps beyond. He was still thinking of them when he blacked out...
     ...and when he came to, the intricate formulae still flashed and wheeled through his magnificent brain. He had it--he could see just how it could be done, and years ahead of the Russians, too. Never had his mind been so clear, so farseeing.
     It was then that he saw the gigantic breast directly above him, the largest, softest, breast he had ever seen. Dimly, because of its nearness, he could see its mate just beyond, coral-tipped, perfectly symmetrical. Incredibly, some giant, gentle hand was lifting him toward it.
     It was then that the terrible combination of thirst and hunger seized him, that he kissed the huge nipple, not to kiss but to suck. It was then that all thoughts of the stars vanished from his newborn mind, never to return.

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