welcome back to the continuing Adventures of Hunter Cartwright. this weeks episode will be the last to be uploaded from the Great State of New York as next week i will be uploading them from the Not So Great As New York But Still Quite Nice State of Ohio. for all of you new to the exciting world of Prof. Cartwright, you can find the previous exploits by checking past journal entries. i swear they are all still there.
so without further ado (as i really should be packing instead of looking at terribly pretty girls and even prettier words) here is the latest episode in The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.
Six
Heavy round face, its skin lightly tanned an uneven beige. Watery blue eyes. Unruly sandy hair, raggedly cut and unkempt. Patchy blond stubble standing out against the wide chin and broad jaw. Nose a bit too large for the face, obviously having been broken on at least one occasion. Thin, quivery lips, wrinkles already forming at the corners from the constant frown that plays upon them. A perpetually startled look stamped across the whole of the features.
I sigh at the face in the mirror.
There is a soft metallic groan. The sound of water falling onto a smooth stone surface. The sudden burst of warm air, stabilizing to a steady rising stream. Soft wispy tendrils of steam dance and caper in the uneven eddies of heated air. The forlorn face softens and wavers. Droplets of water congeal, hang suspended upon the features, and then run slowly down, gaining size and momentum as they meld with more and more tiny drops.
The image in the mirror finally vanishes behind steam and moisture, leaving just a blurry approximation of my features behind. I sigh again as I compulsively wash my hands for the fourth time. No matter how often I clean them, I cannot escape the feel of the corpse things touch.
Foetid air. Rancid stench. The sound of a thick bubble bursting. The cold viscous touch of burst optic tissue. The jagged feel of cold fingers pressed against soft, warm flesh.
I shudder spastically and scrub my hands harder.
There is a brief knock, and then the bathroom door is pushed briskly open. Miss Stacia Brennar enters, towels and fresh clothes over one slender arm. She has removed her coat, clad now in a form fitting white corset that displays more female flesh then I have ever seen. Slender pale arms flowing into bare ivory shoulders running down to the ripe curve of the top of her breasts. A faint pink line at the edge of the corset where it pushes into the soft, plump skin, broken only by the faint shadow of cleavage. Shimmering white laces, cross and re-cross the smooth silk garment, pulling tight against the even smoother flesh beneath. The thinnest strip of skin, as ivory and smooth as sculpted marble, peeks between white silk and black.
She giggles, the sound of a little girl watching the boys at play in the school yard. It suddenly occurs to me that I am clad only in my under shorts as I stare openly at the woman of my dreams. I grab a towel from the side of the marble basin, hot water still rushing into it, and desperately try to cover myself. I can feel the first serious stirrings in my loins, as well as the hot, tight flush in my face.
I... I... I...
She giggles again, furthering the rush of heat in my midsection as well as the heat in my face, and sets the clothing and towels on a short shelf beside the sink. She watches with those fascinating green eyes, humor openly dancing in them, as I struggle with my improvised covering. Her smile is wide and brilliant, and I catch a quick pearlescent flash of small, shapely teeth.
My arent we just the cutest thing. she says warmly, her soft throaty voice causing another sudden twitch in my loins. I cant remember the last time I saw a young man blush. We might just have to keep you around.
She laughs now, a sound that makes me think simultaneously of childhood innocence and carnal sin. She flashes those perfect teeth at me once more, face turned to look over her creamy bare shoulder, and exits as abruptly as she entered.
It takes me several moments to compose myself after her departure.
I exit the bathroom, the largest and most opulent I have ever seen, let alone been in, and step out into the hallway in my borrowed clothes. The cut of them is perfect, much better then my now ruined suit, in pale gray linen rather than my accustomed dark brown wool.
I had been in something of a state of shock when first led here by the recently departed Miss Brennar, recalling nothing except the faint pressure of her blue nailed fingers, the intoxicating scent of her hair, and the barest of blurry impressions concerning my surroundings. Now, free of the most delightful of distractions, I am quickly caught up by the sight of the artifacts lining the hallway I stand in.
Directly across from me is a case containing the original prototype for the cold fusion engine. On the wall beside the door I have just exited, is a huge metal mask, far too large for a human head, and made of a shimmery blue metal. It is carved with images of strange aquatic beings: frog like creatures with long tails balanced upright on two legs, a strange city drawn in angles that cause my eyes to blur and water, and a great tentacled being that causes my stomach to clench in fear and revulsion.
I turn away from the mask, shaking my head to clear it, and wander slowly down the hallway, taking in the many trophies and accomplishments of the worlds foremost inventor, explorer, and adventurer.
As I get towards the end of the hall, I begin to notice signs of damage and struggle. An overturned table. A broken glass display case. A collection of oddly carved figurines scattered across the thick carpet. Another door torn from its hinges.
I turn to look through the open door and see
(....)
a grotesquely tall man (nonononotaman) at least eight feet in height, and thin to the point of emaciation. His flesh is the white of a deep sea creature, or some cave dwelling amphibian which has never known the touch of the suns rays. He is dressed formally: black suit, white shirt, black tie, all hanging poorly and in desperate need of washing. Hair, lank and white, composed equally of greasy strands and dread locked snarls, hangs long and loose about his shoulders and face. His eyes are a disturbing shade of yellow, seeming as if they would be much more at home in the face of some low beast. His features are sharp and thin, much like everything about him.
Something ripples beneath the dingy, untucked shirt. Almost as if some small, stealthy animal (nonononotananimal) were running across his chest and around his stomach.
And then he is moving towards me in long uneven strides, reaching for me with large, grasping hands.
so without further ado (as i really should be packing instead of looking at terribly pretty girls and even prettier words) here is the latest episode in The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.
Six
Heavy round face, its skin lightly tanned an uneven beige. Watery blue eyes. Unruly sandy hair, raggedly cut and unkempt. Patchy blond stubble standing out against the wide chin and broad jaw. Nose a bit too large for the face, obviously having been broken on at least one occasion. Thin, quivery lips, wrinkles already forming at the corners from the constant frown that plays upon them. A perpetually startled look stamped across the whole of the features.
I sigh at the face in the mirror.
There is a soft metallic groan. The sound of water falling onto a smooth stone surface. The sudden burst of warm air, stabilizing to a steady rising stream. Soft wispy tendrils of steam dance and caper in the uneven eddies of heated air. The forlorn face softens and wavers. Droplets of water congeal, hang suspended upon the features, and then run slowly down, gaining size and momentum as they meld with more and more tiny drops.
The image in the mirror finally vanishes behind steam and moisture, leaving just a blurry approximation of my features behind. I sigh again as I compulsively wash my hands for the fourth time. No matter how often I clean them, I cannot escape the feel of the corpse things touch.
Foetid air. Rancid stench. The sound of a thick bubble bursting. The cold viscous touch of burst optic tissue. The jagged feel of cold fingers pressed against soft, warm flesh.
I shudder spastically and scrub my hands harder.
There is a brief knock, and then the bathroom door is pushed briskly open. Miss Stacia Brennar enters, towels and fresh clothes over one slender arm. She has removed her coat, clad now in a form fitting white corset that displays more female flesh then I have ever seen. Slender pale arms flowing into bare ivory shoulders running down to the ripe curve of the top of her breasts. A faint pink line at the edge of the corset where it pushes into the soft, plump skin, broken only by the faint shadow of cleavage. Shimmering white laces, cross and re-cross the smooth silk garment, pulling tight against the even smoother flesh beneath. The thinnest strip of skin, as ivory and smooth as sculpted marble, peeks between white silk and black.
She giggles, the sound of a little girl watching the boys at play in the school yard. It suddenly occurs to me that I am clad only in my under shorts as I stare openly at the woman of my dreams. I grab a towel from the side of the marble basin, hot water still rushing into it, and desperately try to cover myself. I can feel the first serious stirrings in my loins, as well as the hot, tight flush in my face.
I... I... I...
She giggles again, furthering the rush of heat in my midsection as well as the heat in my face, and sets the clothing and towels on a short shelf beside the sink. She watches with those fascinating green eyes, humor openly dancing in them, as I struggle with my improvised covering. Her smile is wide and brilliant, and I catch a quick pearlescent flash of small, shapely teeth.
My arent we just the cutest thing. she says warmly, her soft throaty voice causing another sudden twitch in my loins. I cant remember the last time I saw a young man blush. We might just have to keep you around.
She laughs now, a sound that makes me think simultaneously of childhood innocence and carnal sin. She flashes those perfect teeth at me once more, face turned to look over her creamy bare shoulder, and exits as abruptly as she entered.
It takes me several moments to compose myself after her departure.
I exit the bathroom, the largest and most opulent I have ever seen, let alone been in, and step out into the hallway in my borrowed clothes. The cut of them is perfect, much better then my now ruined suit, in pale gray linen rather than my accustomed dark brown wool.
I had been in something of a state of shock when first led here by the recently departed Miss Brennar, recalling nothing except the faint pressure of her blue nailed fingers, the intoxicating scent of her hair, and the barest of blurry impressions concerning my surroundings. Now, free of the most delightful of distractions, I am quickly caught up by the sight of the artifacts lining the hallway I stand in.
Directly across from me is a case containing the original prototype for the cold fusion engine. On the wall beside the door I have just exited, is a huge metal mask, far too large for a human head, and made of a shimmery blue metal. It is carved with images of strange aquatic beings: frog like creatures with long tails balanced upright on two legs, a strange city drawn in angles that cause my eyes to blur and water, and a great tentacled being that causes my stomach to clench in fear and revulsion.
I turn away from the mask, shaking my head to clear it, and wander slowly down the hallway, taking in the many trophies and accomplishments of the worlds foremost inventor, explorer, and adventurer.
As I get towards the end of the hall, I begin to notice signs of damage and struggle. An overturned table. A broken glass display case. A collection of oddly carved figurines scattered across the thick carpet. Another door torn from its hinges.
I turn to look through the open door and see
(....)
a grotesquely tall man (nonononotaman) at least eight feet in height, and thin to the point of emaciation. His flesh is the white of a deep sea creature, or some cave dwelling amphibian which has never known the touch of the suns rays. He is dressed formally: black suit, white shirt, black tie, all hanging poorly and in desperate need of washing. Hair, lank and white, composed equally of greasy strands and dread locked snarls, hangs long and loose about his shoulders and face. His eyes are a disturbing shade of yellow, seeming as if they would be much more at home in the face of some low beast. His features are sharp and thin, much like everything about him.
Something ripples beneath the dingy, untucked shirt. Almost as if some small, stealthy animal (nonononotananimal) were running across his chest and around his stomach.
And then he is moving towards me in long uneven strides, reaching for me with large, grasping hands.
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
a fresh injection of hot suspense....
Random Chicken!!!!!