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Below a rerun from one of our very first newsletters, back in 1997. How time flies when you're having fun!

Rescuing Bogart
Fiction by Eolake Stobblehouse

Hey Dudes, (You'll have to excuse me. Having lived all my life in Northern Europe, I tend to think that young American slang is way cool.)

The weather in Denmark in the early autumn of nineteen-ninety-seven is much cooler than the hot-hot summer we had over most of the northern hemisphere. Personally, I am enjoying that, while others miss the heat. I like being able to run, to move fast, or just work without sweating too much. Lately, it has been frost at night. That takes a little getting used to, I admit. But I still don't dislike it.

The weather doesn't seem to bother the local wildlife much one way or the other. One of the kittens living with us, a young playboy named Bogart, is an irrepressible explorer. One morning just after sunrise I heard intensive meowing from outside. I got up from my keyboard where I was sketching out an idea that had grabbed me in the night, and went outside to look.

High on the roof on the mansion was Bogart, looking not at all like his usual cocky self. It would seem like he had been hunting for birdie-babies, when he fell out of the old oak, and down on the roof. He was lucky that the house was there, and unlucky that I didn't have a ladder that was tall enough to reach that part of the roof. He was looking at me with pleading green eyes, as I was looking for a solution that didn't involve disturbing the fire department. Then I saw that one of the guest-rooms has a window that is only a couple of meters from where he was sitting. I said to him: "You just sit tight now, Bogie, I'll be up in a flash," and went inside and upstairs, only pausing to put on a kettle of water for coffee, since the noise had awakened other inhabitants of the house, sending them outside with sleepy eyes.

Just outside the door of the guest-room I remembered that it was currently occupied by young Kate, a niece of mine from out of town who was studying here for a couple of months. So of course I knocked on the door.

A minute later, Kate opened the door with blinking eyes, and said; "Oh, hi, Uncle Eolake, whassup? Why you up at this hour??"

Katie apparently didn't like to wear anything in bed, and I noticed that she was now not only pretty, but a shapely young woman as well. Kate has long brown hair, big brown eyes, and a steel trap mind that she is putting to good use. Then Kate heard the meowing from the roof, and turned to the sound, showing her profile against the light. "Is that a cat? On the roof?"

"Yes," I said. "Bogart is on an adventure." I walked to the window, and looked out, seeing Bogart sitting not so far away, pressed against a chimney. "Come on, Bogie, Come here!..." I called. Bogie looked me, and then around, as if judging his options. Kate stuck her head out the window next to me; "Bogie, Bogie! Come-come!"

After a couple of minutes of useless calling, Kate started climbing out of the window. "I'm going to get him," she said. "Oh no, you don't," I said, and pushed her back. I don't know why I did that. It could be because I didn't trust her skills, or it could be because she still was bare, and there was people now on the lawn. Both options are basically against my beliefs, since I say that trust promotes confidence, and nudity is good and not evil, so I was not proud of myself, and didn't pause to consider it, but instead climbed out on the roof myself.

Now, in a long life, I've been called many good things, but a sportsman is not one of them. Let's cut gracefully to half an hour later, where the fire department had rescued me and my poor writer's fingers from hanging from the edge, and everybody had had a good laugh or scare, depending on temperament, except Bogart, who had with dignity walked to the open window, inside and down the stairs, and was lapping milk in the kitchen, wondering why everybody was looking at him like that.

We were a handful of people in the kitchen, trying to calm down over a cup of coffee. Kate had put on a bathrobe, but she never closed it properly, so it didn't really help. Mr. Goplinn, the janitor, was grinning his gap-toothed grin: "Wellh, misthah Stobblehouse, that thare was quite an adventure you were on, wa'n't it! Almost had me calling for the ambulance in advance, for a while there!" And he cackled joyfully, clearly enjoying the mental image picture of me almost dropping off the roof. "Meow," said Bogart, looking at me. "You shut up," I said to it, but regretted my angry tone when he clearly was confused about why I was so mad at him. He had not asked me to go playing mountaineer on the house. I picked him up, wiped a little milk from his mouth, and started petting him, and he purred gratefully and started shredding my old working shirt.

So the moral of the story is that sleeping late in the morning may save you from a lot of problems, and perhaps even save your life. On the other hand Kate gave me a big, nice hug for "saving" Bogart, so maybe not.

 Eolake Stobblehouse

Eolake Stobblehouse

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"Damn you Eolake, there was a time when I could enter 'pretty young girls' in my web browser and enjoy the web sites that came up. Then I came across your web site and seen the quality photos you have to offer. And now I can't even enjoy surfing the web anymore. I mean once one has tasted the 'Cream' who wants just plane milk anymore. I'ed much rather have a drink from the cool spring waters then from a stale well any day." - BillyRay O <bear54[at]>