Turbula - Spring 2004 - The Breasts of Klingon Maidens


Volume III, Issue I	Spring 2004

The Breasts of Klingon Maidens

By Dan McClenaghan

Ellis Leahy, in a characteristic sluggard's mode, slouched on the sofa and surfed two hundred channels, with a beer on one side and a bag of nacho-flavored tortilla chips on the other; and he found – call it fate – STUDZ, The Channel for Men. A Star Trek episode was playing that featured Klingon maidens grunting and growling beneath their reptilian head crests through long snaggled teeth, robustly built, fierce-faced girls, ugly specimens by any human definition, unless you consider their breasts.

Conjoinment was apparently all the rage on their home planet, a condition achieved, we'll assume, by constrictive and possibly even tortuous brassieres (a partial explanation, perhaps, of their truculent deportments) that lifted and squished the balls of flesh together, while the cut of the outer garments revealed substantial expanses of the globular northern hemispheres. A packaging and display of bosom that was, by any Earthly measure, magnificent.

Ellis perked right up and said, "Hot damn!" and slid up to an edge of the couch cushion lean, spilling half his bag of chips. "Wait'll old Clete gets a load of this," he grinned.

Klingon female on TV Ellis tripped next door with two fresh beers and the remainder of his nacho chips and found Clete watching the Gardening Channel, a perky, pretty little bob-cut brunette in blue overalls demonstrating the correct method of spreading cow manure on a radiantly green lawn. Ellis handed him a brewski, plucked his remote control away and changed the channel to STUDZ. A Klingon maiden leered, eyes gleaming as she wrist wrestled the Enterprise executive officer's hand down hard onto the bar room table. The physical effect of the straining of the musculature of her chest lent an appearance of added firmness to her undeniably fine bosom, a fineness enhanced by a gelatinous shiver as she slammed her fists atop the table in triumph over her win.

"Nice," said Clete, cupping his hands in front his own breastless chest.

"We're talkin' knockers, right partner?" Ellis added, as his wife Ruth lumbered through the door, en route to her daily afternoon session of herb tea and cheap fattening pastry with Clete's better half, Juanita.

Poor Ruth, forty-seven years old and eight months pregnant, her body swollen up like a giant yeast dough. She looked at the T.V., at the busty Klingons; then she looked back at the boys: Ellis, fat in plaid bermudas and a too-tight t-shirt, a beer belly the size of a basketball, a long scab crusted on one boney white shin, his jowls and second chin giving his already square contenance a downward droop, lending his head the look of a fleshy cinderblock; and Clete, whippet-thin and bald as an egg on top, with his faded sweat pants pulled up over his small paunch and his partial plate grinning at her from beside his beer can on the end table.

"You two," Ruth growled, with her face bunched up like a thunder cloud, "are pathetic."

And off she stalked, with a slightly seismic effect, too tired to cuff either one of them on the head, leaving Clete to observe, "She kinda reminds me of those Klingon girls." He meant the way she spoke, the threatening rumble in her voice. Ellis, focused on the uplift and conjoinment of the breasts on the T.V., missed the point entirely; and as one of those maidens forced the hapless executive officer up against a bulkhead with malevolent sexual intent, Ellis said, "You gotta be shittin' me; Ruthie's tits are hangin' down around her knees right about now."

"I HEARD THAT!" Ruth bellowed from the kitchen.

The tea kettle sang. On the T.V., a cute, young, pointy-eared female ensign from the Enterprise zapped the Klingon in the ass with her phaser. The lusty maiden roared and released the exectutive officer as she spun around to face her foe.

Out in the kitchen, Juanita shut the gas off under the tea pot, and as the whistle faded away, Ruth repeated: "I HEARD THAT, YOU FATHEAD!"

"Oh," Ellis said to Clete. "I see what you mean" as the Klingon maiden roared and charged the ensign, only to be stopped cold by a phaser set on stun.

"You better watch what you say, El," Clete warned his buddy, gesturing toward the kitchen.

"Ah, she don't scare me," Ellis replied, confident that Ruth was carrying too much weight these days to chase him down. "She tries any rough stuff with me, I'll just hit with my phaser." Ellis grinned and held up the remote and jabbed it in the direction of his wife, who shouted out, "YOU GOT SOMETHIN' TO SAY, FUNNY MAN, WHY DON'T YOU COME OUT HERE AND SAY IT?" as the ensign, brandishing her phaser, hearded the remaining Klingon maidens out of the bar room and down to the brig.

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