His legs felt cramped, and he had to pause in place to straighten them out. He braced his arms against her thighs, keeping her legs elevated, and leaned into his chore. Another inch entered, and another.
The Eggers had been correct about Oubliette being bottomless. Six inches deep, and he hadn't met resistance yet. Seven. Finally his loins met hers, pubic bone grinding against pubic bone, and the mirrors were useless. That was the trouble with mirrors, as with pictures—a complete entry showed nothing. Cartoons always showed the cock half-cocked, with only a couple inches submerged, so that it was quite clear that fornication was occurring, but who in real life ever stopped there? (Except for the dolt who climaxed at that stage; he could think of one of those, alas.) If he wanted a picture, maybe some kind of X-ray photography, that showed a solid penis ... no, the X-rays would pass through the penis too; it just didn't seem feasible. Only Superman had X-ray vision that showed things X-rays did not, because Superman was a fantasy. Sex, unless carefully posed, was inherently private, for purely physical reasons. Unfortunately.
Meanwhile he had a situation here. Oubliette had absorbed all his eight inches without complaint. What good was it to double his phallic size, if he still couldn't touch bottom? Also, his first performance, truncated as it had been, slowed this one down considerably. He wasn't close to coming.
Then her interior muscles began to operate. She squeezed his organ, kneaded it, milked it without laying a hand on it. Prior had never experienced the like. Peristaltic ripples traveled up and down her slick canal. Pressure, suction, pressure, suction, squeeze and draw and stroke—and before he knew it he was spewing his essence with an imperative abandon he had never experienced before. It did not seem to be dulled because it was the second; rather it seemed to reach farther into the roots of him, extracting pleasure from hitherto untapped springs.
She let him subside inside her, and that was another kind of bliss. “Yes, I'd say the operation was a success. No doubt your technique will improve with practice."
Prior didn't answer. He had thought he had done a bang-up job, but evidently he operated in a lesser league. Oubliette must have been screwed by experts.
“Now,” she said briskly, “for the next exercise—"
“You're joking! I never came twice that soon in my life before. The orange has been squeezed dry."
But she had little patience with excuses. “This one is special. It's prehensile."
“Come again?"
“You will, you will. And this time I will too, and we can call it a night. Wouldn't want to overdo it for your first workout, after all."
“No...” he mumbled agreeably.
She affixed the member. It was S-shaped, about eight inches long even when flaccid, but no thicker than a pencil. It looked unnatural on him, and he didn't trust it.
“Let's have an erection,” Oubliette said crisply. “This will require a little practice, but you'll find it is worth it."
“I'm spent,” he said regretfully.
“You have not yet begun to spend. Do you think I went to all this trouble just to have you poop out for the main event? Now let's get this crate into the air."
Prior tried valiantly, but the crate only twitched and hung its snakelike head.
“This is insubordination,” she said, irritated. “I'll goose it into action.” She brought out a douche-shaped vibrator. “Bottoms up."
She had not been speaking metaphorically. Prior turned around, leaned over, and presented his posterior to her. She turned on the vibrator and pressed its horn into his quivering rectum. He was getting goosed by a professional. For a man who did not like pederasty, he realized his anus was getting a lot of attention. First the Eggers, then the enemas, and now this.
But the treatment was effective. His twisted organ jerked. It was as though the nerves of his colon connected directly to his penis. Maybe they did, now; how could he know the details of the surgery he had had? The S-shape began to straighten out, and the pencil-diameter swelled into fat crayon size.
Oubliette put more pressure on the vibrator. It nudged deeper into his anus, tugging at the membrane, one inch, two. It dilated the sphincter muscle and gave it a royal rubdown. It stirred up his bowel, sending a pleasurable and somewhat urgent warmth outward through his entire diaphragm. And the phallus expanded.
He felt the vibrator sliding yet further in. It reminded him of the enema tube, but this was three times as effective for arousal. This must be what it felt like for the woman, as the man's hard member thrust into her inch by inch. When his pulsing glans throbbed up against her cervix, did she feel—
The tip of the vibrator struck something. It added a new dimension of sensation. It was as though he were already ejaculating—but he wasn't. A phantom yet pleasant orgasm.
“Prostate,” she murmured.
Whatever it was, his erection was now complete. Some ten inches of serpentine penis bobbled under his belly. This one had not doubled in size; it had a different structure.
She withdrew the vibrator. It felt as though he were defecating, but it remained a most satisfying experience. His anus closed about the retreating horn as though to hold it in, but there was no holding it as it popped out. He straightened up and turned to face her, the organ waving like a slender tree before him.
“Now you control it by employing particular synapses,” she said. “The muscular structure is built in; there is no direct tendon contact, of course. But once you get the trick—"
Prior tried, but the long thin phallus merely shuddered into a slight reminder of its limp S format.
“I think we can prompt control,” she said. She brought out a shining hypodermic with a cruelly long needle.
“Now wait a minute!” Prior cried nervously, backing away.
“It only hurts for the first five minutes,” she said reassuringly as she aimed the needle at his glans. “After that it settles down to a dull ache. Try not to scream; it might disturb the other patients."
Prior's buttocks spread against the cold wall, halting his retreat. “Can't we do it some other way?"
“This is fastest.” She put her left hand against the wall to stop him from sliding along it. She reoriented the hypodermic spike in her right. “Now the first shot goes in the base of the glans, under the foreskin. Hold still, because the needle has to penetrate almost half an inch to reach the main nerve, before the spider venom is injected—"
The penis whipped to the side, away from the threatening needle. “Spider venom!"
“Yes, that's how,” she said, taking the needle away. “Some organs respond more readily to threats than to promises."
Prior was shaking. “You mean you weren't really going to—?"
“Not unless your tool failed to perform,” she said a bit smugly.
“What's in that pigsticker?"
“Sterile water. But of course I wouldn't puncture a prosthetic, since it can't heal."
Prior was still breathing rapidly. This doll was deadly!
At her direction, he learned to wiggle the penis from side to side, to hook the tip around, and to make an undulating S shape. The motions were clumsy, but he could see that with more practice he would be able to put this member through an impressive array of tricks—in or out of a vagina.
“Now let's harness it,” she said. She got on her hands and knees on the bed and presented him with a hole-shaped orifice. This was about the only position, he knew, where the hole really was a hole—when the weight of the body was pulling away from it, allowing air to enter and spread it wide. He wondered whether he could see down to the end of it, if he had a penlight.
But this was no time to dally. Prior kneeled behind her and formed his member into a crude corkscrew. He concentrated on her crack and lunged his penis forward like a striking snake.
He was not as proficient as he thought. The serpent caromed off one resilient buttock and sprawled ignominiously against her leg. He hoisted it again, no-hands, and drove for the center crevice. This time it was on targe
t horizontally but not zeroed in vertically, and it came up against the puckered clean anus. He shrugged and applied torque; she'd been into his ass more than once, after all.
But the resistance was too great, and his control too fumbling. The glans snapped out and skidded down to the waiting vulva, where it sank in easily.
Prior gave it a ripple and watched the slender length of it tunnel in. Air escaped as the mass of his entry displaced it from her open vagina. Down, down he drilled, undulating against the hot walls of her channel. Three, four, five, six inches. He felt the mouth of her cervix, and angled the glans to stroke it repeatedly. He wondered whether it would be possible, with this unique organ, actually to penetrate the uterus itself. No, probably not—not without damaging the womb. That region was reserved for sperms and babies and intra-uterine contraceptive devices.
Oubliette sighed, and he knew he was accomplishing something. But he was determined to plumb the full depth of her this time. In he went, a greased piston. Around the cervix, beyond it, down into the very nadir of her cavity. Seven, eight, nine inches.
Then at last he felt it: that cushiony resistance that signified the end of the alley. He straightened out the python and wriggled in the last inch, thrashing the head back and forth rapidly. He was going to stir up her gut the way she had stirred his!
“Oh,” she moaned. Her breathing accelerated.
Prior leaned against her cool derriere—so unlike her blazing interior!—and reached both hands around and under to titillate her hanging breasts. That was why they were called tits, he thought: for titillation. These were fine and full, their nipples erect. He took one in each hand, hefting it as though weighing choice meat, and corkscrewed simultaneously with his embedded penis. He caught each nipple between thumb and forefinger and rolled it back and forth while his glans chafed at the dent in her cervix.
She groaned and struggled and flexed her bottom against him, and her breath escaped with a slight whistle, but still she did not climax. Prior, despite his two preceding efforts, was close to making it again. But he was determined this time to take her with him.
He had an inspiration. He let go one breast and moved his fingers to the front of her cleft, reaching around her thigh to come at it squarely. He dipped his forefinger in the lubricant of her two parted inner labia and rubbed back until his finger struck his own buried shaft, then forward again to her clitoris. Then he pinched the clitoris and mashed it up and down several times.
Now at last her buttocks grew hot too. Her back arched, her body stiffened, and she panted. He hooked the tip of his finger into the little fold of the clit and squeezed it back into its base while he shoved Prehensile with all his might.
Oubliette climaxed explosively. He had punched the right button this time! Her hips bucked back into him, her breasts flopped against each other and her buttocks tensed convulsively against his loin, squeezing his organ from its base all the way in. She jerked back and forth, riding his shaft, pumping herself along so that naked inches showed momentarily, only to be swallowed up again. Her entire vulva tightened around him, the labia closing on the base of his member, and inside that peristalsis wrung him in waves and tidal waves, concentrating much of his blood and all of his sensation within her.
Prior came. He had to.
It was like spitting into a hurricane. He knew he was spurting, but he couldn't feel it amid the violence of her motions. Then she screamed and sighed and shoved back against him so hard it hurt, and her vagina clamped as though she had turned to metal or stone, and his last throb pressured out deep inside her with slow, agonizing, hydraulic force.
She collapsed forward on the bed, and he with her, still connected at breast and hole. Her bottom bunched and became softly rounded, cupped enticingly under and against his loin, and as she relaxed outwardly and inwardly his penis slowly softened within that liquid mass of flesh. He was panting right along with her, and still kneading the breast that was now flattened against his palm. It was an utterly delicious sensation.
After a time he rolled off her so she could breathe. He thought he had lost erection entirely and fallen out, but he had forgotten how lengthy this member remained in the flaccid state. A good four inches of semi-turgid flesh pulled out of the hot shadow between her nether mounds.
“You're coming along nicely,” she murmured into the pillow. “I think one day you'll make a skilled lover. Tomorrow we'll try some of the more advanced exercises."
Chapter 17—Pigskin
In the daytime Oubliette had her regular patients—a steady stream of men with damaged, undernourished, or impotent penises. Prior didn't inquire into their specific complaints. Obviously they did not have the privilege of playing the music of their organs for the pleasure of the doctor. He was a special patient, and he knew when he was well off, and he intended to stay out of mischief to be sure the situation didn't change for the worse. But daytime was dull.
He wandered through the library. Idly he took down a volume and riffled through its pages: Psychopathia Sexualis, by one Krafft-Ebing. Just as he had suspected: dull as hell. He glanced randomly at the spines of other volumes: first editions of Chin P'ing Mei, Bah-Numeh, Exeter Book, Complete Letters of Marcus Argentarius, and so on: all exotic, dated, obscure references of no conceivable interest to him. Not a good sex novel in the bunch.
He contemplated the pictures on the wall, but they were oddities of classical vein—Aubrey Beardsley originals, the erotic art of Pompeii, and similar. There was some decorative statuary—INDIAN EROTIC SCULPTURE, the plaque said. He yawned, not inspecting the stuff closely. Too bad Oubliette's literary and artistic tastes weren't the same as her medical ones.
For want of anything better to do, he visited the eegling. Its playpen was under a map of the United States, the nation somehow looking like underpants stretched across North America with the penis that was Florida poking out to spray the urine that was Cuba and the Antilles. Some pale splotches suggested that the eegling had been using the map for phallic target practice, and now had something in its member to squirt with. But for the moment the creature ignored the map and eyed Prior mischievously.
The eegling was larger already, especially its standing member. It strode up to Prior's side of the pen and jetted a drop of thick fluid at him. There was a faint whiff of butterscotch.
“Fuck you,” Prior told it irritably. “To me you're no better than shit, and I'm the one who shit you.”
Prior drifted back to his room and lay down. His crotch itched, so he opened a drawer and took out the largest of the attachable units and plugged it in. He lay on his back and watched it come alive. It took time to fill, for it had voluminous capacity. It would be disastrous to remove this one in the erect state: not only would the job be messy, his body would be deprived of a fair donation of blood.
And that would be an interesting way to donate, he thought as the tube of prosthetic flesh lengthened and thickened against his belly. Plug in a transfusion bag instead of a penis, then show stag films. Maybe the nurses could be nude. Maybe they could give a man a real thank you for his donation. Put on a huge prosthetic, ram it into luscious nurse, take it off immediately after climax so she could pour the blood into her pot. In five minutes the average man might pump a painless pint out through his crotch, trying to fill a donation organ. Whoever received that blood in transfusion might feel horny as hell, too. If a pretty young woman needed blood, they could set up the input inside her vagina, and have a mating mechanism on the penis: his erectile blood goes directly into her body ... Little old lady in tennis shoes waking up and saying to the male attendant “I think I need a transfusion; gimme a quick fuck before the doctor gives me my sleeping pill"...
Prompted by his chain of thought, the member stood complete at last: twelve inches long erect, two inches thick through the massive glans. Prior could not even circle it with thumb and forefinger. What a monster!
It was a circumcised model. He didn't like this feature, but was morbidly fascinated. He licked his finge
r and ran it over the nude purple glans. There was sensation, but not as intense as that available from a foreskinned member. He wondered how men with such mutilated organs ever managed to ejaculate. Maybe they just had to try harder.
Curious, he wrapped a section of bedspread around the thing and tugged it snug. It wasn't exactly the same as a living, pulsing vagina, but it represented enclosure of a sort. He clasped both hands about it and pressed down.
Now the gargantuan phallus responded. It throbbed against the confining cloth like the motor of a powerful car, swelling to even greater magnitude. He had been wrong about circumcision; it was possible to get adequate stimulation without the foreskin. He pumped the wrapping a couple more times, feeling the urgency develop. Ah, where was Oubliette now!
The door banged open. A grandmotherly woman bounced in and collapsed upon the easy chair across from the bed. “I'm so glad to find a waiting room that isn't crowded!” she exclaimed. “All those dirty old men...”
Prior glanced anxiously at his lap. A section of bedspread stood like a tower before him, a foot high. He couldn't put the thing away without unwrapping it—even if he cared to remove it erect—and he couldn't unwrap it in front of this unwanted visitor. The absent-minded or near-sighted grandmother had somehow mistaken his bedroom for a waiting room.
“What's in the package?” she inquired sociably. “It almost looks alive.”
“Oh, it's the living end,” he assured her weakly. “Are you sure you have the right room?”
“I'm not sure of anything since poor Herbie came down with cancer of the cock,” she said. “He used to be a good fuck, but now he can't even get a good hard-on. A soft-on, is all. I have to use a banana on my cunt before I can get to sleep.”
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