by Troy Conway
I was going to have to run this matriarchal society myself.
“Okay, then—first things first. Baby doll, you come along with me. And bring about a dozen girls. We’re going out to round up the mermen and give them a choice, the way we did those other girls.”
“Yes, sir, your majesty!”
Bachmann blinked when I detailed two females to keep him here on the stage until my return. I think he figured that he was running the show, but he put on a good face about it, waving a hand and telling me to go ahead.
We went into the laboratory first. I gathered up what notebooks I could find, made a bundle of them, and put them in a small safe in Bachmann’s office. The safe combination was in his desk. He made no secret of it, he was the only one who could interpret his scientific jargon on this island.
Then we went into the lounge.
The mermen screamed and acted like the femmes they had been turned into when they saw the Luger automatics and the automatic rifles. They came along without a struggle, since none of them was armed.
I told Stella she would have to be my guide around the compound. She told me she’d love it, sidling close enough to brush one of her big breasts against me. The breast was firm and yielded only slightly to the pressure she put on it as she rubbed its thickened nipple across my arm. I put an arm about her, hugging her.
One of the other girls coughed. We broke up our embrace to go collect more mermen. We found them in their rooms, strolling through the little park adjacent to the buildings on the beach, swimming naked, and tending the various machines needed to service the compound.
We took them without a shot being fired.
Only one merman made any kind of threat. He simpered, “You just wait ’til Henriette gets back, honey. He’ll do for you all right.”
“Who’s Henriette?”
“Actually, it’s Henri Vachon,” Stella whispered. “He’s the biggest and the strongest of the mermen He’s off on some job or other for S.E.L.L.”
“Okay, we’ll handle Henriette when he gets back. Now what about guards? Don’t tell me a setup like this goes unguarded?”
“There used to be guards. Lately they’ve been kid of lax,” Stella informed me.
“Well, we aren’t going to be lax. I want guards posted at—hmmm. I think I’d better learn more about this whole operation before I try assigning guards. Stella, let’s hold a council of war.”
We went back to the auditorium. By this time, every merman except Henri Vachon had been locked in his room. The protestors among the women were in their quarters, also prisoners. The crewmen of the Athena who were here, as well as Alain Maillot, Georges Fortescu and Pierre LeMoines, had been placed under armed guard in the laboratory lounge.
Right now, this Thraxos layout was a priapist’s paradise.
And I was the priapist.
Our council of war was a gathering of me and four females. There was the redhead, Janine Karthos; my blonde Stella Marakza; Yusefa Suleyman, brunette belly dancer who had been abducted in the middle of a performance while doing a danse du ventre by the mermen sent to fetch women for the great experiment of Doctor Ernst Bachmann; and Theophano Linitka, a Grecian lovely with long black hair and very red lips.
I was saying, “We’ve got to establish some kind of law and order, you know. It’ll be real chaotic otherwise. Now I’m king, and you, Janine, are my lieutenant.”
“I prefer to be called the Mistress of War,” Janine purred, lifting one white leg and crossing it over the other, pausing a moment so I could look up under her mini-skirt. There was a red patch between the white thighs.
As if jealous of her superior, Stella murmured, “Why not call me your sergeant in arms?”
“At arms,” corrected Janine.
“In arms,” repeated Stella, slowly unbuttoning her white blouse, letting it hang open so I could see the inner swells of big white breasts.
“Which leaves the position of Mistress of Entertainment to me,” giggled Yusefa Suleyman, pulling her shirt up to show a moon of olive-tinted belly. I remembered, as her belly began to revolve slowly to unheard music, that she had been an expert in the danse du ventre in her native Turkey.
Theophano Linitka pouted, “What about me?”
“How about Chairlady of Carnality?” asked Janine.
The girls were showing their claws. I decided it was time to put an end to that kind of thing, so I rapped a hand on the arm of my chair.
“Now, now. Remember, I’m your king. And we have important matters to discuss. First of all, about the dissenters and the mermen.”
“We know what to do with them,” Janine smiled.
“You do? You mean you have a boat prepared to send them to some other island?”
“We can’t do that. They’d have the police down on us,” advised Stella. She was pushing back her loose blouse so that her white breasts were completely naked. Idly, she touched her rigid brown nipples with her forefingers, teasing them.
I was responding to the sight of those pale breasts, to the vision of Janine parting her thighs and slumping down a little in her chair as she brazenly drew her skirt up to her middle. She was a sight to inspire anyone except a merman. Her pale thighs were full, slightly heavy, and the shapeliness of her calves was enhanced by high-heeled shoes.
A movement to my left caught my eyes. Our Turkish delight was standing, circling her belly above the short skirt she was pushing down with her thumbs. Under the thin stuff of her batiste shirtwaist, I could see heavy breasts swaying back and forth. Her huge nipples made dark circles on her globes. When her skirt was at her lower belly, she raised her hands above her flowing black hair and began to swing her hips and revolve her belly slowly and lasciviously.
There is something intensely seductive about a belly dancer. The sehhiqeh of North Africa, who perform the art with the fervid passion of a rutting animal in the inns and funduqsthat abound in Algiers, Casablanca and Marrakesh, bring to their dance something primitive and directly sexual. They are women—sometimes with a band about their loins to hide their privacies, sometimes stark naked with their breasts jiggling in a manner calculated to rouse the desires of any male in sight—who will happily bed down and perform any or all manners of copulative couplings the purchaser of her favors might desire.
Yusefa Suleyman was a sehhiqeh who danced to rouse a man’s lust. Her olive-tinted breasts swung and leaped, their huge purple nipples pointing right at me as her dusky belly looped and jerked. Her hips went back and forth with a copulative rhythm so swiftly at times that her skirt began sliding downward past her black thatch and along her soft, shimmying thighs until it reached her knees. Then it fell away completely, revealing her naked except for shoes and the open blouse.
I could not tear my eyes away h m that female flesh. I did not see Janine and Theophano leap at me until their hands fastened on my clothing and started yanking it off me. I protested only slightly. What with watching Yusefa’s bobbing hips and jellying buttocks, with Janine’s big white breasts practically slapping me in the face and Theophano rubbing her mons veneris against my shoulder, I was like a hound straining at the leash. For a moment I wondered where Stella had gone. Then I felt my trousers being yanked down.
I expected the girls to fling themselves on my nudity, especially since they were all staring at just one place, where my flesh was paying homage to the seductiveness of the res es-surreh Yusefa was performing. Janine was squeezing her breasts with both hands, Stella was licking her lips, Theophano had a hand between her thighs.
“All right, which of you is first?” I asked hoarsely.
“Oh, you aren’t for us,” Theophano pouted.
“No, worse luck,” grumbled Stella.
“We had to make a deal with the others,” Janine murmured. “It was a kind of campaign promise. So that we four got to be your lieutenants, the others bargained we had to give them first cracks at becoming mothers.”
Yusefa Suleyman panted, “He is good for them now. By the beard of the Prop
het—will you look at that?”
Janine grabbed my wrist, yanked me from the chair.
“In there,” she said, pointing at a door. “Go!”
I walked toward the door, quivering, you might say, with delight.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I walked through the doorway and found myself staring at two dozen beds lined up hospital-style against the walls on either side of the room. There was a woman in each bed. Some had donned thin nightgowns, some wore only bed jackets out of which their swollen breasts protruded. Others lay like whores, legs spread wide to show their eagerness.
They howled at sight of my condition.
A woman in the bed on my left said, “Come on, honey! Me first! We drew lots and I won.” She was the daughter of a fisherman on the island of Milos, a pretty thing with loose brown hair and wide hips.
Voices raised as I walked toward her.
“Save a little for us!”
“Don’t wear him out!”
“Remember, we’re in this together!”
I read the fisherman’s daughter like a book as she spread her sun-kissed thighs. She would not savor a slow build-up, the play of tongue and finger. She wanted rape. I hurled myself at her from three feet away. I hit my target on contact and sank deep out of sight.
The girl screeched and lifted her hips. She froze like that an instant; then I felt her shudder out her bliss. I drove at her, made her body buckle and drop back onto the mattress. She fought fiercely with her femininity, savagely devouring me, gripping my upper arms and squeezing them with all her sexually frenzied strength.
I made her convulse twice more before I swung away.
An older woman waited for me an the next bed. She was excited, but she wanted more than a fast jog. She leaned to me, caught my manhood and made an oval of her lipsticked mouth. She worshipped Priapus as the Roman matrons once had done, head bobbing back and forth. Then with a groan she lay back and lifted her plump thighs.
The others watched, of course. Their harsh breathing, their moans, the stifled curses I could catch now and then attested to the fact that they were fast reaching their point of no return. I doubt if any of them had been in on a gangbang in reverse, this way. Usually it is the woman who must service many males. Me, I did it a little differently.
From the older woman I went to a girl of seventeen, with blonde hair and a freckled face. She was the aggressor, actually. As I approached her cot, she dove off it, locking her arms about my neck, settling herself in one swoop atop my reaching member. Her hips dipped and lifted, drove and swung. I walked to the edge of the bed and let her moving buttocks sink to the edge of the mattress. I stood over her and slammed ecstasy into her flesh.
There is a legend that Hercules performed thirteen and not twelve labors. His thirteenth task was to service fifty women, one after the other, without stopping. I am no Hercules, but with my satyriasis, I thought maybe I could handle two dozen of them.
My role as the founder of the League for Sexual Dynamics demanded that I do it. Moreover, my pride as an expert in sexology required that I take each one in a different manner. Could I do it? I wan not entirely myself, I was excited beyond the point of clear thinking, with the remaining screeching, maddened females waiting for my attentions, but I was reasonably confident.
The fourth woman was a Turkish girl, plump and with olive tints to her skin, like Yusefa Suleyman. I put the back of my head on the edge of the mattress and made my naked body a living bow and arrow. My Turkish halvah-honey squealed with understanding. She lifted a leg, shot herself with my arrow, and with bare feet firmly planted on the floor and straddling my bowed body, made with a belly dance of her own.
Some of the women caught on to my plan. One of them yelled, “He’s going to do it a different way with every one of us!”
“He can’t!”
“He’s done all right so far!”
“Hurry up, Kyra! I can’t wait!”
Kyra took her own sweet time, hips jumping, grinding and bumping like a burlesque stripper. Her breasts bounced crazily every whichway as she panted and sobbed, staring down at me.
“You aren’t—a man,” she wailed, head back and body shaking to the fierce delight that burned in her jerking body. “You are—a god!”
“Priapus,” I hinted.
Her orgasmic fury was so great she fainted, head bowed forward, body moving like a piston casing. I caught her, eased her to the floor, then stepped over her shuddering body to the pert little Frenchwoman with black hair cut in a pixie style, who laughed softly as she waited on the edge of the bed, legs up and spread.
“How weel you do me, eh?” she mocked.
I caught her ankles, drew them together and bending them far back over her head, turned her onto her side. I stabbed her at right angles to her prone body. She threw back her head and screamed shrilly, her body bucking furiously against my own. She could do little more than jog her hips in her contorted position, but she did what she could to heighten her own pleasure and mine.
Hands were touching me as I practiced fouteur on the Frenchwoman, since the furiously excited women who wanted me could wait no longer to take part in this pleasure parade. Fingernails scratched my buttocks and my belly, then became even more intimate. For a little while I did not restrain them, their own heat adding to my own.
But when the Frenchwoman yelled and straightened her legs, ejecting me, I felt I had to regain control of the situation. I pulled away and straightened up.
“Get back, get back!” I yelled.
A girl with tawny hair cried, “We’re dying!”
I grabbed her, pushed her to the floor. I caught her legs and tucked them under my armpits. She caught on Her palms pressed the floor, she walked on her hands with my body sandwiched between her upper thighs in the classical wheelbarrow position. She was a strong girl, I walked up and down the aisle between the cots three times before she collapsed and lay satiated at my feet.
The women had gone back to their cots by this time. They were still dying with need, but they could understand that they’d get more out of their pleasure partner by disciplining themselves.
I had eighteen women yet to take.
The seventh girl was a virgin. I sensed this from the frightened but eager manner in which she stared at me and in the clumsy manner of her posture. I felt this case needed something more than the others, so I caught her face, kissed her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. I traveled down her shoulders to her breasts. She moaned then, some of her fright gone.
I kissed her soft belly as she whimpered. When my lips sought her privacy, she pushed at my head with quivering hands, but relaxed as my tongue touched her gently. The girl cried out softly in the Russian language, lying back and accepting my lingual caresses.
As her hips began to convulse, I raised myself and thrust. Her pain was slight, she locked her legs about me and clasped me in her arms. A few minutes of such new and intense pleasure was enough for her. Whimpering, she pushed me away and lay with her face buried in her pillow.
I knew that sooner or later, these women would realize that I had not spent myself within them. Right now, they did not care, they were too emotionally involved to bother about a detail like that.
“I’m next,” said a familiar voice.
Celeste Maillot knelt on the edge of her mattress, pallid buttocks turned my way. “I’ll make it easy for you. Try me this way,” she cooed.
I caught her hips, lunged and drew her toward me. She was no novice at this game of Venus reversa Her buttocks slapped my loins as she wriggled and writhed, crying out her enjoyment.
Above her jerking back I whispered, “Did you know what you were getting into when you left the Arhena?”
Her head shook back and forth. “It was to be a holiday, with fun and games. You know? A little besogne, a bit of paffer.”
I could not carry on an extended conversation, not with sixteen fentes yet to be taken care of, but I had to know a few facts. I went on talking.
“Are y
ou and your husband members of S.E.L.L.?”
“No, of course not. Just friends.”
Her hips were getting ready to explode. I asked, “And the others? Fleur? Ilona Fortescu? Angelique?”
“O-only Georges! Aaaaagh!”
Her scream echoed in my ears as she jerked into her comble du bonheur, gasping and crying out. I felt hands catch my arms, yank me away.
I fell on my back on the next cot. A woman wearing black nylon stockings and a garterbelt flung herself on top of me. She squatted down in the posture known to the ancients as riding the Hectorean horse: knees apart, resting on stockinged feet on either side of my thighs.
“Thanks, sweetie,” I murmured.
This was an easy position for me. The woman in the garterbelt, eyes wide open and glazed with delight, did all the work, driving herself with metronomic steadiness in a pounding beat. All I had to do was lie there.
I was grateful for the break. Servicing so many women is tiring to the muscles. My sexual muscle was still in great shape—in the eflect de la pendaison of the French—but the rest of me was getting bushed fast. So I welcomed this break in pubic relations.
I even cheated a little. It felt so good just lying there I let the woman go on and on, spending more time with her than I had with any of the others. But the remaining fifteen caught on, and began a steady chant.
“Enough! Enough! Enough!”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “And thanks again, honey.”
The woman flopped on her cot and just lay there as I advanced upon Fleur Devot. The little blonde starlet was not as cocky as she had been aboard the Athena. She had lost some of her arrogance.
“I’m afraid,” she whimpered as I yanked her off the bed and made her stand on her right foot while lifting her left leg.
“You jet-setters,” I snorted as I invaded her puits d’amour.