The Big Broad Jump

by Troy Conway

  It all depended on the lightning. And the thunder.

  I waited, praying, and then a rolling, rumbling roar of heavenly noise echoed overhead. Right on its heels, came the flashing, blinding burst of lightning. Quickly, I sprang from the concealment of the doorway and began walking nonchalantly from the building. I got about ten feet before the women spotted me. As I had calculated, temporarily blinded by die lightning flash, it looked for all the world as if I had just come from the building. That was all those broads needed.

  A great, unified feminine shout of triumph went up. I looked back. I recoiled. The eight broads had left the patio and were swooping like a tide toward me, ulsters flopping, umbrellas waving like swords. I couldn’t see their faces. But there was no mistaking their intent. Their hands were extended like claws—that purely open gesture of “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” or “Mine! Mine! Mine!” I lowered my head and ran. In the opposite direction. Toward the break in the trees and that bad road that led down to an abandoned storehouse. I needed the whole setup for my plan to work.

  I’m a fine runner, I starred at track in college, but I’m telling you, those eight hungry women were breathing down my neck by the time I staggered off the road into full view of that ramshackle building. I could smell them, hear them, yammering and shouting behind me. Even in a medley of rain noises. I pounded up to the front door of the storehouse, and turned. Was I glad to see Katie’s Renault chugging into the small areaway behind me! But the oncoming tide of females ignored the car and kept on coming. Shuddering, I dashed inside the building, feeling like a drowned rat. The place was almost a duplicate of the barn where we had left Chris to his own devices. But it was dry and comfortable. Still, I couldn’t help feeling trapped. If the eight women were really hostile, I could be torn limb from limb. What if they had been without it for days?

  I backed away in the interior, eyes on the door. Ready. Waiting. It was now or never. I could hear them fumbling at the wooden barrier.

  They galloped in, slamming the rickety door open, and suddenly I was face to face with eight women. Eight yearning, sex-crazed females. I looked at them. They looked at me. In the fast and sudden silence, they came in closer, not talking, but each one of them was slowly and very methodically removing their ulsters, mackintoshes and umbrellas. Their eyes were undressing me. I could see that. Desperate smiles tugged at their lips. Their expressions were frightening. Every single one of them had only one thing in mind. They couldn’t take their eyes off my crotch. I had to restrain a crazy desire to make like September Morn. I felt as naked and defenseless as that famous calendar girl.

  “Now, ladies—” I began. “This is all very simple, really—”

  No one spoke. They kept on coming, as if by some silent mutual contract. I began to wonder who would get the drumsticks and who would get the wishbone. They were all very young, no more than eighteen by the looks of their clean, unmarked faces. All blondes, of course. It was my time of life for blondes and virgins. I also had a feeling none of them spoke English. Who at a Skoda Works would, really? Especially if these were all young dolls from the peasant class.

  Peasants, hah. High-born women didn’t have what these broads did. As the disrobing continued, all I could see were huge, melon-round teats and superbly rounded hips. The women were beginning to titter now, a bit nervously, as if the time had come to draw straws for the man who had been ingested with the magical silver pills.

  They began to talk now. A babble of Russian and Czech and I picked out a word here and there—like “cute!” and “enormous!” and the Russky equivalent of “hot damn!”—but I was lost until Katie showed up. Where the hell was she, the little heartbreaker? Doing her fingernails?

  Now the women were completely naked and flexing their muscles. One of them turned to lock the door. That wouldn’t do—Katie wouldn’t be able to get in to save me. I panicked.

  I retreated and the women closed in. Slowly, taking their time. Their areolas blinked at me like eight more pairs of eyes. Their fuzzy Venus mounds mocked me. They stuck their tongues out. They began to laugh. They were happy. Hell, with the silver pill, I’d be able to service them all—according to what they had heard and hoped was true. I was in one helluva spot. I could handle eight broads, but on my terms and speaking English. This way they could ruin me. I began to sweat. My mouth was drier than Texas.

  They were sweating too. But in a different way. The oils and tensions of passions made all of their carnal bodies sleek and dewy and—downright scary. They were looking at me like a bunch of animals now.

  “K-K-K-KATIE!” I yelled.

  The women stopped, looked at each other questioningly, then all shrugged like a vaudeville act and kept on coming. They all smiled as if to placate a nervous tiger. I was trapped. I’d have to screw my way out or die. And be food for the worms.

  The first woman to reach me, a peaches-and-strawberry blonde, extended her arm and touched my crotch. She blurted something with hoarse enthusiasm. The rest of her pals whooped happily and closed in for the kill. One of them was so beside herself, she was holding herself open with both hands. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t look. Mammaries loomed.

  And then Katie’s sweet, bright voice broke up the party. Only temporarily. I heard a rapid-fire machine-gun string of words that must have been Czechoslovakian, and then nobody moved. Then more words and I could feel the women drawing back. I opened my eyes. I was saved by the belle of Betchnika.

  At what price?

  She was standing in the center of the naked females, her expressive hands and eyes going full blast. I looked around the place, wondering how she had gotten in with the door locked. I saw a small window without frame or glass beyond the next pillar that supported the roof of the building. I watched Katrina Walsky. Whatever she was telling the women seemed to go down the right way. They were all nodding happily, flinging me loving looks and then listening to Miss Walsky again. I frowned. I couldn’t make heads-or-tails of it.

  Finally the women all chorused their approval and Katie came over to me. I could see the women scooping a handful of straw off the floor and starting to draw lots. I frowned. They were like a bunch of excited schoolgirls playing spin-the-bottle.

  “You took your time getting here,” I growled. “What kept you?”

  “I watched from the window. You were beautiful in your fear. So tall, so proud, so unafraid.”

  “Hooey. What did you tell them that’s got them so agreeable?”

  She laughed but the laugh was bittersweet. A pulse was jumping in her smooth neck and her whim-whams were shaking. She was mad too.

  “It was easy. I promised them each a half hour with the new Russian Tarzan. This was your idea, remember? In exchange for that, I’ll be able to ask them about the other men they’ve waylaid, how long they lasted and all that. Okay? I know you can do it, but I’m plenty jealous. It won’t be fun standing around watching you do some other girl. Girls.”

  “Yeah—” I muttered. “But eight—”

  “S’matter, Damon? Lost your touch?” She was being deliberately bitchy, but she was a woman in love and it was natural female reaction. Still, I had my work cut out for me. I’d had such a good time with Katie I wasn’t that horny anymore. You know how you feel about food after you’ve had a full meal.

  “A half-hour,” I grumbled. “Couldn’t you have made it ten minutes each? That’s all it will take to make them well-done.”

  “That’s up to you. I don’t care how you do it, but do it, and then I’ll question each one as you finish. Rod—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Think you can save enough for me? Standing around watching is going to make my blood pressure go way up. After all, this is still so new to me.”

  I winked at her and patted her head. I began to undress. With great slowness, measuring my opponents. A dozen sexual plans were racing through my mind. Eight women was going to be a chore, no matter how much fun. I might have to invent a few things. Even old Arabs are happy with no more than about six
sirens.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “For you, there’ll always be a Rod Damon. I’ll damn well save the best part for you.”

  “You’d better,” she warned. “I’m still the commissar’s daughter. I could turn you in and win the Lenin Medal.”

  “Ouch. Stop clowning. Not even in jest.”

  She laughed, still with tears in it.

  “All right. I won’t. Do what you have to do and be damned. I’ll stick to my part of the bargain.” She turned her back and walked away and I saw the peaches-and-strawberries blonde walking toward me with a sappy smile of victory on her face. And her hips undulating and her breasts pushing out to be had. She was holding up a short straw. A very short straw. She’d obviously won the honor of getting Firsts.

  Damon Firsts.

  And the rest would be getting Sloppy Seconds.

  And Thirds.

  And Fourths.

  And Fifths.

  And Sixths.

  And Sevenths.

  And Eighths!

  I almost lost my nerve.

  Now that I gave it some serious thought, having enough to satisfy this cock-hungry crowd was going to take everything I had. And more. And worse than that, I couldn’t be that sure I would have any desire or stamina left to accommodate Katrina Walsky.

  That would be a terrible blow to my pride.

  And it would hurt Katie awfully, maybe flip her Id, and scar her Psyche forever. I had to make good. For my sake, for the sake of the investigation, for the full glory of the Thaddcus X. Coxeman Foundation. After all, like Walrus-moustache was always fond of saying, wasn’t I the Greatest Coxeman of Them All?

  Grimly, I got naked.

  The strawberry-peaches beauty waltzed into my arms. The rest of the women, and Katie, watched. My trial by ordeal was going to have a lot of witnesses.

  What if I were found wanting?

  No, no—a thousand times No!

  I’d rather be dead than say “Uncle!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Eight hungry foreign-language broads.

  Well, there was a universal language—sex—and in that department, I have all the degrees and diplomas known to mankind. And womankind.

  So I knew what I had to do.

  My first victim, peaches-and-strawberries, didn’t have a chance. I grabbed her, threw her down on the nearest stack of old hay and before she could open her mouth to breathe, I dicked her and decked her good. With a few incredibly short, savage strokes, each one well calculated to explode all she had in her and leave her spent and limp, needing to recuperate, I rolled off her and hollered, “Next!” That dame must have come three times before she came up for air. She was glassy-eyed and dazed, lying to one side.

  The next longest straw, a vulgar-looking, sensuous, hippy young kid came rushing at me. I caught her without getting off the floor, and trapped her nicely before she could crush me. As soon as the glory pole snagged her pit, she let out a shriek and tried to keep from getting killed. As soon as I reversed our positions, and laid her on her back, shafting vigorously, she too had to crawl off to one side to sympathize with the peaches-and-strawberries blonde. “Next!” I shouted again and the third of the hungry octette joined the game. This one was wiser than the others. She didn’t attack me. She lay down next to me and waited for me to come to her. I did. I stood on my hands and leaped over, coming down for a one-point landing. Her scream of pleasure must have made the blood of the others run cold. Hell, I didn’t need a half-hour with each of these numbers. None of them seemed to have had a good screwing in months. So everything they had to give, gushed forth in rapidfire sequence. Me, I was just warming up. From one corner of my eye, I could see Katie, trying not to look, busying herself by asking the first two a lot of questions in a stage whisper. I didn’t pay any attention. Number Three was pawing the ground weakly, begging me to stop before I killed her and Number Four was charging me. Raring to screw and out to show her lesser buddies how—she thought.

  This one I grabbed by the ankles, turned her upside down and began walking around the room in the Standing And Jumping ploy which ancient Egypt had made an integral part of their fertility rites. Poor Number Four— she got the best tattooing so far, but I nearly killed her. As was usual with the family jewels—once my attitude was whetted, my tool was sharpened into a blunt instrument of incredible strength and longevity. Or should I say —length?

  Either way, Number Four crawled away from me on all fours, her rear end pulsating and Number Five approached me cautiously, hungry as she was. The storehouse was filling with the moans and whimpers of the ravaged women who had preceded her. Sounds of sheer sexuality!

  I was in my element now, swinging high and cutting in all directions. The creamy hips, the inviting glory pits, the hanging gardens, none of them could overwhelm my drive. And my ambition. I had to finish them off and save myself for Katie. Otherwise, I was in for trouble. I didn’t want a commissar’s daughter sore at me.

  Purposely, remorselessly, and I must admit jubilantly, one by one I slashed my way to the victory. Let them say and let them think it was the mysterious silver pill at work. Hooey. It was all Damon. At least, Katie knew the truth.

  I polished off Number Five with a combination of Yankowski’s forty-five degrees and Nakoma’s one-hundred-and-thirtieth position. The wily old Jap swinger had fashioned a ploy where the woman is walked around the room, back-scuttled all the way. He called it The Back Door To Lotus Land. Whatever it was, it made Number Five so ecstatic, she literally fainted on my last shove into her hills of home.

  Number Six was the easiest of the lot. A big, busty wench with a very tight slit. It hurt her so much she had to give up, crying in frustration but she calmed down when I let her nibble some of the lettuce leaves surrounding my glorious instrument of desire.

  For Number Seven, I combined a little of Spain with a dash of Italy. The old bullfighting charge with some of Saganelli’s insensate head-on charge. I backed Number Seven up against the far wall of the storehouse and she went down, with her mouth open, breathing like a steam engine, all passion spent Her eyes had stars in them.

  Number Eight got my best effort. I gave her fifteen minutes of my attention. We curled together in a pinwheel that started at one end of the place and wound up at the other. For each roll of our bodies, I struck once like greased lightning. I think Number Eight got off the most orgasms of all her friends. She must have. She was drooling like the village idiot when we finished. And all the while I could hear Katie making with the questions and answers.

  Finally I leaped erect. The swinging senation stayed with me. Eight pairs of unbelieving eyes followed me from various positions of the compass as I marched over to Katie. I was a monument of man.

  Katie was flushed, almost embarrassed but I could tell she must have gotten a fund of information and had stolen peeks at all the fun and games. Her clothes were damp with desire. And not from the rain. A dozen beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. She trembled as she saw the look in my eyes.

  “Get those clothes off,” I snapped. “I’m ready.”

  “Here—?” she stammered. “In front of all these women? I just couldnt’!” Her eyes looked for the nearest way out.

  “Oh, yes, you can. I want to show them how it’s really done. I was just warming up.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll excite them all over again?” She tried to retreat. I blocked her way and pulled her trenchcoat away from her ripe body. She wore a skirt and sweater again. “Besides—don’t you want to hear all the information I got? It’s priceless—just what you wanted—”

  “Later. Right now all I'm interested in is my rock and roll girl singer. You want me to rip those duds off you? Get moving!”

  In a trance, she obeyed.

  Soon she was naked before me. The eight women in the barn oohed and aahed like so many Lesbians at a dike party. But it wasn’t for her shapely goodies, as lovely as that was. It was for me and the glory that is Damon. If anything I had waxed larger and st
ronger. The women whispered in awe, ringing the room like excited kids who have gone from spin-the-bottle to hump-the-boyfriend.

  Katie was tremulous.

  “Gee—I don’t know what to do—with all these women looking at us—”

  “I’ll show you.” I suddenly dropped to my knees in front of her, trapped her thighs with my hands, and gently began to lave upward. She jerked as if my lips were branding irons and then her body responded. Boy, did it. She closed her eyes, seized my ears and tried to mash my head into her darkest interior. Ah, but I fooled her. I jumped erect and came out of a Limbo-like squat, lifting her all the way off the floor on the end of the Damon instrument. A dame down Calypso way had showed me that one. The Limbo Of Love. Katie couldn’t help herself. She flipped her lid. Quickly, she lost whatever marbles she had left.

  In no time at all, she was threshing, thrashing, reaping wheat and singing the damnedest beat song you ever heard. I let her. If she ever cut that record, she would have revolutionized the music industry. So I whipped right back, a left, front, right and rear savagery of niceness that pretty soon wound up in the damnedest duet right on the floor. Our eight viewers were mesmerized. Who could blame them? Katie was getting her kicks with something extra. I knew Katie. I liked Katie. That made a lot of difference.

  Inevitably, Katie was pulling my hair, begging me to stop. She couldn’t take anymore. She was sore, wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week, to hear her tell it. After all, I’d been pounding her with few interruptions since late yesterday afternoon.

  A little tired myself, I stopped, letting her slump to the floor. I stood back and turned to face my audience.

  The eight women spontaneously burst into applause, blistering their palms with enthusiasm. They couldn’t help themselves. After all, they had seen a virtuoso at work— Rod Damon, First Penis of Betchnika. Maybe, the world.

  I surrendered to the beauty of the moment.

  I bowed.

  But Katie was on her feet, tugging at my rump and whispering in my ear. “Come on, Maestro. Let’s get out of here before they eat you alive for an encore. I’ll promise them you’ll come back tomorrow. Okay? As great as you are, I don’t think even you can give a repeat performance. What do you say?”