The Sex Machine

by Troy Conway

  Then her tongue came out. While Walrus-moustache tongue-lashed me over the phone, this married woman tongue-lashed me in three dimensions. I was suffering above and below, though I must admit the suffering I was enduring below countertop was laced with pang of exquisite pleasure.

  After about ten minutes of explaining carefully just how many kinds of a buffoon I had been to write such a book and get it published, the boss-man grunted, “Well! That was my first reaction.

  “But now, you’ve been given a heaven-sent—scratch that! —a hell-sent opportunity to go where no American has gone before in too long a time. Accept that invitation. Give it all you’ve got. Come back to me alive and well—and with plenty of snapshots. The Foundation will want to study them.”

  I was listening with half a heart. Most of my attention was on the rapture engraved on Angela Montosores’ pretty face. She had psyched herself to a fare-thee-well, all right. Undoubtedly she had been fantasying some moment such as this in her daydreams or night dreams, but she had never before had the courage to drop to her knees before a man.

  Her body was moving from side to side. I could see the faint movements of her girdled hips. She was in a catharsis of carnal contentment, purging herself of her fears and inhibitions. I did not disturb her. I was being the professor more than I was the man—at the moment.

  Walrus-moustache muttered, “Keep me posted, Damon.”

  The line went dead. I was very much alive, in contrast. I hung up the receiver and reached down to clasp heavy breasts in my palms. Sliding my palms back and forth, I did what Angela herself had done—I lifted them up and let go of them so they shook and bounced. It seemed to give her some secret kind of kick because she made throaty noises and her lips opened wide to engulf me. I felt moist warmth and a gentle pressure.

  I whispered, “Your poor knees must be hurt. Get up, honey. Let’s get you comfortable.”

  She let me draw her from her self-imposed task. I studied her features carefully. She had no shame for what she had done, but a strange kind of pride, as if she finally realized her role as a woman.

  “I’m glad I did,” she muttered simply, smiling. “I’ve always wanted to do it. My—husband wanted me to do it, he wanted to do things like that to—to me. I told him it was disgusting, perverted. Now I realize I was the disgusting one. We could have been so happy if only I’d had the sense God gives little minks.”

  I said, “Is your husband still in town?”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course, But I—?”

  Her face flushed, and her dark brown eyes were suddenly shy. “Do you think I could dare go to him and—and do what I did to you?”

  “Tell me the answer to that later. Right now we’re going to have ourselves a ball, you and I. Forget the paella. It’s more important to your future that you frolic rather than feast.”

  She walked ahead of me into my bedroom, her thighs bare above the stockingtops and the lower edges of her buttocks bare below the black lastex—she’d taken off her panties while I was on the phone—presenting me with a sexciting view. Mrs. Montosores would have no trouble with her mister, if her instincts worked the way they were working right now. I patted myself on the back, figuratively speaking. I was being the perfect professor, remolding a woman into what the good Lord had intended her to be.

  Angela paused on the thick blue carpeting of my bedroom when I switched on the bed lamps on either side of the king-sized Empire bed with its blue and white counterpaine, with the inbuilt shelving behind the bed where there were books, and a supply of bottles and glasses and a small refrigerator that made ice cubes, a stereo set and various other items I might need when the spirit moved me. A writing desk and chair, an easy chair of navy blue leather, a number of oil paintings and framed lithographs occupied space on the floor and on the walls.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

  .I patted her rump. “Off with the armor,” I grinned.

  Her fingers went to h a girdle zipper. Then she was sliding out of it, unfastening her garterclasps, bending over with her flushed face set in mind concentration and concupiscience, her dusky breasts dangling.

  She made a mouth-watering sight, standing there all but naked. If her husband could have seen her right now, there would be no talk or separation or divorce but only of climbing between the sheets together.

  I stepped behind her, kissed the nape of her neck. She gave a little gasp. My lips went down her soft back to the crease of her buttocks. I kissed her gently.

  Foreplay is a most necessary part of the sexual union of man and woman. Too many men are apt to think only of their own bodily needs at a time like this. They ignore the equally erotic needs of their womenfolk. The more fools, they! If only they would read my book, they would understand that if they spent a little time readying the woman, their wives or their mistresses they would reap the benefits of their kisses and caresses.

  People respond to emotion. And emotion is archived by an appeal to their senses, of which we human beings have five. The main ones, where rumbusticating is involved, are sight, sound and smell. Taste and touch come in later. I was letting her me my aroused phallus, she was responding to the touch of my lips and tongue on her flesh, and to the strains of a rhythm band coming from the bed stereo, that switched on with the lights.

  Conversation—hearing words as well as music plays a big part in precoital play. A woman likes to hear she is so damned attractive you just can’t wait to drop her on a bed, even if she has no intention of going to bed with you She likes to know and be told that she is desirable enough to be wanted.

  So I kissed her back and buttocks, I paid ha lingual compliments as well. “Your husband is an idiot. You are Venus and Aphrodite, your skin is cream flavored with musk. You could be Mrs. America, honey—and don’t you ever forget it. Your legs arc absolute perfection, and so’s the rest of you. If you’d been there when Paris was judging the three godesses—which judgment led to the Trojan War—he’d have picked you any day of the week.”

  Pure slosh. But a woman eats it up. Especially if you mean it, which I did. Angela Montosores was a pussycat with perfect physical equipment. She gurgled to my adoration.

  I straightented up, pressed against her soft rump. My arms went around her, my hands caught her breasts. I whispered into the pink ear half hidden under a spill of brown hair, “Finish undressing put your shoes back on I’ll show you a little trick to use on your husband when you go back to him.”

  She turned her head. “What make you think I will?”

  “You love him. You want to be a loving wife. This is an interlude, a kind of therapy. You know it and I know it. But you need it. You must get rid of your disgust, your inhibitions.”

  Angela nodded, eyes, glowing. Giggling, she brushed her buttocks back and forth against me as if to show that she was willing to do what needed to be done.

  In her high-heeled shoes she walked toward the bed, buttocks shaking loosely. I said, “Callimammapygian.”

  “How’s that?” she asked, turning.

  “Callimammapygian. It means you have a beautiful behind.”

  “Tell me more,” she smiled.

  “I’d rather show you.”

  It was my turn to kneel, to kiss her shapely legs, her slightly pouching belly and what lay in between. She crooned at me, she gasped and wept and sighed as I paid her femininity the tribute it should have known long ago. I explained the need for foreplay, the many ways in which a man and woman may please each other by caresses and kisses.

  “Erotic arousal is a must before coitus, if the parties want to get the most from their relationship. Otherwise, it’s usually all one-sided, as far as pleasure gas. But you act with him as you did with me, and I’m sure your husband will prove himself a perfect mate.”

  I pushed her gently back onto the edge of the bed. Her white thighs were slightly spread, but I widened them further and bestowed the Venus kiss on her flesh. Angela Montosores screamed in her delight. Her feet came up and then her high heels
were acting like spurs on my back, goading me on in my worship.

  “You learn fast.” I said, grinning a little later as I drew back. “Those heels of yours were like spurs. Try that out on your husband.”

  Her hands were reaching for me as she wriggled back on the huge bed. They caught my shoulders, ran over them hungrily. She murmured, “Now, now, now.”

  I slid forward, making contact.

  And then the bed telephone shrilled.

  Without disturbing my partner I reached out a hand.

  “Professor Damon? Your Red Chinese friend from Havanna calling. Have you given my offer any consideration at all?”

  “I have, and the answer is yes.” I murmured. “Though I should warn you, I am not going to fail.”

  “Excellent, Professor. And we know you must fail. It is the old story of the irrestible object meeting the immovable force. Let me warn you in return. There is an herb we have developed in accordance with our Maoist thinking, which we have named the Golden Lotus. It is an aphrodisiac of proven powers. It shall be fed to the girls you choose.”

  “You mean I get a selection?”

  “Professor, we are not barbarians, despite what your government may think of us. China is a cultural nation, it is very ancient and filled with a reverence for knowledge that is almost an obsession.

  “Furthermore, I pride myself on our politeness, and on our ability and will to pay handsomely for your endeavors. Shall we say a fee of one hundred thousand dollars?”

  Beneath me, Angela Montosores was writhing and twisting, eyes closed and full lips slightly open. I got the notion she might be more comfortable, so I dragged a pillow from the headboard and pushed it under her buttocks. This elevated her pudendal region, and gave her hips free play. As she began sliding and bouncing, I said into the receiver, “If you are willing. I’d settle for something else.”

  “Ahh, and what is that, Professor?”

  “A pillow book by Chou Fang.”

  “You know about our pillow books?”

  “Oh, come now—er, by the way. What is your name?”

  Ching Kow chuckled as he introduced himself. He added, “And I must apologize. I just wasn’t thinking when I asked if you knew about pillow books. I never stopped to think that an eroto-sociologist like yourself must indeed be familiar with these bridal boons to a happy sex life.”

  “One by Chou Fang. Or by Tang Yin,” I commented, ignoring the convulsing Angela Montosores under me. “I have some by the Ming period artists but none of the first two. And I feel that my collection for the League of Sexual Dynamics is sadly missing an important bit of erotic wisdom without them.”

  “You make me proud, Professor. 1 shall be happy to see what may be done. After all, one does more for someone who can appreciate the finer thing of life. Oh, yes. And your fare will be paid by my county. I will arrange for transportation on a British Overseas Airways Corporation jet that leaves from Kennedy. I will be in touch. For now, farewell.”

  I hung up just as Angela was winding her soft, warm thighs about my middle, digging her heels into my behind as she jerked in sobbed enjoyment of the orgasmic pleasure which the French name comble du bonheur and the Japanese, gokuraku-oio.

  I can go on for hours without orgasm, because of my satyriasis. It’s a mixed blessing, really. The women love it, but they sometimes think you’re a bit inhuman. However, Angela Montosores was doing no thinking at the moment. She was bobbing her hips with machinegun rapidity and emitting little mewling cries.

  The telephone rang again.

  It was Walrus-moustache, angry and indignant. “What cock and bull story did you dream up? There are no dead bodies at the Sheffield Inn! There were no bloodstains on its carpets. And there’s no woman locked in any room”

  I lay there stunned.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The boss-man was pulling my leg. He had to be!

  “Oh, come on! I killed them, I locked the door on the woman, that Cassie. I saw the blood on the hall carpet, God-damnit”

  Fortunately Angela was off on cloud nine. She never heard a thing, because she was too deeply involved with what was happening to her body. Her hips kept flailing away at me, her thighs tightened around me, then loosened. Her brown hair, damp at her temples where she was sweating, was spread like a fan on the counterpane.

  “Something’s very wrong, professor,” he muttered sourly.

  I told him about my most recent phone dl. I asked, “Do you think there’s any possible connection?”

  “Were the men who kidnapped you Chinese? Or the woman?”

  “They were as American as Thanksgiving Day.”

  “Then Red China was not involved”

  “Okay then. Who was? And why cover up what happened?”

  “I’ll let you discover the answer to that, professor. But only after you come back from Red China. The more I reflect on the opportunity you are being given, the more fascinated I am by it. Now, don’t let me down.”

  “Have I ever?”

  “There always has to be a first time,” he commented darkly, and hung up.

  Angela Montosores was orgasming this night for the first time in her life. She babbled about it. She had heard of this exquisite bliss, yet had never experienced it. Her case was not unusual, I told her, settling down into the rhythms of her moving hips. Many married women never experience the sexual orgasm all their lives, even women with children.

  It seems incredible, but these are some of the facts of life as she is lived in the United States. Either their husbands and lovers ignore their bodily needs, or they have such deep traumas about the sex act that their minds will not allow their bodies to experience any pleasure. For both of these, I recommend my new book, The Sex Machine.

  Much later, when we lay naked in the dim lamp light, her hand careasing my chest, she breathed, “You made me touch the stars, Rod. I’ll always be grateful. Your book and your example have made me see mysellf in an entirely different light.”

  I handed her the telephone. Her eyebrows shot up. “What’s that for?”

  “I thought you might want to call your husband. You are going to call him, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. In due time. Right now I intend to cook paella y sangria. You need food, lover. Then when we’ve eaten and sampled a few different drinks, I’m going to lead you by your—well, I’ll lead you back to bed and you can show me some of the other things I’ve been missing all my life.”

  We fell asleep an hour past dawn.

  Angela Montosores was going to open her husband’s eyes pretty damn wide when she got around to making that telephone call. She was an avid learner, and she brought with her an eagerness to make up for lost and wasted time. We finished up a crash course in the space of one night.

  After she left, I showered and dressed. I ate scrambled eggs and ham in my kitchen, waiting for a phone call from my communist friend in Havana. When the call still did not come, I got my Ventura Hangaway out of the closet and packed some go-way clothes.

  Just as I locked the valise, my doorbell rang. I turned to my night table and opening the drawer, lifted out my blue steel Luger automatic. I was in no mood for a rehash of last night’s kidnapping caper.

  I opened my apartment door to a well-dressed Chinese gentleman whose eyes beamed at sight of my weapon. He bowed politely as I invited him in.

  “I’m not taking any chances,” I told him.

  “Very wise, Doctor Damon. Maoist China would approve your caution.” His hand went into his coat pocket. “I have tickets for plane. And money for your use.”

  He passed over a leather billfold. There was a B.O.A.C ticket inside that would take me to Hong Kong and back, plus the princely sum of five thousand American dollars in crisp new twenty dollar bills.

  “For expenses,” my visitor pointed out. “You will be met in Hong Kong, passed over border, escorted to Tin Song.”

  “Tin Song?”

  He smiled toothily. “A village in interior where pretty girls are awai
ting you. Very nice place, Tin Song. You will like it.”

  I promised him I would like it very much. He bowed, I bowed, and then I ushered him out.

  A taxi drove me to the university airport. A private plane flew me to Kennedy airport. A pretty English miss at the B.O.A.C. counter informed me that the VC-l0 jetliner would fly to Chicago and San Francisco from New York. Then it would head out over the Pacific Ocean to Wake Island, then on to Tokyo. We would stop overnight in Tokyo to give our bodies a chance to unwind after the long flight. Reservations had been made for us in the Tokyo Hilton. Next day, we would fly to Hong Kong.

  I dined on bay scallops and two Old Charter bourbons at Kennedy, lingering over my lunch because for the next day or two I would be scrunched down in an airplane seat while flying over half the world. I savored the sounds of people laughing and talking, walking around or bellying up to the bar. This was my last look at Uncle Sam for some time to come.

  There was a woman dining alone, wearing a blue gabardine suit, the jacket open to display a frilled shirtwaist. She was not unattractive but her black hair was pulled back in a severe hairdo, and knotted in a bun at the base of her neck. She had high cheekbones and a full mouth without any lip stick on it. I tabbed her for a schoolteacher and an old maid.

  She kept glancing at her wristwatch and it dawned on me that she might be on the same flight as I. Once she caught me looking at her and stared back frostily and glanced away. Her skirt was longer than usual. It even covered her kneecaps. A dried-up virgin, I thought.

  I did not see her again until I got in line at Gate 8. She flashed her tickets ahead of me. I saw that she was seated in 7-E. I was in 7-F, which was a window seat. The old maid was going to be my companion for a while, it seemed.

  As I trailed her across the tarmac toward the boarding ladder, I heard a faint rustle, as of silk. The sound puzzled me, because gabardine does not rustle. Then I decided she must be wearing a silk or taffeta slip.

  A stewardess in a dark blue uniform gave me a happy smile, saying, “Welcome aboard, sir.” She was a redhead, and she boasted a mild Scots burr.