The Big Broad Jump

by Troy Conway

  Gekko, all business-like, indicated several camp chairs where Katie and I could sit and watch. Then he whispered in Orkoff’s ear and his colleague immediately went to the women to pass on some instructions. It was fantastic. I have never seen ten women undress so fast in my life. There was a whirlwind of skirts, panties, blouses and shoes and stockings and in no time at all, the ten willing women were standing around in all their glories. The pile of clothing on the floor looked like a rummage sale. The waiting men hooted and laughed in chorus, pointing and waving. Only about twenty-five feet separated the combatants. I sat down in a chair and beckoned to Gekko who was standing by, watching with a certain amount of satisfaction.

  “Give them the silver pill,” I commanded.

  Gekko smiled, glad now of the opportunity to top his visitor from Moscow.

  “As luck would have it, Commissar Damonski, the men are already prepared. We have merely to give the signal and they will start. You see, we gave them the pills at nine o’clock and that was just before you arrived. The pill needs only about twenty minutes to become active and effective.”

  I frowned. The way the men were looking at the women, Katie’s homework on the pills didn’t look like it was taking.

  “Really?” I stalled. “May I see one of these objects?”

  He smiled again, dug a hand into his smock and handed me a shining, metallic-looking object. The silver pill. I looked at it, weighed it in my hand and then to his great surprise, popped it into my mouth.

  “Commissar!” he shouted, terrified.

  “Gekko,” I said, pretending to swallow for I had palmed the pill very easily. “I may join the experiment if only to see for myself. But first we shall see how these others perform, eh?” I chuckled and he looked helplessly toward Orkoff, who merely shrugged. You had to humor commissars. “Frankly, Gekko, it is nothing for me to take on at least four or five females a night. If your pill can increase my efficiency, well then, I would say you had something and would be pleased to report as much to Moscow. You understand?”

  Gekko swallowed nervously. “Of course. A brilliant notion.” He gestured toward the waiting groups of men and women who had fallen now into a strange silence. Katie, from her chair nearby, was frowning at me. But not openly. I wondered why.

  Orkoff stared a question at Gekko. Gekko nodded. Orkoff turned to the men and women, raised his arm like a started in a racing meet and then slammed it down, slicing the air like a knife.

  “Begin!” he roared, with more loudness than enthusiasm. I guess he still didn’t trust the performance of his pill. Which fit into my scheme just fine. I wanted him to doubt. What I hoped he would see might make him doubt enough to write the whole thing off. With my official disapproval to guide him.

  But there was no more time for speculation.

  The wild scene in front of us had begun, right before our very eyes. Katie’s hand stole over to my lap and squeezed my hand. I held it and suddenly she had leaned over to whisper in my ear: “You can’t join the party, Rod! You’ll go so good you’ll make the pill look too good no matter how the rest louse up! You want to spoil everything—your own plan?”

  I told you she was smart. Now, why hadn’t I thought of that? Walrus-moustache must be right. I am too horny for my own salvation. I patted Katie’s hand in approval. She had given me another key to victory.

  But meanwhile, back in the gym on the floor—

  The ten men had stripped off their jockey shorts. Talk about extremes in male anatomy. Oh, they were all solidly muscled, sturdy peasant stock specimens, but never ever have I seen so much extremism in the male shipping department. Five of the men were beginning to advance on their selected girl, each of them so monumentally stiff and swollen and red as to seem cursed rather than blessed. I wasn’t too far wrong. In spite of the rapid growth of the principal male tendon, each of the five men looked in pain. Their faces were taut and constricted. Sweat dotted their cheekbones. They moved with great effort, like walking on eggshells. But the women, blinded by the mammoth joy toys, sprang forward with ecstatic shouts of passion. In a flash, five of them had coupled with the five advancing men and there was a sudden blind pinwheeling of flying hair, thighs, breasts and rumps. I wasn’t interested in them just then. I kept my attention on the five remaining men.

  It was pathetic. Like a Mutt and Jeff paradox. Their five fellow guinea pigs had reached the heights and they were still down in the depths. Not one of them had been able to manufacture a hard-on, despite the proximity of ten naked lovelies, all begging to be milked and bilked of their Glory mounds. Katie’s saltpetre had done more than double-cross them. Whatever other secret ingredient the silver pill contained, it had managed to shrivel them up and keep them even below the normal male level. It was pitiful. These men cursed, looked at the women, cursed again, and in desperation began to masturbate to get an erection. It was hopeless, though, and the remaining five women rushed forward to help. Almost angry, a little dismayed, but sure they could get things going again.

  In the middle of this odd scene, other strange things happened. The five dolls trying to copulate with the five big boys were starting to scream and cry out in disappointment. I looked. It was amazing. Not one of the men could get his out-sized tool in where it was supposed to do the most good. The women were threshing furiously, widening their legs as much as they could but nothing seemed to help. Unless I was sadly mistaken, all five of the big boys were crying and whimpering in pain. It hurt. There was a great gnashing of teeth, hoarse feminine shouts in Russian and Czech that spoke volumes. Nobody on that gym floor was getting what they wanted. The women were more than able and ready, but the five guys with the biggest equipment were as useless as the five guys busting their balls to get something going. Whatever Katie had done, she had done it well.

  Operation Silver Pill was a flop.

  The inevitable happened. The women, over-yearning, over-prepared, and now let down, turned ugly. They snarled, cursed, jabbed with their hands at lifeless private parts and poked fun at huge erections that were meaningless. The men, all of them, backed away in terror. The big guys in great pain, the little ones hopelessly cowed and ashamed. It broke my heart in five places to see such a terrible scene played out. Men without women. Women without men. And nobody getting their boots laced or ashes hauled or pipes cleaned properly. For a man like me, it was a scene from Hell. A very bad scene.

  Now, the groups of tens in the center of the room turned into a feverish riot. The men with grotesque erections turned tail and ran, heading for the door and freedom. The women raced after them, craning their snatches, holding out their breasts, and their poor victims, still painfully clutching their own freakish extensions, bolted from the room. The tiled corridor echoed with shouts, screams and the thunder of running feet. Orkoff had tried to stop them, shouting for order, but they bowled on by him, knocking him down like a tenpin. He rose, spluttering and staggering. I had a mental picture of the five broads chasing the five big-peckered men all over the countryside, screaming for them to be men and do the right thing.

  As for the five puny Betchnikians, their women had them cornered in one section of the room. They were spitting out their wrath, kicking with their feet, aiming boldly for the inferior-sized section of the body where they had built their hopes so high. The poor bastard men were all shrinking back in fear. By my side, Gekko was almost in tears, alternately mopping his forehead and muttering under his breath. I took the opening and poured more oil on his troubled waters.

  “So, Gekko, this is how you waste the Kremiln’s budget! I have seen enough. You will go to your office immediately and draw up a closing report. I want this foolishness ended at once. I have no more time to waste.”

  “But, Commissar! This is Number Seventy-Nine, a new stage—I can’t explain what has happened. It has never reacted like this before——”

  “Backfired is what you mean! Gekko, do as I have ordered you. It is the only way to escape Siberia.”

  He shuddered then he loo
ked at me hopelessly.

  “The pill you took, Commissar—do you feel a sudden quickening of the blood, a hardening of the arteries—”

  “No,” I said firmly. “In fact, I feel quite listless and dull. In truth, not even sight of these splendid Betchnikians—the females, of course—has aroused me. I warn you. If your pill has harmed me in any way so that I cannot again enjoy a woman—well, Gekko—make out your report and send it to Moscow. Take Orkoff with you. I will manage the rest of these peasants.”

  Gekko turned pale. “No, no. You will be all right, Commissar. I assure you. Whatever the pill is, it wears off—heh, heh—would I do anything to harm my Commissar?”

  Orkoff came over and Katie stood up and straightened her skirt. A thin smile tugged at her lips, but the two scientists couldn’t see it. All they could see was the doom of the silver pill project, the bad report card they had to turn in to Moscow, and the snowy prospects of Siberia. They huddled together, crying in each other’s beards, and I pushed them toward the door.

  “Go,” I commanded. “And sin no more in the name of Moscow.”

  Behind us, the five angry peasant women had just about beaten their victims to the floor of the gymnasium. I could hear the men all begging for mercy. Gekko and Orkoff were beyond caring. Arm-in-arm, they lurched for the doorway and stepped through, sobbing. I motioned to Katie and she ran up the slight incline of ramp and bolted the door and locked it.

  She came back, breathless, laughing, gurgling with joy.

  “It worked, dammit, it worked. Gee willies, I still know my onions in the lab.”

  “Never mind that now. You speak the language. Go rescue those five guys, tell the dames the party isn’t over yet, and get the men out.”

  “What are you going to do?” Her mood changed and suspicion flared in her eyes. “Listen. You can’t have a private party in here. Gekko and Orkoff could come back——”

  “Do it,” I snapped, “or no Hollywood and no more Rod. Get me?”

  I don’t know how she did it but she did it. She growled in her throat, separated the angry dames from the frightened men, got them out in a hurry and they ran for their lives, not even stopping for their jockey shorts. Some of them were bleeding profusely from scratches, kicks and bites. I’m telling you. You disappoint a dame that’s ready for action, and sometimes it’s like signing your own death warrant. Katie locked the door again after they had gone. The women, sullen and still mad and impatient, sneered at me in my uniform. What the hell could I do? A Bolshevik!

  Part of my conceit and mastery is my liking for surprising women. I said nothing. Hoping Katie had said it all. I undressed quickly and when I stepped out of my boots, the five women fell down on their knees in gratitude. Katie said, “Hmmph!” and turned around and folded her arms. She didn’t want to look, the jealous hussy. I didn’t care. It had taken me a great amount of will power to keep my control up and my family jewels on ice while ten splendid Betchnikian maids all drooled for some action from lesser men. Well, I had five all to myself now and the time was ripe for my favorite of all sports. Making maids.

  The way Dame Fortune smiled on me sometimes was a public scandal. Not one of the five nudes encircling me now with real hunger in their faces was one of the lusty dolls from the storehouse-in-the-rain orgy. Maybe these were all virgins, to boot!

  Anyway, I didn’t have time to think about it. Katie had turned her back so she was of no immediate use. I tried to organize the ladles into some sensible kind of arrangement so I could service all five of them, democracy style, but they had been remorselessly teased too long by all the nonsense in that gymnasium that morning. Even as I held up my hands and started to say, “Girls, gorgeous girls, now we will—” the mad cycle began.

  It would have frightened any mere mortal.

  All five of the naked lovelies sort of growled in their throats like animals, then merged in a tidal wave of fleshly goodies and literally charged toward me. On the fly, arms out, legs gesticulating, hips and all rounded things pumping. I smiled, stood my ground, and met them head-on. It was a Damon Delight, all the way. What five women could take what I had to give and knew how to use? I didn’t come by my expertise by doing nothing but reading. I had lived. And he who has lived and loved and run away, lives to love another day. And way. But I don’t only paraphrase the Ancients for a hobby. I really believe my credos. I do not believe in silver pills.

  In a furious five seconds, the women had piled into me and the show was on. It was noisy, tumultuous and pure fun. The Betchnikian women, stunned at the sight of my secret weapon, now wanted to make certain it was not a will-o’-the-wisp. A mirage. A nothing. They attacked it en masse, fighting for handholds, an encounter, a lay. I did not disappoint them. I’m sure they would have killed me if I had.

  So I went to work with all my all-time, old-time fire and brisk enthusiasm. Ferrago, the Latin from Manhattan, had once watched me sport myself with ten women, and when the action was at its highest and he was taking notes down like mad, the stocky sexologist, who had introduced Cafe Society in the Thirties to the art of Soixante-Neuf, had shouted at the top of his voice: “If you can’t lick Mr. Damon, you must surely join him!”

  Vive Ferrago. He had the right idea. I wish he had been alive to see me balling the Jacquelines in Betchnika!

  For five assaulting females, there is only one answer. The male must take the initiative or be murdered and ruined forever in the sack league. So I was aggressive and punishingly, sweetly effective, with no holds barred.

  I let the first woman reach me, speared her from a standing position and ran her back across the floor. She gagged on my weight and her pals had to stop in their tracks and reverse direction. Too late. By that time I had dragged my woman back with me, dropped to the floor and held her on high, whacking away with measured stroke. Before I let her lie, I rolled to one side, dragging another hungry one to the floor. I had thwacked her three times before she knew what hit her and released all her energies. The remaining three now scrambled for positions and I allowed them to lower away on all parts of my body, knowing I could shake them off at any time. I could too. They were all so open, so ready and aching to be filled, it was like shooting apples in a barrel. These women had so much to give and absolutely no inhibitions at all. So I rolled merrily, plunging free-style, with all available entry points at my disposal. Frontal, rear and facial. Each orifice was a soft retreat from the thorny side of life. What larks! I remained powerfully rigid, hummingly in tune and my flesh seemed to zing in the cool air of the gym. One of the lovelies must have learned some English somewhere because in the midst of this glorious daisy chain someone shouted: “Hot dog!” And a few unprintable remarks that never make the family magazines.

  I didn’t care. The silver pill mission was accomplished. Gekko and Orkoff, thoroughly hoodwinked, were in their offices, drawing up the report that put the kiss of death on the project. I could leave Betchnika anytime now. Walrus-moustache would be proud of me. Ditto the Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation, and I’d even managed to take care of Christina Ketch, the MVD murderer of twenty-five harmless old geezers. Life looked beautiful again. Especially on the floor of that gym, surrounded by lovely churning rumps and thighs and feverish Glory Mounds all bristling and participatory. What Coxeman could ask for anything more? I had the world by the balls.

  Did I ever?

  “Bing-bang-boom!” blurted the Americanized Betchnikian female from somewhere under the gorgeous pile. Someone else was nibbling the end of me with all the fervor reserved for blowing the bugle. Another had at my rump, laving her tongue up and down the dirt road like she was trying to macadamize it. I was busy too. I found some pleasant pastures to frolic in, pausing now and then to suck of the delicious fruit hanging in the gardens. And then my spurting goods would bathe the daisy chain with some pure golden liquid. And all the ogling and gobbling ladies, who were with me all the way, would oooh! and aaah! and I would quicken and thicken to even greater heights. I was in my glory. These poor underpri
vileged Betchnikian maids had brought out the best in me. I felt like a mission worker whose efforts are blessed because of their altruistic nature. Peace be with you, brothers and sisters!

  I had all but forgotten about Katrina Walsky. But she hadn’t forgotten about me. Either that, or she was just a lousy voyeur with no staying power. Suddenly, in the midst of all the spinning and funmaking, her wrathfully lovely face showed in the medley of faces and bodies, close to my own.

  “Bastard!” she hissed.

  “Katie, darlin’!” I said.

  “Bum!” she snarled.

  “Ah, Katie, don’t be a killjoy—”

  “Whoremaster!” she cried. “What was I supposed to do? Stand around again and watch you take temperatures with that goddamn thermometer of yours—?”

  She was mad but her eyes were shining and the fever had her too. So I reached out and silenced her, the best way I could. I took her own temperature and no woman has ever responded so hotly to the instrument going in. For good measure and extra pleasure, I drove it up at Yankowski’s love angle. Katie moaned on high. It sounded like a blues note. The other women, impelled by the sound to greater effort, redoubled their strokes and in no time at all, the seven of us had made very good use of the large floor area of the gymnasium. The walls echoed with our symphony of sex. Everybody had fun but I gave Katie a little extra. I had to. I liked her a helluva lot better and the five other dolls were strangers, after all. Fair’s fair.

  Later on, the power play took its toll. One by one, with great moaning sighs and grunts of utterly spent and exhausted flesh, the women rolled off me and crawled into various corners of the room to nurse their wounds. The pack thinned until there was only my Katie and me. She liked that. With each departing, sated maid, Katie added a fresh kick to her twitch and shake of the dice. I responded in kind. Finally, we worked up a neat snarl in the center of the floor; and the five women, as tired and fulfilled as they were, watched like students in a rehearsal hall.