The Macintosh:
A Nunkies Fantasy 
by Bonnie Rutledge


   You sit at your computer, happily surfing to the Nunkies Anonymous Page. Bonnie just announced to the loop there were sound files of Lacroix's velvety voice available for comsumption, and you're good and ready for some eargasmic euphoria.
   Innocently, you come upon the Soundtrack Page, and eagerly begin skimming 
the contents. Reaching the list's end, you let out a sorrowful wail:

   "They're all .wav files!!! I CAN'T PLAY .WAV FILES!!!"

   Many sobs and much pouting ensues. The bright orange of the links to 
Lacroix's voice seems to mock your despair. It just wasn't fair!!! Why 
should you be Nunkless just because your computer's -

   "A Macintosh? Well, well, my dear...It's good to know a few of my addicts 
have excellent taste."

   A warm glow rushes over your skin. That luscious accent...those 
meaningful pauses...the way your knees are melting!!! It-must-be-

   You swivel your chair around. NUNKIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

   Your mouth falls open at the sight of him, for not only did Lacroix just 
say 'Macintosh', but he was also wearing a kilt made from the tartan of that 
very same clan!

   "Och!" you exclaim. You suddenly feel dizzy at view of Nunkies' knees, 
scant inches away.

   Lacroix lifts you from your rollie chair, supporting your weight, which 
you don't really mind seeing as how your legs aren't actually working 
anymore. Your hands appear perfectly fine though, and you immediately begin 
to fiddle with the tiny buttons of Nunkies' linen shirt, accidentally 
(You swear!) undoing quite a few.

   "I'm extremely partial to the Macintosh," he whispers in your ear. "The 
power, the speed, those cute little apples..."

   "Mmmm-hmmmm," you agree, slightly preoccupied by Lacroix's hands running 
along your back. "You can say that again."

   "What? Macintosh?" You nod enthusiastically. 

   "Macintosh," Lacroix says,running his fingers through your hair. 
"Macintosh," he repeats, dropping kisses along your jaw. "Macintosh."
You feel a wave of cool air on your back concurrent with the loosening of 
your dress's zipper.

   You run your hands under the wool draped across his chest, echoing the 
refrain. "Mmmm...Macintosh. Lucien?"

   "Yes?"

   You finger the engraving of the pin fastening the tartan near Lacroix's 
right shoulder. "Isn't there a 'traditional' way that the plaid is wrapped 
to form a kilt?"

   "Why, yes, my dear. Let me show you."

   As Lacroix proceeds to show you what a proper Scotsman *doesn't* wear 
under his kilt, you think dreamily to yourself:

   <.Wav files? Who needs stinkin' .wav files?!?!>

************************
 Fin