Willie And The Brain
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The Secret Life Of Willie Malter free porn video
Inspired by the James Thurber story "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty".
This may be archived/posted anywhere: just give credit where credit is due.
The Secret Life of Willie Malter
By Pretzelgirl
Contessa Willhelmina Malter gripped the steering wheel with delicately gloved
hands as her red sports car seductively caressed the dangerous curves of the
stiff European mountain road. She tossed back her long raven hair haughtily
and glanced at the Aston Martin still on her tail. Blast it! British secret
agent Christian Berg remained just a car's length behind her. With one leather-
clad hand still tightly wrapped about the steering wheel, her other hand
slipped down to jerk the car into a higher gear...
"Slow down! Don't drive so fast!" said Mrs. Malter. "Do you want to get pulled
over or something?"
"Eh?" said Willie Malter. He shot a bemused glace at his wife in the seat
beside him. She seemed disturbingly unfamiliar, a crass unwelcome voice in his
otherwise ideal world.
"You were going sixty-five," she said. "Willie, you know that I don't like you
to go more than fifty, and here you are up to sixty-five!"
Willie Malter grunted once and ran a gloved-hand through his thinning, gray
hair. In silence he slowly guided his Buick toward Seras Point, the roaring
of the Contessa's sports car fading in the remote, intimate roadways of his
mind.
"You're all tense again," said Mrs. Malter. "You're having another one of those
days aren't you? I wish you'd let Dr. Renshaw take a look at you."
William Malter remained silent as they drove into the city and eventually
arrived at Mrs. Malter's hair salon.
"Now while I'm getting my hair done I want you to buy yourself some overshoes,"
she said.
"I don't wear overshoes," Willie replied meekly.
She sighed impatiently at her husband. "Willie, we've been through this," she
said, getting out of the car. "You're no longer a spring chicken. Get the
overshoes."
Willie answered by revving the engine.
"And where did you get those ridiculous driving gloves? Look how delicate they
are on you. I think you accidentally bought ladies gloves, you idiot! They
don't fit you and look a little swishy. I wish you wouldn't wear them."
Silence filled the air; finally Willie Malter pulled off the gloves. Mrs.
Malter sighed in relief before stalking off to the hair salon, mumbling under
her breath.
Willie drove on aimlessly, vainly seeking to recapture the Contessa's pursuit.
It was no good though. The noisy city traffic distracted him. Seeking quiet, he
turned on to a side street and approached a hospital zone.
..."Doctor! It's the billionaire banker -- Edward McIntyre," said Nurse Wendy
Malter. "Hurry! He's beginning to blue-line!" A frazzled-looking desk nurse
turned to the pretty young blonde and answered: "Wendy, what will we do? Doctor
Benbow and Remington are in the ER and Doctor Pritchard is in the middle of an
operation!" Pausing for only a heartbeat to a run a carefully manicured hand
through her thick, wavy blonde hair and adjust her tight, white-starched uniform
across her ample bosoms, Nurse Malter replied, "Then we'll have to save Mr.
McIntyre ourselves. Quickly then, before coreopsis begins setting in. Switch
those anesthetizer dials from red to green. Trust me -- I've seen how it's done.
You've got to switch it to green..."
"Move it, Mac! The light's green already!" Willie Malter startled to attention
and pressed a nervous foot to the accelerator. Cautiously he moved through the
intersection. The driver behind Willie blasted his horn.
Cocky young bastards, thought Willie Malter as he passed through the intersection
and turned off to a side street and into a dirty, concrete parking garage.
Getting out of the car, he stopped to kick a chunk of dirty ice off the rear
wheel-well. The ice remained in place while Willie's toe screamed back in pain.
Overshoes, he thought, and set out for the shoe store.
Returning from the shoe store with a box of overshoes in hand, Willie's mind
began to dart across the list of other things his wife demanded of this trip to
Seras Point. There was at least one other thing he needed to get. Kleenix,
razor blades, toothpaste, toothbrush? She had told him at least three times
during the trip in, but his memory failed him.
Pausing before a newsstand, he glanced across the days headlines. Final
deliberations in the Fitzgerald murder case were being held today.
..."Then perhaps THIS will refresh your memory?" said the State's Attorney,
thrusting a delicate yet steel-cold firearm before the sultry redhead on the
witness stand. Wanda Malter gingerly handled the gun, running sharp, red
lacquered nails up and down the barrel. "This is mine. My Stasson-Vebley
40/.006," she answered with breathless charm, as an electric ripple shot
through the courtroom crowd. The Judge angrily called for order in the court.
"Your fingerprints were on the weapon," continued the prosecutor. "Yes,"
replied Wanda, batting lashes heavily painted with both mascara and guilt.
"I admit it. I killed Grant Fitzgerald, and I'd do it again. He promised me
the world, but never delivered. I was a simple country girl before he seduced
me and stole my life. I loved him, but he betrayed me. So I did it -- I shot
the son of a bitch!"
"Puppy chow," said Willie Malter in a high-pitched squeal. He cleared his
throat and glanced at the confused man behind the newsstand, the courtroom
drama dissolving into mist.
Quickly stomping off down the street, Willie Malter found his way to the
A&P. There, the simple country girl forced to a life of crime picked out a
five-pound bag of puppy chow and quietly wrote a check for his purchase.
Checking his watch, Willie saw he had another fifteen minutes before his
wife would be through at the hair salon. With no place else to go, he
shuffled along the block and finally into the hairstylist's. His wife
nowhere in sight, Willie dropped himself into a chair by the window and
sniffed the air distastefully. He hated the smell of the shop, the cheap
dyes they poured on his wife's scalp to vainly hide the grey spectre of age.
...Silent as a spectre, the alien beast slowly advanced, an odiferous
chemical smell emanating from it's quivering, amorphous flesh. Colonel Wilma
Malter of the Space Fleet struggled in vain against the ceramsteel bonds that
firmly tied her to a bulkhead. She knew that with the rest of her crew
kidnapped by space pirates, she was on her own in trying to stop the horrid
bug-eyed monster. Still held in place, Wilma arched her back, thrusting forth
her proud breasts toward the leering beast. The maneuver gave her barely enough
room behind her back to slip a hand beneath her belt and pull forth the
miniature hand-held laser pistol she carried concealed in the waistband of her
panties. "It's not strong," thought Wilma, "But it'll have to be enough to
finish off the beast..."
"Sir?" said the hairdresser. "I said we've finished with your wife."
Willie Malter mumbled an apology and asked the young woman behind the cash
register how much he owed them.
"Did you get the overshoes and the what's-its-name?" asked Willie's wife
sharply.
"Eh?" he answered while absent-mindedly handing dollar bills to the cashier.
His wife scowled. "Why can't you ever pay attention? Did you get the
overshoes and the other thing -- the puppy chow?"
"Does it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?" Willie sighed.
"Yes, I got them both."
"Just you wait until we get home," she snapped. "I think you're coming down
with something, talking back to me like that. I'll take your temperature and
we'll see what's really wrong."
When they passed out through the hairstylist's door, it chimed derisively
at them. The couple walked in silence for two long blocks. Willie struggled
to keep his mind on the dreary world. His wife was distracted by gaudy "SALE"
signs in the window of a drugstore.
"I want you to wait right here for me Willie," she said. "Stay put and don't
wander off! I'll only be gone a minute."
She was gone more than a minute.
Willie lit a cigarette and stared blankly at the grey, dismal world. It started
to drizzle. He leaned back against the drugstore wall.
...The girl they called "Willow" took a long drag on her cigarette and cocked
back a stiletto heel against the brick wall behind her. Looked like a long and
lonely night, she thought blowing out smoke through her bright red, o-shaped
lips. She smoothed her leather mini-skirt and stole a quick glance at the
fishnet stockings ensheathing her legs. No snags there. She looked good and
if she waited long enough, they would come. The customers always did. Willow
took one last drag on her cigarette before flicking it away. With a fleeting,
faint smile dancing about her lips, she faced the dark night. It was an
unforgiving life, but there was no place she'd rather be. She was Willow
Malter the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.
-The End-
Lianne
- 10.08.2020
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