Last Licks

by Troy Conway

  She tried to speak but she could only gasp as I enjoyed her in the traditional hari-vikrama-utthita-bandha posture of the Hindu love experts. In a standing mirror to one side of the bed, I could watch the jiggle of her buttocks to my stabbings.

  “But I didn’t know——” she panted, between jiggles.

  “Okay, okay. You on my side now?”

  “Mon Dieu! Oui! Oui!”

  She was shaking, rubbing her extraordinarily long nipples against my chest as her hands gripped my hips and her hiatus divin spasrned about my herbe. I held her almost tenderly. I mean, after all, bitch she might be, but I would rather have her on my side than against me.

  Thinking about the Indian love postures was a big help. I began to go through them in my mind as Flew Devot sank back onto the mattress of her cot, smiling blissfully as she stared at my priapisme.

  “You’re trés magnifique,” she whispered.

  The number eleven girl was pretty strong. She gave me a yank so I went staggering backward to land on my spine on her cot. She started to mount me in the St. George manner, but I turned her so her buttocks faced me as she straddled my loins. She rested her hands on my thighs and began to pump herself up and down and sideways, in that manner made famous by Rangoni and Ottavia in the Dialogues of a Courtesan.

  I guess an erotologist like myself would figure I was in some sort of nirvanic nightmare. Here I was with two dozen assorted girls who could think of nothing but zigzag. I had the opportunity of a lifetime to study nationalistic reactions to certain caresses and to methods of copulation.

  The trouble was, I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. There was just too much of a good thing. I could not retain my scholarly outlook; or at least, not all the time. I thought I was doing good to be able to lend each new mefait a touch of the unusual.

  Right about now I began to worry.

  Not about finishing my task. I figured I could make that all right. What bothered me was, what are these women going to want of me tomorrow? The next day? And the day after that? Nobody—not even King Roide!—can maintain such a pace. I needed an out—but fast.

  I remembered the four girls—my lieutenants in the Amazon Army—who were waiting their own turns in the room outside this sororatorium. I shuddered in reaction, and the bare-bottomed beauty atop me screeched with delight as she thought she was causing it.

  I stared at the bare buttocks shaking and jiggling like milky jello above my loins. Think, man! I told myself. There are twenty-eight lovelies on Thraxos waiting for you day and night. How did those sheiks do it, with their harems? Some of them had more than a hundred wives!

  Egad !

  Little miss pink-cheeks was all through, shaking and falling over my legs. I pushed her away and turned to the next cot.

  Number twelve I took in the accepted padm-asana posture of the Hindus, sitting cross-legged on the floor, taking my brunette partner on my lap, with her hands on my shoulders. Number thirteen I pleasured lying on my side, lifting her left leg over my hip and sandwiching myself between those legs with my head propped up by my hand as my left arm was bent at the elbow. It is the perfect pose for a statue.

  Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen were variations on the uttana-bandha positions in which the woman lies prone with the man above. The whole secret in a lot of these love postures is the placing of the female legs. I put them upward and bent so the feet rested flat against my chest, or draped over my shoulders, or pushed back into the headboard of the bed, and under my armpits, while I was seated between their thighs.

  Eighteen was an Egyptian girl, dusky of skin and with thick brown hair and big calf-eyes. She was lovely, and her breasts were very big for such a slim girl. Her lips seemed always to be apart, as if she found it difficult to breathe. I responded to her earthy lure, to the blue-tinted eyelids and long brown lashes, the tinted red fingernails, the hennaed soles of her feet.

  She was serpentine in her movements, she slithered across her cot to me, her bee-stung lips lifted for my kiss. I kissed her lips, I stroked her heavy breasts, I pinched her nipples gently, and tugged on them. I could hear her moaning deep in her throat.

  In ancient and in modern Egypt, its women have been renowned for their enjoyment of the mouth congress. My present companion was no exception. She let me drag her forward by her nipples until her mouth was on a level with my middle. With a low gasp she gripped me with her mouth.

  I stood for her treatment until I felt that she had sufficiently stimulated herself. I drew her off the bed, made her do a handstand before me. Her slim, dusky thighs formed a fork. I stepped forward, drove downward, and heard her bleat with surprised pleasure. I locked my arms about her hips, half lifting her, and began the movements that brought shrill cries from her painted lips.

  In rhythm to her cries, she brought into play a sidewise motion of her hips which Egyptian women call ghunj. These muscles permit the Egyptian woman to be an expert belly dancer. At the same time, by bringing into play the overdeveloped constrictor cunni muscles, she achieves a kind of sexual ecstasy known only to these sisters of the Nile.

  She screeched and climaxed standing on her hands until her arms could hold her no longer. Then she dropped straight down and brought me with her, to end our delights groveling on the floor.

  A hand pulled me up and toward a wt. A naked woman, with skin so dark she might have had mulatto blood in her veins, was grinning at me with a kind of erotic madness. Her I threw down upon the mattress on her back, and with her the el mokeurmeutt of the Arab erotologists, with the legs of my companion straight upward so that the soles of her feet faced the ceiling. On the next cot I tried the rekeud el air, on my back with my knees drawn up to my chest while the Greek girl who was number twenty sat down upon me, braced with her back to the undersides of my thighs.

  My next love-in lovely was an Albanian, I was sure, as I took her in the el keurchi manner, standing upright, belly to belly. She had long blonde hair that fell down to her plump buttocks, caressing the hands with which I gripped her rump as I aided her in the neza’el dela movements.

  “Albania?” I breathed into her ear as her hips picked up the beat. She was gasping for breath, but her head nodded.

  I thought about Albania and its ties with Red China as I fed delight to her soft white body. If Mao Tse-tung was interested in the mermen caper, this compound on the island of Thraxos must have feelers stretched across all the world. I could imagine Mao ordering’ a million of his fanatic followers to submit to the operations which would turn them into mermen. A striking force such as that, emerging from the ocean anywhere in the world, was a secret weapon terrible enough to turn even Uncle Sam and Ivan himself into worrywarts.

  I slid from the Albanian into the arms of a lush Italian beauty. Her skin was brown with sunlight, her hair was long and dark. She was an eel slithering her nakedness against my own, sliding her heavy breasts across my chest and downward onto my belly, bending over and finally falling to her knees. Her hands held her fleshy globes, massaging me with them gently and for such a long time that the remaining two women began to cry out in some thing approaching impatience.

  The Italian girl lifted her doe-eyes to me, gasping, head thrown back. I could see her swollen nipples gripped between her forefingers and thumbs and I realized that she was inducing her own pleasure just by that act. I waited, standing before her, until her breath came soft and moist, until she rubbed her face against my belly, clinging to my thighs with both arms as she dragged her nipples up and down against my hard thighs.

  Then she moaned and slumped.

  I stepped toward the next to last cot. To my surprise, the little French maid Angelique was there, eyeing me as if I were some sort of god. She did not speak, except with her glowing eyes. She simply held out her arms to me.

  I did not crash down on her as she apparently wanted. I caught her hip, I slipped her over on elbows and knees and took her in the manner of the ram, so that my hands could hold her dangling breasts while our loins worked the
age-old rhythms of side to side and front and back. In a few short seconds she was wailing out her pleasure. I had forgotten for the moment that Angelique was but recently a non-virgin. The sights and sounds of what she had seen in this room must have been enough to set her off by herself, long before I reached her.

  One woman remained: Ilona Fortescu.

  “They made me go last,” she told me with a frightened smile as I put a knee on her cot. “They consider me an enemy. After all, Georges was a good friend of Ernst Bachmann.”

  I fell forward on her soft, mature body. This woman I wanted to tease, to hurt. She had played the part of Judas goat with me, luring me unsuspectingly into that trap on the Athena deck. I owed her a lot of pain.

  She must have seen something of this in my eyes, because she moaned and shook her head from side to side. “No, please! Don’t blame me. Georges made me do it. It wasn’t my fault”

  “You could have warned me,” I grunted.

  She was trying to capture me with her thighs, opening and closing them, twisting and pivoting under me. From time to time she would press kisses on my jaw and throat and, when she could drag my head down with her bare arms fastened on my neck, to my lips. Ilona had begun to whimper.

  I let her go on working herself up by what she was doing. Fear and her own bodily need for satisfaction ate in her like white-hot flames. She was afraid of me; she knew I ought to cuff her about for the way she had tricked me on the Athena, but her flesh-wants were too great to be denied.

  This soft, pampered woman was rousing those sadomasochistic instincts which lie deep under the veneer of every civilized male. I wanted vengeance. I would have my vengeance upon her. I caught her shapely white legs behind the knees, bending them far backward until her knees were pressed into her big breasts. Then I applied a sidewise pressure. She flipped over on her knees as if she had practiced the act.

  Then when she was kneeling I caught her soft buttocks and lunged, driving myself forward into the istaneh position of the Arab erotogogists. Ilona Fortescu screamed, for she had become the ghulamiyah, the female used as a boy, she who submits her ist for the pleasure of the el-istani. The act was painful at first; the woman below me shrieked out the agony of her unfamiliarity with this mode of carnal congress.

  Her agonized cries were music to my ears. Ilona Fortescu had given me to her husband and her guests to be lashed and tortured beyond endurance. She had looked on while one after the other these guests had teased me into a near madness. Now it was my turn to apply the branding iron to her psyche and to her ist. I thrust deeply, whispering my feelings to her ears.

  “How does it feel, you bitch? Huh? Not so good, hey? Nobody’s ever treated the great industrialist’s wife to any indignity like this before, have they? See how you like Wig on the wrong end of the stick for a change!”

  She was weeping now, sobbing in her pain.

  To compensate her a little, since I am a tender-hearted fellow, I allowed myself the privilege of using the Japanese mitokoro-zeme technique employed at a time like this. I fondled her dangling breasts with my hands, I caught her clitoral bud and brought it into play.

  Istaneh is popular in Persia, in the Arab world, and in certain parts of India Along the coastal strip of North Afria, it is a complete way of sexual life. There are robber bands in the remote regions of this eastern world called luti, who lie in wait for travelers and assault them in this manner. They flourished even in the days of the Prophet, who called down maledictions upon their heads.

  In India, where Muslim women are quite zestful about this anal activity, they call it gandhmari. In China, it is ‘back door blossom beating.’ Nor were the ancient Greeks and Romans far behind their modem-day equivalents. Achilles often chose his friend Patroclus over his mistress, Briseus. Demophon enjoyed the beautiful hetira Nico, in such a way. Julius Ceasar was famed for his own anal addictions.

  Ilona Fortescu was not suffering now. I had touched a masochistic nerve deep in her personality. Her wide white hips were squirming of their own volition. She was moaning not in pain but in rhapsodic delight. The play of my fingers at her nipples and clitoris had a lot to do with this pleasure. I was vaguely aware that Fleur Devot was standing beside the cot staring at us with wide, burning eyes, as her mouth hung open slackly. She seemed to be fascinated by the painful contortions of Ilona Fortescu’s face.

  Ilona had now begun a rhythmic quivering, a wriggling from head to hips that revealed how totally she had become involved in what was being done to her. I used her curving back for a support as I became the abu hhimlat, the daddy of all diddlers, as the Egyptians name the man who can go on and on in carnal copulation with a female.

  The woman under me shook all over, groaning. Beside the cot, a sobbing Fleur Devot matched her, groan for groan, shaking all over in a masochistic trance.

  “No more,” I heard Ilona whimper. “Please! No more.”

  We fell apart. Ilona lay gasping and shaking on the bed-sheets. I still knelt behind her, avoiding the hands that reached for me.

  “Enough’s enough, girls,” I told them.

  They did not believe me. They thrust their breasts against me, front and back, their hands reached down to grip and fondle, their lips poured words calculated to excite a dead man. I was not dead, not yet. But I might be if this went on much longer.

  I pushed the hands aside. I made it to my feet. I dove like a fullback past hips that had cradled me and thighs that had wrapped their soft strength about various parts of my body. I thrust my way between these panting, whimpering women until I reached the door leading to the anteroom.

  “Later, later, later,” I kept saying.

  If there was to be any later, I needed rest. I am a real abu hhimlat all right, thanks to my peculiar make-up, but I am still human I opened the door and staggered rough the doorway.

  A man with a gun in his hand was facing me.

  I did not need to ask who the man was. His ferocious grin, his sheer size—he towered all of six feet six inches and was broad in proportion to his height, all of it solid muscle—told me this must be Henri Vachon.

  “Well, well,” he murmured. “We have quite a man here, don’t we? You must be this professor the girls have been telling me about.”

  My Amazon lieutenants were standing with their behinds to the far wall, their eyes bulging in fright and fascination as they looked from me to the huge Frenchman. They stopped looking at the Frenchman when they discovered that my priapism had in no way abated, despite my activity in the room with the two dozen women. Stella Marakza was crying softly to herself, probably visualizing me dead in another moment or two. I felt like crying myself.

  The revolver in the hand of Henri Vachon did not waver.

  “I intend to kid you,” he muttered softly.

  I shrugged, trying to be casual. “Anybody can pull a trigger,” I told him. “It is the coward’s way.”

  His eyelids flickered. I figured maybe I had touched a raw nerve. He was the biggest and probably the strongest man on the island. He was French, as well, and a comer of my mind told me the French are expert at savate.

  For an instant, my fate hung on his pride.

  “Coward?” he asked softly.

  I spread my hands. “A brave man would try to stop me with his bare hands. Not that he could do it.”

  Again the eyelids flickered, and I thought I could see raw pride deep inside his black eyes. He made a little motion with his gun toward the girls.

  “They are your friends. If I let go the gun, they’ll swarm all over me. I have no desire to be touched by—women.”

  He was a merman. The chemicals and the radiations that had altered the hormones of the other mermen would have affected him as well. He did not like women any more.

  “There’s a door behind me. Why not make them wait in there? You can lock them in with the others while you try to take me with your bare hands.”

  His grin was cruel. “I will break your back for you.” He boasted. “I will do that after I h
ave taken you en I’inition posterieur!”

  I laughed at him. The pride in his eyes turned to hot rage, and there was a snarl in his throat as he gestured at the women with his gun.

  “ln the next room, you four! Hurry.”

  The girls looked at me. I nodded, saying, “Go on, girls. I’ll finish this con off, and release you in a few moments.”

  Henri growled like a dog, staring at me.

  The girls did what I asked. One by one they trooped past me, their sad eyes telling me they were sure they would never see me alive again. I patted the last one, Yusefa Suleyman, on her dusky behind as a little encouragement for her to hope.

  Out of the comer of my eye I saw movement.

  I crouched down. The big Frenchman was hurling himself at me feet first. I assume he fancied himself as a savate expert. Had those big boots landed, I would have been out of the fight right away. They would have driven me into the wall, knocking the breath out of me.

  I crouched. My hands came up. I caught those boots, twisting them. Henri let out a yell as his head dropped to thump hard on the floor. I aimed a kick with my bare heel at the side of his jaw. My heel landed seconds after the back of his head hit the carpet.

  A smaller man would have been out cold.

  Henri Vachon did not lose his senses. He was staggered, though, and he needed a moment to get his breath. I did not give him that precious time. In a fight to the finish like this, when neither man battles by any special rules, it was every man for himself with whatever method he could use to win.

  Death waited for the loser.

  So I landed with both bare feet and all my weight on his solar plexus. The breath whooshed out of his lungs. He gagged and suffered under me while I leaped off him and onto the floor. I dropped, bringing the edge of my right hand across his throat.

  I can crack a two-inch plank with that karate blow.

  I damn near broke his neck, but I missed the vital Adam’s apple because he turned his head to one side. At the same time, his big hands tried for a strangle hold on my own throat. My body had been moving forward as my karate chop landed, so I was able to clobber the back of his neck with my knee. I went on over his prostrate body, landed on my palms and did a body flip to land on my bare feet.