After Dark: I Like it Big and Slow

Dear Lubricia Cosmoline,

I never thought it would happen to me, but just yesterday at my local shooting range’s Ladies’ Night, I learned something…and I just had to share.

I know that Thursday nights at the range here in Paris, Kansas, are supposed to be Where the Boys Aren’t. But I’ve always been insatiably curious about what those ladies get up to when they think they’re alone. I’ve also always wondered what the older marksmen meant when they were arguing about self-defense ammunition. Which do the ladies really prefer...big and slow, or small and fast?

So when I heard a rumor that there was indeed a place in France where the lady shooters dance—and a hole in the wall, where I might see it all, naturally I couldn’t resist the opportunity to sneak into the range to find out the truth. Problem was I guess I spent too much time packing my shit. By the time my eager eye filled the knothole in the wall, it looked like the girls were already done shooting and ready to head out lickety-split. There were three of them, each more beautiful than the last: a busty blonde, a bosomy brunette, and a pneumatic redhead. I watched wistfully as they put their guns and ammo away, but then the redhead spoke.

“Time to celebrate all those long pokes we put in the center ring,” she giggled, jigglingly. “Did everyone bring their pillows?”

“I brought mine,” bragged the blonde, bustily. “But it’s really huge…like a body pillow. Too bad I kinda sprained my shoulder when we were playing Tower of Power last week, so I don’t have much speed behind it.”

“And I have mine,” snickered the brunette, reaching her delicate hand, tipped with the kinds of totally realistic inch-long talons that women who prefer the company of other women always wear. “But it’s kinda small. More of a neck pillow than anything—but queen, I can really move it fast!”

Even as she was saying so, she was winging that pillow at a speed that either broke the sound barrier or the blonde’s brassiere straps…maybe both. Her sweater kittens bobbled impressively. “Ballistically,” bounced the blonde, “that small and fast projectile seems to have created a, uh, temporary cavity here.”

“Temporary cavity?” giggled the redhead. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Then she pointed at the cloud of feathers artfully arranging themselves around the blonde’s impressive cleavage. “Looks like it did a little more than that!”

“Oh dear,” sighed the brunette, pursing her perfect pucker. “Small, fast projectiles do run the risk of…overpenetration.”

The blonde, wreathed in a halo of golden light and softly drifting goosedown like a Valkyrie (chambered in about a .224), grinned. “But what if I prefer my wound channels to be permanent?” she teased. “I might just do…this!”

That’s when she hauled that big, heavy pillow and, in a very dramatic slow-motion sequence, proceeded to bop the brunette right in the bosoms. No feathers flew this time, but the resulting gyrations would have made Gypsy Rose Lee weep with envy—and it sure seemed to throw the brunette’s balance off. She dropped to the floor, landing on her pulchritudinous and bubble-like backside.

“Looks like your body absorbed the entire velocity of that big, slow projectile,” winked the redhead. “And now you’re horizontal…as per usual.”

“Oh please,” burbled the brunette boobily. “My .45 Long Colts are just fine…but not as fine as you.”

That, apparently, was my ginger goddess’ cue to whip out her own medium-sized pillow. Grinning wickedly, she swung it at the blonde at a medium pace. It made contact against the blonde’s impressive bust, sending those funbags on a ballistic journey that had me utterly transfixed. “See?” she crowed. “Sometimes you’re just better off taking the middle road…like maybe something in a .38 Special. And oh my,” she continued, licking her candy-pink lips sapphically, “you’re both very special.”

All three of them, who were now somehow wearing peignoirs and marabou slippers, reached for their pillows at once, then they all paused. “Big and slow, small and fast, and a moderate compromise,” murmured the brunette. “I just wish it weren’t only us here,” she mourned mammarily.

“Should we order a pizza?” quizzed the blonde. “That’s what we usually do when both our temporary and permanent wound channels need a little boost that we can’t get from each other.”

“No, that’s tomorrow’s shoot,” replied the redhead. “Today, we’ve got a guy who’s been watching us through the knothole. Come on out,” she cooed to me. “Join us and tell us what you think of our distaff debate!”

I unfolded all six feet, five inches of my frame and lumbered into the room, doing my best to keep from splintering the doorway with my massive shoulders and enormous, size-14 boots. “Big and Slow are my first and middle names, ladies,” I rumbled. “And that’s how I like it.”