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The mission
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
See the FAQ in a.s.s.d for more information.
THE MISSION
This was the mission: Anatole was going to make love the ugliest woman in
the world. And Ted, Marsha, Douglas, Jubie, and Red--the whole crew--
were going to come along and film it.
Now, Anatole did not make pornographic movies. Far from it. Anatole
was a man of considerable means and experience, a man living out the
consequences of knowing that a life was only lived once as few do. This
adventure was to be one more of his embraces of Life (a word he always
said a little loudly) in all its complexity and at its most ambiguous aesthetic
and moral edges. Of these exploits he sometimes made films.
This one was to be a documentary, like his others, but more personal, to say
the least. It could and would not be sold to PBS or the BBC, of course, who
typically made him edit away much of what he found interesting anyway.
("But Life is neither clean nor simple," he would growl. "We can't show a
Mondo Cane," they would reply.) Luckily, Anatole never needed the
money. In fact his films lost money. From the moment he thought of this
one, "The Mission," early one Monday morning, he knew it had to be done.
The whole issue of beauty's relationship to sexuality simply had to be dealt
with freshly. Besides, since he was very young he had found himself
fascinated with older women--women over 30, even 40--and their fuller,
characterful bodies and their folds and quivers. He looked for clues to their
carnal experience in the way they moved, overall and in parts, and for what
he imagined to be the knowing pain in their eyes, desiring someone,
someone. Was he the only man with this fascination? He guessed not. He
guessed that most men ended up simply followed the safest norm,
professing desire for the averaged-out, slightly masculine, sporting female,
the pert, unthreatening buddy woman of childhood, while secretly lusting
for the adult and excessive: breasts, thighs, lips, the depths, the roiling...
Where else could fleshly oblivion be found? Where else submergence in
Life?
-----------------------
Anatole and his confidant, Ted--Theodore--sat inside but at the wide open
sliding doors to Anatole's terrace. It was a cool April afternoon. Jubie was
making hot tea for all three of them. She looked over. Most people found
Anatole and Theodore an odd couple. Anatole, outgoing, muscular, hirsute,
and always well dressed, was a dreamer with an iron will and smiling eyes.
Women adored him, and he adored them. Ted was a tall, loose limbed,
younger man, always serious, extremely clean. He was a Ph.D. in
anthropology, which not many people knew, and he was enormously well
hung, which everyone seemed to know. The idea developed as they sipped.
If this were to be a film that others would enjoy--indeed learn from (for
Anatole was nothing if not a constant proselytizer and educator)--"ugly"
would have to be defined. "Old" was out. Old was unfair, and too easy.
Besides, who wanted to make love to a hag, and who wanted to witness it?
And what if she were once beautiful and the sport of it all broke her heart?
No, old was out; and so the woman had to be young: not a girl, but a
woman, say under fifty and over twenty five years old.
Deformed was out. No dwarfs, cripples, or accident victims. But very
skinny was OK (Anatole's heart sank) as were to be: really fat, bad skin,
dirty, hairy, disproportionate...they went through the list.
After a while, Anatole said: "You know, 'ugly' really isn't the right word,"
and stood up. He seemed discouraged by the pictures of the women the list
had summoned up.
"Yeah," said Ted, "you're right. Besides, your 'ugly' and my 'ugly' are
different. I mean, ugly--the kind of ugly we mean--is more like facing the
repulsive and erotically fascinating at the same time. Like, for me, that
would be fondling my high school science teacher, "Rosebud," whose thighs
met just above her knees, you know, and her taut stockings ending only an
inch further up, with her thigh flesh bursting out of the tops with little blue
veins. For a girl, might be letting that disgusting kid in the dirty T-shirt in
biology put his head up her skirt and slurp on her." Jubie looked aside.
"Ugly isn't always," he paused, "bad, its just too much, too particular, too
real. Did you know that the Yohingi have no concept of sexual beauty that
matches ours. Their men prize roundness, particularly at the waist, and
scars..." He went on; and then they were quiet for a while. Some birds flew
by.
"Theodore," Anatole said finally, "we have to go where the action is."
Then he sat down again. "The ugliest women in the world are Russian, are
they not?" No reply. "So I think we are going to have to go to Russia and
see." "Russia?" said Jubie. She had said nothing all along. Now her mind
filled with images of onion domes and samovars. Would all the men be
Boris?
"Russia?" said Ted. He got up and stretched. He tried to act bored.
"Russia's too big, Anatole," he said, and looking out at the hills. "How about
Bulgaria?"
--------------------------
So here they were, mid-October, in their fifth day of touring and Anatole
was still looking. They didn't even consider any other country after Ted had
first said "Bulgaria." The name said all, promised all. They were in two
cars; Anatole, Ted and Jubie in the first, a Passat, and Marsha, Douglas,
Red, and the equipment in the second, a VW bus of uncertain vintage.
Through towns and villages they drove--such sad, grey places--looking out
of the windows for a 'perfect' place and for Anatole's 'perfect' woman. Red
(who was black, and who had received constant stares since they landed in
Plovdiv) and Doug and Marsha each had Cokes. These they nursed for
hours as the potholes knocked the gas out of them. Doug had already shot
sixteen rolls of stills, in case they needed to "refer back." Marsha was
doubtful about the morality of it all. It was too much like abduction, too
calculated. But her role was lighting and she tried to concentrate on the
artistic problems she would encounter lighting a large woman, in inelegant
positions, to best advantage.
For it was clear to his band that Anatole was looking for a fat woman--
someone enormous, profoundly enormous, with big fat feet and big fat
hands and a mustache. Or something. Of course, that was not the way
Anatole described Her. He was both more crude and more poetic. "A
woman made of earth and horse and cow, a woman of solid grace, a woman
in whose folds three men could hide..." and so on, and on. This was
supposed to make their eyes keener.
The grey landscape of ploughed fields and dark, wet farmhouses rocked by
endlessly. Ordinary, ordinary people watched them go by, some stopping
their bicycles until they were far gone.
There was one woman who had came close, one evening back in Plovdiv,
on their second day. They had all gone down to the--Pinnin, was it?--bar
and cabaret in the semi-basement of a nondescript building three streets
back from the main square. The bar was as warm , dry, and light as the
streets were cold, dark, and wet. It made them feel that the deprivation and
scarcity they had steadily witnessed on the streets of Plovdiv was intended,
intended precisely in order to cram everything convivial, loud, and plentiful
down here, or at least in places like it. Smoke hung in the air so thickly that
after a minute Ted said he wanted to leave, and did, taking Jubie with him.
Jubie always did what Ted did or suggested. She loved him. Or his thing.
The rest of them found a formica table near the stage.
Before they could make themselves comfortable the lights went on and out
into the light stepped what had to be Anatole's woman! She wasn't all that
large: large enough to hide two men, maybe. Her large feet dove into a pair
of very small high heels of red sequins, pitching her body forward, a motion
she constantly resisted by pulling her shoulders back and kicking her
enormous bottom out in the process. She wore blue stockings and a rather
simple black negligee with far too many tassels, tassels she must have sewn
on herself. Catcalls filled the room. "Zsa, Zsa! Zsa, Zsa!" The satin surely
suited her handsomely, thought Anatole, gliding over her bulges with great
serenity. It gave to each of her surfacing, multitudinous curves a sheeny
line, and to those curves it missed a bevy of gratuitous folds, like a skin.
Tassels hung under her belly; tassels swung at her hem. Her waist was
rather small, comparatively speaking.
In short, she was beautiful; and Anatole felt somehow both innervated and
discouraged: He could not see her as anything other than quite beautiful,
and had he not resolved to transgress into the zone of repulsion? Was he
that far gone? Doug's camera whined and chirruped a few times.
Professionally.
Music was provided by a two-piece band, Anatole only now noticed: a
guitarist and a drummer. Both were boys--Adam's apples well behind their
buttoned collars--and both had goatees. Maybe they were brothers. They
looked into the audience like mournful twins as Zsa Zsa minced quite shyly
up to the microphone. Her black hair was already tousled with her warmth
and dampness. Her eyelashes cast great shadows on her full, rouged cheeks.
He lips were painted, pointed as a heart.
She noticed the American group immediately and said, ignoring Marsha,
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, welcome to my Plovdiv," and raised her negligee
to show off a large, blue, inner thigh. Before she dropped it, laughing, she
flashed some creamy thigh-top--it seemed--only to Anatole. Marsha was
ordering drinks. Red was beginning to tap his match box on the table and
nod, as he always did when he started having fun. His lips were mouthing
"big ole Mama" or something like it as the band began their rendition of
Cabaret "Guten avend mein damen und heren...".
Zsa Zsa sang the number rather well, in German, then French, Croatian,
English, and Bulgarian. She kneeled and twisted and bent over. She hoisted
her negligee. She licked her fingers. Her waist was remarkably flexible as
she swiveled and sauntered back and forth. Deaf to the calls of drunken
Bulgarians, she wondered: who was this group? Movie makers? The
thought of this made Zsa Zsa unsteady a few times, and she staggered. This
made her seem vulnerable, which she was, indeed. She identified the
older, richer-looking one, staring at her so intensely and possessively.
Certainly the producer! For him she would make a special effort. Pyotr
would have to wait tonight.
By eleven o'clock no one was left in the Pinnin that wasn't American but
Zsa Zsa, the bartender, and the waiter. These people work hard, thought
Anatole. Or perhaps there was a curfew. Zsa Zsa had taken two breaks,
sung and sashayed for three sets, and drunk about five glasses of wine: three
while she was singing, and two at their table, and now a third. Her earlier
directness had gone. She seemed tired, and quite innocently, she let her
head fall against Anatole's shoulder. Red and Marsha took what they took
to be a hint from Anatole and left. Douglas retreated into the darkness at the
back of the room.
"Zsa Zsa, beautiful Zsa Zsa," crooned Anatole, "poor, tired Zsa Zsa. You
danced so beautifully." "You are beautiful, my Anatole," she said blurredly,
patting his head without looking up.
"You know," he continued after a long pause, "you could be in the movies."
At this Zsa Zsa stiffened.
"Oh no! I am so...." "Beautiful...big and beautiful." Tears welled up in her
eyes. This was a wonderful man, and from America! He could see her true
shape; he could feel the exquisite body inside her. Pyotr treated he like a
sack of flour, like a loaf of dough. But would Anatole just abuse her, like
Denis did in Paris, mesmerized by her folds, putting things into them like
spoons and buttons and pens, and poking her intimate openings with vile
plasic penises while his own was so small he couldn't even get the tip of it
past her flesh to her true, inner lips? At least Pyotr knew what to do, crude
and stupid as he was.
For his part, Anatole didn't quite know how to proceed. He had started
something he now half wanted to stop. Zsa Zsa was too real. She affected
him. His penis was stirring and, doubled up in his underwear, it was
becoming uncomfortable. He had drunk too much. He heard Doug's camera
go off a few times. Now she was slumping over, tearful still, and smiling.
The bartender , a short man in black and white, looked over at them darkly.
Pyotr would get wind of this.
"Zsa Zsa, let me take you home. Where do you live?" Anatole said quietly,
and waved Doug to take off. Doug wanted to record it all but Anatole shook
his head firmly.
"15 Prjensta" she said, "on the fifth floor." Her eyes were green and
glistening. Her eyelashes were her own, he noted: on stage they looked
false. He would take her home. Maybe give her a kiss.
------------------------------
Outside, the night air was damp, not yet truly cold. The street was deserted
and the "fifth floor" seemed far away. A handful of streetlights shoe
through the mist, shining, he thought, no less sweetly than they did in Paris
or Sofia. (Jeanine? gone; Odett? gone. Their faces faded.) Anatole and Zsa
Zsa had just started to walk, arm in arm, away from the square when a
carriage clopped up, as if out of nowhere, and stopped, horses snorting. The
bartender must have called it! Without a word or a look at him, Zsa Zsa
stepped in to the cab.
She moved with extraordinary grace, he thought, momentarily showing him
her rounded, churning bottom. An essay in darkness! He watched her high
heels, first her left, then her right, stamp firmly onto the carriage steps, each
with a slight tremor of the ankle. This tremor thrilled him unaccountably.
He followed her in with his heart racing.
No sooner had he closed the thin door behind them than he was smitten by
her perfume, her presence, and her warmth filling the cabin. She smelled
not like a woman who had worked hard all night, but like talcum, myrrh,
rose, toast, wool, wine. The seat was of tufted leather, worn soft. He could
not sit back, but instead gazed over at her smiling mass. She reclined
comfortably, as though finally at home, looking out of the window, playing
with her lapel, her hair wispy at her neck. The carriage's jerk as it started off
perturbed her not at all. As the little cabin began rocking, he took off his
coat. He reached for her wrap and gently pulled it away. Time began to
slow. Parallelograms of light drifted over her satin clad body, gently rolling
and rocking, rolling and rocking...and as his head descended as if of its own
accord towards the intersection of her thighs, it occurred to him that he
never saw a carriage driver.
"Anat...," Zsa Zsa murmured, lifting and parting her heavy legs. Her breath
was heavy now, as was his, close about his head. As he sank, the heat and
fragrance of her innerness was almost more than he could bear. He could
not push on through that darkness! It was an approaching maelstrom, a
place in the from which he could not return unchanged. The Origin. And
yet he was also acutely aware, intellectually, that this was where he wanted
to be, precisehy, in the midst of throbbing Life and at the edges of dulling
convention, no place, every place. It could not be filmed.
He pulled up and gained some control of himself.
"Anatole, cheri" she cried, with mild rebuke or disappointment (he couldn't
tell which) and stretched her arms towards him.
Now he would drink her totality up with his eyes, yes! He wanted to see
her naked, to make of her an object, an impossible object, an impossible,
improbable and yet familiar creature/object/woman, large and cool and
naked, bearing within it/her belly the dark, fragrant furnace of life, naked
and soft, a cradle cradled against the rocking leather of this impossible
carriage in this improbable city, city of hooves and sad walls, far from
everyone he knew. She seemed to know what he was thinking, for
seemingly within moments, and without a trace of awkwardness, Zsa Zsa
was naked, wearing only her red, high-heeled shoes. Her skin was alabaster
and unmarked. Her flesh was banded by the shadows moving across it like a
fast moving cloud, and between these liquid moments it glowed dully in
misty overflow of light. He tender flesh shook and trembled and rocked
with the horses' rhythms and the carriage's springs. Her breasts were large
and lay low together. Her stomach was in dolphin rolls. No Michelangelo
could follow the subtlety of curvature of her mounds, the way they turned
into each other and wrung each other out; no designer could discern the
thousand radii that blended her creamy vortexes into their dance with
gravity. Then, slowly, with her long red nails (had he seen those before?)
she reached down between her legs and began parting the way to her pussy.
His eyes flew between her fingertips and the sullen, trembling thighs that
towered to either side of them. Her labia had labia. Her lips had lips. They
smacked and plipped as she parted them and stirred them until she reached
the great dark, the inner curtains, the tassels... This called for a penis the
size of a horse's head and as hard, as red as a beaten pig and as voracious!
Anatole felt his own dick reaching these proportions, and knew that if he
looked down, surely, he would bring forth from his trousers an instrument,
an animal, that would beggar the drawings of the Chinese masters in
ugliness. "Anatole," Zsa Zsa crooned, heaving her hips upward, "make love
to me! Soon we are home." She still did not look at him, but now, through
half lidded eyes, she sought his crotch, hidden in the moving dark. Her
mouth seemed dry.
Yes, he would make love to her! But this occurred to him: he wanted to
stay dressed. He wanted her to feel his clothes all over the expanse of her
cool body, here rough, here smooth, here his belt, here his lapel. Her
nakedness would be doubled. Also, he wanted his penis, by itself, to equal
her body in fleshly power, in lonesome magnitude, he: the puppeteer in
black--the mind, the eyes that saw all--she: the moonlit barge, receiving,
carrying, transporting. He would sink his dick--his dick!--deep into this
large, voluptuous, woman and make her fuller still. Again ad again,
helping after helping. His dick would be the food she so craved and that she
made herself fat for with substitutes. Ha, no substitutes now, lucky Zsa
Zsa. The horses must have broken into a trot, because the carriage shook
and rocked faster, more roughly. City scenery had disappeared on one side,
replaced by darkness and an occasional passing tree. Perhaps they were
going around and around a park, or along the ocean.
Ah, she would ripple with his pounding like a sail in a strong wind or a
blanket being shaken out, he thought as he pulled her weight down onto the
full length of the upholstered seat. She barely fit and so turned a fraction to
place her back deeper into the corner. Still wearing her heels, she raised her
heavy, fat-pleated right leg high into the air, resting it slightly against the
seat back, and pulled her equally heavy, fat-pleated left leg up until she
could press her feet against the front of the cab. Her constant shaking
seemed to vanish as she did this, and he watched: neutralized, the quivering
and jostling had become part of the original nature of her body and only the
heavy, fluid motions of her legs and churning of her hips remained. Her
head was turned away as she bit her curled second finger, waiting. With her
long eyelashes he looked like a baby. Then, with her right hand she parted
her outer, fatty labia again.
Anatole rose up looking down. The roof of the cab was twenty feet high, so
large did he feel, so expansive, like a god/genie/ogre ou of a bottle looking
down at the good earth with the smell of rutting animals and approaching
storms. He reached into his pants and wrestled out a penis he hardly
recognized. Still turgid and fairly soft, it was nonetheless as large as his
normal erection. It smelled like goat. What would it turn into yet? He began
to twist and turn it, sending waves of pleasure up his spine. Soon, he
thought, soon. He looked at her gaping deep pussy now fairly rotating with
desire, her large buttocks beneath it raising it into the air, far from the
leather hills. Then, like a fighter plane shot out of control he dove his head
down until his mouth and lips crashed into her fleshy pit!
It filled his mouth, it rose up to the bridge of his nose and back to the point
of his chin. It lapped at his cheeks. Her legs came together around his head
softly, heavily, as he extended his tongue indefinitely into her, spiralling,
sniffing, like dog in a tunnel. He reach around her thighs with both arms.
Their girth and substance, now a matter of touch and resistance, thrilled him
to the souls of his feet, making them hurt. Her fat flesh was so resilient and
firm that she seemed made of four women and put into the body of two.
Running out of breath, he lifted his face from her now wet and broken-open
pussy. He could not see her stomach or breasts or face behind the mountain
of oscillating flesh immediately above and around: only her sundered,
asymmetrical pussy-lips and the hint of immense darkness pearled within
them. Rooms within rooms. Her perfume now was strong and clung to his
face. With every breath of it he grew dizzier: cut grass, fig conserves,
cardamom, oak, oysters, lemon, cognac. Her breathing was loud now, filling
the cabin. She had been repeating, "Ana, ana, ana..." seemingly forever.
The driver, could he hear?
Now he licked her with full, flat, muscular tongue, probing and twirling,
sucking and biting and twisting the infinite lips of Zsa Zsa's meaty
Bulgarian pussy. His beard and her pubic hair mingled, and between her
squirming and pumping air and his mumbling slurps, it became uncertain as
to which side of the heaving union was mouth and which pussy. Beneath the
variations, a deep and syncopated rhythm was being set that could not be
stopped. With hi left and right hads, Anatole spread her lips apart wider
and looked Her enlarged vagina careened in like a whirlpool of redness, a
trumpet of vacuum, swathed, curtained, velvet, sweat-walled, thundering.
e rolled his tongue in, and then a finger which he arced upward to trace the
inner upper wall of her vagina, this as he massaged the outside of that same
spot with his lips and tongue--her clitoris, rubbery and elongated. She began
to wail.
Now, gently but firmly, he parted her legs fully and placed them back
where they were. His penis was in full swell. Her wails subsided to
whimpers.
Once again Anatole rose up and looked down. But this time it was by his
own instrument that he was mesmerized. Was it someone else's? Ted's, but
darker, veinier, more twitchy and alive? For truly, it twitched incessantly
as though straining at some bit. And it was ugly. Zsa Zsa pulled her head
forward, anticipating the next action. She let out a quaver of alarm at the
sight of Anatole's dick and began both to massage her ample breasts in both
hands and rhythmically to piston her wide soft hips and spreadeagled legs
in the empty air, as though riding a horse laying down. If she could have
urged the real horses faster this way she would have, but she had to let the
carriage's rocking simply amplify hers.
And so, head bobbing and weaving, Zsa Zsa watched Anatole's throbbing
penis swiftly advance. Anatole buried it into her inch by inch. And at every
inch Zsa Zsa convulsed. She had stopped thinking about home, about the
club, about Pyotr, but not, she realized about Pyotr's dick which now
doubled itself onto Anatole's as it burst through curtain after curtain of her
secret tunnel. Anatole felt that he would explode immediately, so hot, so
rippling, so overwhelmingly coordinated was everything that filled his eyes
and ears and nose and skin. Saliva and vaginal juice still wet his beard.
But he held on. He would not fuck like this--he would not fuck a woman
like this--ever again. He had to hold on, he had to think of her; and with a
resolve that came from somewhere else, he pulled himself together again,
lowered his pants for more room, and began a simple long stroking rhythm
of his penis in and out of her. He increased his speed. Things had become
classical, simple now. They were in the open. Rhythm was king. His
stomach against the underside of her belly made loud slapping sounds. Her
pussy was fully engulfing. She began to yelp and yelp, her face contorted.
She held on to the sides of the cabin now for stability. He was thundering
into her, Thor, Odin, every blow sending a wave up to her head to meet a
wave coming back down, her breast swinging wildly and independently as
though roped and screaming for help. For her the world was crumbling
apart from the battering, for him it was gathering itself up with every
stroke... When her orgasm finally arrived she curled up with the strength of
two men and grabbed him down, mashing his face into her chest and neck,
sobbing uncontrollably into his left ear and right as she showered him with
kisses, and he, in turn, hugged her huge, quaking frame as though it were a
bed stuffed with flowers. Then quiet descended. The carriage was still.
Anatole sat up. He had not come. His penis was still engorged, ready for
more, pulsing. He sat and watched it, unable to move. She lay quietly too,
with her wrap now over her breasts.
Then, from nowhere, in compete silence, as from a superheated flask in his
groin that had found a leak, his sperm rushed up the length of his shaft,
scraping and dragging everything inside him up with it, and began to
bubble from the top, overflowing and running down the sides of his purple
shaft. Wave after wave, it came. He let it go and it started rocking back and
forth, jerking as though shot, slinging sperm all over, not subsiding but
building in intensity, running amok. Impossibly, Zsa Zsa appeared before
him, facing away, and taking the wild beast into her hand, lowered her
enormous bottom onto it. It was so tight, and so hot, and she descended so
slowly, that he knew she had taken it in her ass. Still pulsing he spread her
heavy ass cheeks roughly so that he could see his stiff dark penis between
her liquid globes and so that it would sink in further... In two, massively
slow strokes up and then down again, he was finished, body limp, close to
dead.
She never allowed her full weight to bear on him, to the end. When she
finally lifted up from him--her buttock skin pulling across his, his penis
dragging itself backward and out as though it were taking off a tight
sweater-- and as she felt relief from his pressure, the pain melting, her thigh
muscles aching, shaking, Zsa Zsa sat down heavily next to him and
whispered, "Cheri, I am home. But I don't know whether I can climb the
stairs now," and she began to laugh, and laugh, like a little girl. "Do you
really think I can be in the movies?" He would help her up to the fifth floor.
He would carry her up, step by step! He would adore every pound of her!
Or rather, kilo.
----------------------------
"It can't be filmed" Ted said as they drove into the square of yet another and
nameless Bulgarian village. Jubie was at the wheel, Anatole in the rear
seat. "It reads well but it can't be filmed." He put down the papers. The
word was always stronger than the photographed image; they all knew that,
and certainly Anatole here had created a tour de force of repulsive erotic
delirium. Anatole's right eye was still swollen from where Pyotr had hit
him at the Pinnin, just as he stepped out.
"I mean, my friend, she's not going to do this like you wrote it, in fact I
don't think she's going to do this at all. That man of hers will kill her first.
And then you." "OK, OK. We are moving on, are we not?" replied Anatole.
He knew Theodore would say all this. "On to Varna. The Black Sea, the
resorts, the bars, the stars... Here Jubie, what do you think?" and he
handed Jubie the manuscript. Ted swiftly took it away from her.
"Lets have lunch here" Ted said. It was hard to see where: the place seemed
deserted.
"We gonna have lunch now, or what?" Ted repeated.
Anatole was watching a woman on a distant roof. She was putting up
washing, and seemed to be singing.
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