F. Rancid Gelding-young man on the inside track, eager to be where the action was, up and coming Professor of Conceptual Expedition and Linear Debug Analysis in the school of Commercial Science and Technology at Northern Upper Midwest Tech and Seminary, consultant to mighty corporations, to heads of state, participant in the frantic world of arts and letters, husband, confidant to hard-core juvenile delinquents-sleepily concentrated on his new eight-button intercommunication console and wondered why his secretary didn't hear it and intercede. At the moment, he clearly perceived that his emotional and physical states coincided in a semi-ecstatic reverie and it would be a grievous loss, he thought, if it were to be interrupted.
Lazily, he reached over and punched the button marked SECTY. He smiled briefly, thinking that in her case, it should have been SEXY, and said, "Wee Kling! Wee Kling!"
"Right here, boss," came the voice of Wee Kling, over the faint buzz of the console, emanating from somewhere above his recumbent body. It sounded faint and breathless, as if she were involved in something more than tapping her pencil on a note pad, waiting for his dictation.
F. Rancid Gelding slowly turned his head to observe the situation more carefully, and suddenly realized, with the insight that had made him famous, the cause of her breathlessness and his euphoria.
He was recumbent on his office couch, naked, and Wee Kling was above him, her small body gently bouncing as she firmly clutched his large prick in her small, muscular cunt, whorls of pubic hair outlining the groove that led up to the gently rounded belly, the narrow waist, the small breasts that were tipped with aureoles of red and topped off with rigid nipples, the graceful neck that led into a face that had just a hint of Oriental cruelty, the jet black hair that never seemed to be disarranged no matter how vigorous the session-her hands reaching out in supplication toward him, kneading his magnificently formed rib cage, her nostrils expanded.
Of course. He was indulging in his afternoon post-lunch siesta-exercise session-fuck. It had become almost a daily ritual-unless there was something of overwhelming importance on his automated calendar that would force him to regretfully forego the relaxation he so desperately needed in his busy schedule. When he had first hired ninety-seven-pound Wee Kling as his secretary, her diminutive, twinkling knees and the mystery of her snatch under the short skirt had, of course, beguiled him, as well as her impeccable abilities in the field of shorthand. A final wink had convinced him that a mutual boss-secretary relationship would be most gratifying, and when she had reported for work, he had gone through the conventional routine of lunches and dinners at her apartment.
But this had proved far too time-consuming. He was slowly falling behind in the intricate network of activities required of the modern professor. Long ago, he had sacrificed teaching and direct contact with students, wistfully hoping that somewhere in his retirement years, he might again be able to mount a podium and direct young lives in the intricacies of Conceptual Expedition and Linear Debug Analysis, but knowing that the steady stream of articles and books that he dictated with machine gun rapidity would eventually reach them through the medium of his graduate assistants, whom he tried to see at least once each semester-in a group if he couldn't manage individual contact. But time, those small particles chewed out of the infinite, was still in short supply.
One afternoon, having done his twelve minutes of exercises for the day and having his thirty-minute nap, he was screwing Wee Kling, one eye on the electric clock that gave him complete information on time anywhere in the world, when he suddenly stopped.
She grasped him. "Something wrong, boss?" she asked, concerned as much for her approaching orgasm state as for his health.
"We're using too much time!" said Gelding firmly. The thought burst through his disciplined mind. "We can save thirty minutes a day if we combine the functional elements of each activity."
"What's that, boss?" asked Miss Kling, wriggling frantically against his stout penis, head thrown back.
"Exercise, sleep, and fucking. We do it in one." Another thought struck him. "Maybe I could eat at the same time-"
Wee Kling shook her head, more in passion than disagreement. "No, boss. That would be kind of filthy, wouldn't it?"
For the sake of agreement, Gelding agreed. "I guess I can squeeze out the time for a quick sandwich." Then he had recommenced his activity, bringing her to whirling, furious peak, plunging into her with renewed vigor in the knowledge that he had solved another difficult problem.
The only minor hitch that had developed in the careful timetable was that there was no one else to answer the phones, and Gelding would begin to feel guilty about neglecting his business. He had broached the subject to Wee Kling after several weeks of the new regime; she shook her head vigorously.
"Lose my lunch hour?" she objected. "You must be crazy. That's when I go out with the other girls and have girl talk. Besides, the union wouldn't approve, and when I started to work here I was told that I would have a one-hour lunch, plus two fifteen-minute coffee breaks." She triumphantly concluded. "I should report you to the Personnel Department for trying to get past the wage and hour regulations! They told me in secretarial school about bosses like you!"
He had capitulated. But the buzzing phone still bothered him. Wee Kling, he noticed, now familiar with her techniques and her progress on the route of intercourse, was about halfway there, which would make the time right. He felt pleasantly stimulated now after the brief, vigorous entry phase, and the siesta phase, where he would turn over and half-sleep while she worked on him, and would have liked to enter the orgasmic phase, plunging off the plateau with her into that maelstrom of engorged mucous membrane that led to the final resolution. Wee Kling had proved an adaptable and imaginative partner, and despite the requirement, dictated by his necessity for rest, of her assuming the Female-Astride position most of the time, had managed to make the most of the limited area of movement on the office couch. He lifted his arm and lightly brushed the palms of his hand over the thrust nipples, feeling the tactile sensory messages feed back into him and into her, as she tightened her grip on his tool, forming her body into a vacuum chamber that seemed to draw it even further.
But duty called. He said firmly, "Freeze."
Dutifully, Wee Kling obeyed, her impassive Oriental face betraying only the slightest hint of disappointment. F. Rancid Gelding reached over to the eight-button console and punched.
Channel Number Two came to life; its accompanying button lit. Channel Number One was, of course, his secretary.
"Gelding here!" barked F. Rancid Gelding.
The female voice was well-bred, authoritarian, and highly familiar. "Rancid, dear, I know how you dislike to be disturbed at the office, but I really had to have some inkling of your plans for tonight, so that I would know whether or not to prepare dinner and, if so, at what time." It stopped abruptly.
It was, of course, his wife Palomine. He could imagine her at the phone, half whinnying into it, her ponytail hairdo bucking in unison with the movements of the wide lips and protruding teeth and the thin, severe body. Gelding said soothingly, "You know how difficult it is to predict my activities."
Palomine was a good girl, he thought, but he had been disenchanted by the necessity of finding a horsy type to keep up his image as a young man on the way up, and wondered sometimes-in those odd moments when he allowed time for introspection-whether or not he would have ever married her but for her social status and, of course, the family money. Not that he really minded the horsy type, but he personally would have liked to look at them only from a distance. She seemed to carry it a bit far, like last night, when she had once again taken out the custom-made saddle and made him canter around the bedroom until she came. It had left him a little bit sore from the cinch. He took Wee Kling's hands and directed them to the sore spots around his waist and, with a preliminary pat on her soft palms, indicated that he wished her to massage.
"I know, Rancid, I know, and all my friends know, why we're the laughing stock of our set, and they all wonder why you can't just sit around looking at ticker tapes like all the other men do instead of doing all that silly work!" She spat the last word out, making it sound like an epithet, and he could imagine her drawing back her lips over her teeth. "Why, we don't even have a dinner engagement tonight because of you!"
"I'm sorry, dear," said Gelding, feeling soothed by the gentle hands. He whispered tenderly, "The next time you can use a whip if you promise to be very, very careful. You know I bruise easily."
"Really, Rancid," her voice came back, "you're trying to bribe me." But there was a note of cheer in that well-bred accent, and she was obviously mollified. "Why can't you take me out to dinner tonight, like other men do with their wives? You're in that stuffy office all day long, nose piled in all that work that you insist on doing, while I sit out here, lonely and unwanted. Why can't you take a little time off and have some fun?"
Gelding looked up at Wee Kling's compressed lips, smiled and said, "I'll try to see what I can do, dear, but I'm pretty well tied up at the moment. I'm pretty deep in that work you're always putting down, and I don't know when I can get off!" He suppressed a smile.
"Really, Rancid, do try."
"Goodbye, Palomine," he dismissed her, absently. He was just about to reach forward and grasp Wee Kling's butt, to pull her even further down on him to start that final dash, when the console buzzed again.
It was Channel Number Three. Absently he reached out and tapped it.
The voice almost filled the room. "This is Hott, sot, looking for a little pot!"
Gelding winced. This could hardly be classified as a business call, although it was an extra-curricular activity that had added many insights to his depth and understanding of human nature. It was Hott Cock, chief of Cock's Pox, that motorcycle gang of teen-age delinquents to whom he had become an advisor and confidant. In the soul of every middle-class WASP, mused Gelding, there lay a dormant tumor of guilt, and this was his way of excising it, of atoning for his success.
Besides, he enjoyed it. It had taken some time to prove himself, to prove that he could climb into the saddle of a Horney Demented and roar off down the road at one hundred and thirty miles per hour with the best of them-over hill, over dale, the sweet smell of the roaring heavy air and carbon monoxide fumes in his nostrils. Even then, his acceptance hadn't been complete until he had taken on all sixteen Mommas in the group in one night, standing up, still in the saddle of the Homey. Of course, there had been a little trickery involved, for no one could take on sixteen Mommas in one night, even if it were initiation night, unless he had a little help; his help had been a custom-made seat that included the patented Homey Revolving come cam, shipped at great expense from West Germany, chain driven through a connection with the Homey engine. All he had to do was sit there, sipping beer, his foot on the throttle, really giving them a thrill when he revved it up, the rap-rap-rap chewing up the inside of their cunts.
"Whajja want, huh?" he growled, lapsing into the tough vernacular he affected when talking with Hott Cock.
"Ride tonight, Rancey?" came the guttural reply. "Dunno!" barked Rancid. "Tied up." "More of your Machiavellian machinations among the middle-class suburbanites?" asked Hott Cock mild-
Rancid could imagine Hott in the saddle of his BAM, talking into the built-in two-way radio telephone, the air conditioning going full blast, his leather jacket rolled to his hairy sleeves, possibly keeping an eye on the stock ticker connected with his broker's office, lips superciliously expressing contempt at the well-dressed world that Rancid inhabited, all the while giving the eye to one of his Mommas, who was giggling and rubbing the bare chest under the jacket. Rancid felt a wave of self-hatred roll over him-at the comfortable world he inhabited and his inability to empathize completely with the lower class.
"Whajja got in mind?" he snarled. "A rumble?"
"Rumble?" came back the voice of Hott Cock through the console. "We thought we would try the usual pattern of a leisurely drive through the countryside, and after we are safely out of the range of the police radar, throw in our afterburners, feel the exhilaration of great speed-which has the double function of giving us a sensory thrill while stimulating the ice of the Mommas-and then finding a quiet moonlit glade where we would have a genteel picnic. If we were to encounter any alien or hostile forces, naturally it would be incumbent to do the most prudent thing, and if retreat proved impossible, we have ways and means to deal with those forces."
"Tied up!" shouted Rancid guiltily. "I wanna go, you know I wanna, little bang-bang."
"Each to his own means of finding salvation," answered Hott Cock mildly. "However, if you do change your mind, I'll be waiting for your call."
Angrily, Rancid was about to touch the button to cut him off; then the resurging sense of middle-class guilt moved his finger over to HOLD. He realized that his wife must be on Number Two, still waiting for an answer. Let them wait! he shouted silently. The cool world of the suburbanite and the hip world of the gang. Let them wait!
F. Rancid Gelding realized he had yet to find himself. Turning his attention back to Wee Kling, he gently reached up and took her small, red-tipped breasts in his hands and gently tugged them toward him, intending to place them in his mouth, one after the other, perhaps there to find the surcease that he labored for. Her face remained impassive, but her eyes grew wider as she bent over, aching for the feel of his skilled tongue on her lollipops.
Channel Four buzzed. Rancid lay there with his mouth open, like a Roman emperor waiting to have a grape popped in, mere fractions of inches away from the delicate bud on the right bazoom.
He exhaled and almost automatically reached over to punch the button. Wee Kling, well-trained in the Oriental art of the stationary sensualist, waited, body relaxed.
"Gelding here," he said.
"Rancid, my boy," came the voice, rich and resonant even through the transistorized circuit and the three-inch speaker, "I was just thinking of you, and I thought perhaps it was time that I got in touch with you for your spiritual welfare."
Rancid turned his face toward the console, again feeling a sense of unworthiness, as if he didn't wish to get caught in this frozen moment of sensual pleasure. Wee Kling's breast gently nuzzled his ear. It was Shilly Brahmin, spiritual advisor to the nation's rich and powerful, those often troubled people who have more than they can bear. His resonant, powerful voice and magnetic presence were leading the crusade of his own personal church, the United Followers of the Omnipresent.
Rancid had come into contact with him through some consulting work he had done for the UFO-on the depth of penetration of the emotional charge presented by Shilly's television show, and subsequent correlation with the number, amount, and class origin of the contributions that flowed in.
"Thanks a lot, Shilly," said Rancid cautiously. "I do need a little uplift."
"We all do, my boy. We all do. Never forget that the UFO has a direct communication channel with the Upstairs, and you can be pretty damn sure, pretty damn sure, that they know what you're doing downstairs." Brahmin paused to clear his majestic throat, releasing static from the communication channel. "I'm sure that you're overloaded with work at the moment and I don't want to keep you from your duties, but I just had an idea; it popped into my mind just as if the good, gray, old man up there had given me a print-out, and I couldn't wait to get your reading on it. I think it's an idea that's going to revolutionize the organization of the spiritual services."
"Yes," said Gelding cautiously. moving his head so that he could hear a little better. He felt a slight tremor in Wee Kling's body as his ear canal bumped against her engorged nipple. "You're right. I'm damned busy." Rancid chuckled pleasantly. "But shoot it to me."
"Remember my book, Rancid, my boy?" asked Brahmin. Then he went on to answer his own question. "Sold two million copies in paperback. The Best Piece
Is Upstairs. The play on words-piece, peace-really made it go, and I think you researched that one for me. Beautiful job! Anyway, I was doing research for a follow-up, When We Lay, Let Us Pray, and I was going through all this filthy, pornographic material that the great Omnipresence up there conceals some gems of wisdom in-in his own cunning way, if you'll pardon the expression-and I came across this fact." He paused dramatically. "And then He let me have it!"
"What?" asked Gelding, somewhat interested, compelled by the dynamic force of Brahmin to follow him.
"Did you know that they estimate that the average man screws fifty-five-hundred times in his lifetime? That's five thousand, five hundred times. With his wives and girl friends, I suppose. But can you think of all that energy going to waste?"
Rancid thought of it. He wondered if he would ever make his quota at this rate, and sighed, "I suppose it is."
"People pay for it. Now, why shouldn't the great Omnipresence have a piece of the action? After all, He has more at stake than virtually anybody. New souls, selling the old one, all that Faustian business."
"I suppose that's true," answered Gelding.
Brahmin's voice was triumphant. "We're centuries behind the times. Here's the one thing that the spirit of man really needs, a good fuck in an hour of need, and the conventional religions have deluded themselves into thinking they can control it, when in reality they should be right in there humping along, letting those balls bang away!"
Rancid glanced up at Wee Kling, whose face was still impassive. "What do you suggest?" he asked, almost plaintively.
"Think of all the businessmen who are willing to put out a hundred bucks on the expense account for a roll in the hay, and what does that same sonafabitch do on Sunday in the collection envelope? Five bucks, if you're lucky." Brahmin paused, with rhetorical drama, for that moment of plunging into the soul for which he was famous. "Tithe!"
"Tithe?" asked Rancid.
"Five hundred pieces for Upstairs, five thousand for Downstairs!" Brahmin intoned. "Perhaps a set charge, at so much per orgasm. Or per stroke. Or what it's really worth. A question of accounts to settle with the maker, and you wouldn't want to pad the expense account when you're called for the final balance sheet."
"How would you keep track?" Rancid settled back, trying to relax.
"That's your province, my boy, and I want you to put your talents and your skill to work and really zap me up some blueprints. I'll give you the afternoon to work it out, and see you tonight!" Brahmin's tone was positive.
"I'm tied up," sighed Rancid. "I've got something else on." He glanced sidewise at Wee Kling, waiting ever so patiently.
"Nonsense. If you thought about it, you would put first things first." Brahmin paused again. "I'll wait for your answer!"
Rancid was irritated to note that, despite his misgivings, his mind automatically went into gear, mulling over the possibilities. It was a difficult, almost insoluble problem. The first requirement, of course, would be to develop some type of sensing system that could detect a piece of ass with enough sensitivity to pinpoint both the giver and the receiver-since women, naturally, would have to be included and probably would violate the Constitution if they weren't-to evaluate its worth. Then set up a real-time system that could collect when it was still fresh in their minds-all copyrighted and patented of course, so that nobody else could muscle in, because the Government would immediately try to reach out its tentacles and get their percentage, although there probably could be some kind of depreciation allowance and capital gains dividends, considering the corruptibility of the body...
Channel Five buzzed. Automatically Rancid reached out, tapped the HOLD button, and tapped Five. Wee
Kling held her position, although he could make out her mouth moving. He puzzled out her communication. "Fuck you," she was saying silently.
"I'd like to, Wee," said Rancid helplessly, "but this damn box keeps making noises."
"Are you calling me a noisemaker?" came the voice from the console, clipped and urgent.
Rancid immediately recognized it and winced. It was J. Burnup Gettit, the richest man in the world. Not that he was impressed by Gettit's wealth as an abstraction, but as a real and concrete thing it was something to be concerned about, especially the monthly retainer and the stock options in Hydronuke Industries that came with it. "Yes, J.B., " he said, trying to be soothing, and realizing his mistake. "I mean, I'm not calling you a noisemaker. It's noisy in here."
"Too bad," said Gettit. "A man can't work at his best. Cut it off, man; before you lose your edge!"
Rancid swore that Wee Kling smiled as she hovered over him, his cock still firmly clamped in her cunt, her hands still clutching his body. "Good idea, J.B., " said Rancid. "I'll make a note of that. Anything special?"
"I wasted seven minutes eating my lunch, and I thought of you. I'm thinking of a stock split for Hydronuke. How does that sound to you?"
"Swell, J.B., " answered Rancid. He made a mental calculation. "Is it going to make money?"
The voice became more confidential. "It'll double in thirty days if my plan works out."
"Plan?" asked Rancid, shifting his position slightly. It was becoming wearying to lay here.
"To defoliate Africa."
"Did you say defoliate, J.B.? " asked Rancid. "We spray at night, and the next day-nothing but desert!"
"But how does that help Hydronuke?"
"We've got our foot in the door to rebuild. Plants, animals, human beings, nuclear power sources, everything. We have the plan worked out beforehand and submit it within hours, to show our heart's in the right place. It should be worth billions, net." "Won't people talk?"
"Nobody's going to be hurt but a few natives."
"What if there's a war or something like that."
Gettit's voice became cozy. "Is that bad?"
"What do you want me to do?" asked Rancid, sweating. Ethics came into play. Gettit was dangling a fortune in front of him, but at what point should he put his foot down? He had no trouble going along with the defoliation of Africa, since that was a business decision, and who was to determine whether or not Africa needed defoliation or not? And to bid on the contract for the rebuilding, that was another business decision, and a smart one. Hydronuke was one of the few companies that could take over the entire job, and probably unclog the Suez Canal as well. But to have everything prepared beforehand?
Where was the competition that was expected of the free market?
Gettit snapped, "Well, I want your decision. Get off your ass, and start using those brain cells of yours, Gelding! I want to see you tonight with the beginning of a public relations campaign that will explain to the world how we are acting in its best interests."
When Gettit mentioned "ass," Wee Kling's smile turned sardonic. Her belly slowly rose, drawing Rancid's cock up with it in the Oriental Yamaha Bind, and he suddenly felt a surge of pure pleasure wash over him. It was all he could do to keep from groaning.
"Was that a Yes, Gelding?" asked Gettit, his voice suspicious.
"No, J.B., " blurted Rancid. "I'm tied up. I can't do it tonight!"
"Impossible! There's an option on ten thousand shares of Hydronuke at your base price, Gelding. You'll be a millionaire. You won't have to comb and curry that horsy wife of yours! Think of it!"
Rancid almost cried. "I am thinking." Wee Kling was fluttering her cunt barrel, slowly coming down his rod, and he bit his lip to keep from making an outcry.
"I'll hold, while I eat my other sandwich, and wait for your decision." Rancid thankfully leaned over and touched the HOLD and Channel Five buttons simultaneously, and there was silence for a moment.
"I'm sorry, Wee Kling," he breathed. As if to atone, he gathered his body together and shoved his butt upward, jamming his cock deep into the tiny snatch of Wee, whose eyes widened with pleasure as she was supported momentarily by Rancid's pleasure rod boring into her red-hot vagina.
Channel Six buzzed.
Rancid let his ass drop back down, as if poleaxed. Wee Kling dropped on top of him, and Rancid was sure at that moment that she weighed more than ninety-seven pounds. Her body slammed into him as if she were trying to punish him.
He said, "It's not my fault," then realized the futility of trying to reason with her in the midst of the passion she was generating. He merely shrugged, reached over and tapped the button. She looked at him with baleful eyes, and decided to make the best of it, stretching one slim, shapely leg in back of her, leaving the other one crouched, assuming the gnarled oak root position.
"Gelding!" he answered, almost shouting, angry.
"I know it's you, Gelding!" came the irritated reply. "I didn't call expecting the President. Where's my voter analysis breakdowns? You said you'd deliver last week and here I am, wondering what to do, what new piece of legislation I should sponsor, without even my poll results to guide me. How do you expect to run a democratic society that way, Gelding?"
Rancid groaned under his breath. It was Senator Homo Humnuts, and yes, as he thought back, he had promised an electoral profile analysis on some problem or other, and he wondered what it was. He chewed his lips. No, it was the old school bus problem. Most of the voters in his state had heartily approved of giving old school busses to private schools, but had split within the common error of the mean on whether or not those busses should have their motors overhauled. The last election had been a race. Humnuts' opponent, Bill Mill, had passed out contraceptives under the campaign slogan, "Kill a Pill with Bill Mill." Humnuts had won by a close margin, he remembered, but the whole thing had been pretty arduous.
Rancid mumbled, "Sorry." He tried to think of an excuse. "Hopeless Copeless 82, our computer, broke down."
"Well," said Senator Homo Humnuts, obviously out of sorts, "perhaps it isn't reliable enough to handle our next ten-million-dollar government contract, and this should be pointed out to the president of the university, who in turn will come around asking some pretty serious, some pretty serious questions. Yessir!" continued Senator Homo Humnuts, just beginning to wind up. "You cannot crucify mankind under a cross of gold or a bundle of transistors, while the men who made this country great lie whirling in their graves, our brave boys who died on the Fourth of July, along with the smell of Mother's home cooking, apple pie, Christmas morning, the flag waving over the assembled crowd on Memorial Day, not to mention the little people, yes, the little people who shall have their voices heard, and above all, avoid those entangling foreign influences, and never, never fight a land war on Oriental soil!" Humnuts retired, triumphant.
Rancid cocked an eyebrow at Wee Kling, and wondered if she could be an entangling foreign influence. Obviously, Humnuts needed to be re-conditioned. Somehow his memory bank had become confused. But he was an important personage, and he was needed.
Rancid tried to be soothing. "I'll try to get them to you as soon as possible, Senator." He grinned like a death mask, glad that he hadn't allowed a Deeper Peeper to be installed and the Senator couldn't see him-or for that matter, any of the others who were waiting on HOLD. How complicated life really is, he sighed.
The Senator's voice seemed glad. "I'll want to see you as soon as possible about that, Gelding." Then it became plaintive. "But can't you give me a little hint, just so I can keep my constituents satisfied? Just a little, teeny weeny hint, so I can throw them a few crumbs of cake, while the barricades are being manned."
Gelding groaned inwardly, both at the metaphor and Wee Kling's sudden bounce that seemed to penetrate all the way to his balls. It was her affectionate way of showing impatience, he knew, so he absently kneaded her rump, trying to quiet her down. He could feel the tension grow in her cunt. "Crumbs!" he said. "School busses! Contraceptives!" He free-associated desperately, trying to give the Senator a little-something that he hadn't been able to do with Wee Kling. "Throw them some crumbs, Senator. Give them contraceptives in the school busses!"
The Senator was silent for a moment. His voice seemed to be brighter when he finally spoke. "If Hopeless Copeless came up with that, we know it's the thing to do, don't we? And despite the cries of opposition, the smears that will be leveled against me, the breaking of windows in the high places of the land, this is what T will stand for, forthright and square, with my finger in my ass."
"On the public pulse, Senator!" warned Rancid.
"Correct, correct," intoned the Senator. "I will keep my finger on the pubic lust, my ear to the ground, antennas sensitive to the cries of the forgotten and the dispossessed, and by the memory of those who made this country great, the blue skies and the waving wheat fields and the amber gaze in the brain, I will, I swear on my honor and my country's honor, that school busses will have contraceptives, and no more, no more, will this country see the sad plight, the national shame, of a pregnant, neglected school bus..."
Without thinking, Rancid punched HOLD, knowing that Senator Homo Humnuts was good for one of his famous speeches, lucid and intelligent. But for some reason, he wasn't in the mood for it at the moment. Wee
Kling cocked an eyebrow at him but he didn't know if he was in the mood or not, even when she reached her right hand down and gently-to avoid scratching him with her long, curving fingernails-took the root of his oak between her thumb and finger and gave it a slight massage, causing the prostate to boil within him, his ass giving a jerk as the message raced to his brain, the tip of his ramrod pushing against the floor of her cunt, and she prepared to settle down into that long race, that long dive down to the foaming waters below. Channel Seven buzzed.
Rancid looked helpless. "It must be a plot against my masculinity," he beseeched.
Wee Kling looked at him speculatively. "Answer your phone, dear," she crooned. "Perhaps the next time we can try remote control."
"Gelding?" he answered, dubiously punching the button.
"You know what that means, don't you, Gelding? Etymologically speaking? I just came across the word and thought I'd remind you."
Rancid was puzzled at the voice, then finally placed it. Of course! It was one of his fellow professors, somebody in the English Department. "Norman?" he asked.
"Norman Pitter-patter rings the bell, on our merry route to hell! How's that for something on the spur of the moment, seeing that there was no particular ferment?" the voice chortled.
Rancid winced. Norman Pitter-patter was on the way down, of course, since the Dong school of literature that he had single-handedly begun was a little out of step with the modern world, although Rancid still preferred it to some of the modern works, such as the Theater of the Assburn. The quarterly that Pitter-patter edited was still influential, and Rancid always prominently displayed his latest copy of ding-Dong on his coffee table and religiously read Norman's column, "The Pitter-patter of Tiny Feats." But who, any longer, read the novels that had begun the school, such as Among the Dongs, Under the Dong, and Catcher of the Dong?
Norman himself was a bit of a bore to have around, trailing his Dong out of his robe, still playing the free spirit, but Rancid wanted to keep his fingers on the world of arts and letters.
"Yes?" he asked, rather sibilantly, for Wee Kling had now moved her fingers to a different spot and was tracing a complicated Oriental hieroglyph on the cleft of his ass, probing down ever further, and he felt strained, as if his nuts were going to burst any minute.
"Rancid, I'm having a cocktail party to introduce my new book tonight, and I'd like to see you there."
Rancid thought back. "I don't see how I can make it."
"Make my Dong, you mean!" came the savage reply. "Remember, when I came to your party when you were just an assistant professor and you introduced your new computer to the world, that Hopeless Copeless 82, and you needed a humanist there?"
Rancid had to agree that Pitter-patter was right. It had helped to have an influential literary critic at the opening of his new computer. "What's your new book about?" he asked helplessly.
"Donging It. It's my blazing autobiography, from my lowly beginnings to my heights as an influential influence, my sudden realization that it was better to have a Dong than to be published in Readers Digest, and how I made it to the top, pulling my Dong after me. It has everything, Gelding, and I goddamn well hope that it's a best seller, because I've found out one thing as I've carried my Dong throughout the literary world-that it's better to be a Dong than to look at one from afar." Norman's voice was blazing.
"I might have to go out of town, Norman," said Rancid plaintively.
"I'll pick you and your Dong both up," came the menacing reply and Rancid, feeling guilty, punched the HOLD button again. One more couldn't possibly hurt. He had so many things on his mind, he thought painfully, and on his body, looking up at Wee Kling, who had carried her little sport deep into him where he felt fiery needles of Oriental stimulation beginning to flow around his center, and he reached his arms up to her, grasping her roughly.
"Finally, we can be alone!" she announced dramatically, gathering her haunches together, applying the Chen-Chou vise to him, and he was about to use the Rodeo technique, where he would try to throw her off, but where he knew in advance that all of his wiles and his strength would be useless against that curved, malicious little body and that wonderfully adaptable cunt.
Channel Eight seemed to scream, although it was the same monotonous buzz as before. Rancid didn't even bother to remonstrate with the fates any longer, having given himself up to tragedy long before. He fell back on the couch, allowing the vinyl leatherette to stick to his sweating back, and Wee Kling had to balance herself for a moment in her semi-crouch, semi-straddle position, and then she seemed to shrug, although the blaze in her eyes seemed to match the sheen of her black pussy hair. With languid ease, she merely stretched one leg back, the other ahead, and placed the forward foot in front of Rancid's startled eyes. "At least, you'll remember I'm here!" she hissed, as he punched the button.
Rancid frantically sorted through his mind for ways to mollify her, for he well knew that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. With his tongue, he licked the bottom of her tiny foot, and watched as her toes immediately began the Dance of the Five Virgins. One by one, he placed them in his mouth, suckling them, and the savage line of her mouth softened a bit.
"Gelding," he managed to mumble, between toes.
The voice over the tiny speaker was suspicious. "What are you doing, Gelding? You sound like you're in a traumatic emotional state, with overtones of extreme anxiety and a slight breakthrough of your paranoia." The voice became coaxing. "I want you to tell me exactly what you're doing, why, what day it is, and how you feel. You missed your appointment, you know. An indicator of extreme resistance, and we want to get to the bottom of this right away. Your analysis has been going so well and if we keep it up, I know that we'll get to the bottom of that byplay between you and your mother in three or four years. If, and only if, you keep up the daily sessions, can we guarantee any results, Gelding. You know that, don't you?"
Gelding released his mouth from his task long enough to answer, feeling the wave of anxiety go through him that it always did when he talked to Dr. Sickman Fried, his analyst. "I know, Doctor, I know." He seemed to be torn between two impulses that blurred in his mind, to continue on with the toes and their Dance of the Five Virgins, which were now beginning to curl and grind in anticipation of the sensual mouth that worked on them, and the guilt that Dr. Fried created. After all, Dr. Fried did devote an hour a day to him, at a hundred bucks a session, and it was quite an economic loss to him to miss the hour, as well as hopelessly confusing the analysis.
"Well, tell me," impatiently demanded the doctor, "tell me. What are you doing that is more important than your analysis?"
Rancid cast about wildly in his mind. He had been exposed to the major categories of human life while lying here, doing nothing more than innocently trying to fuck his secretary, to conserve his time, to get a little exercise and a little rest and a little screwing in one, but people simply didn't leave him alone, they kept calling, behind that row of buttons lurked the whole of human experience-Home, Crime, Business, Religion, Art, Politics, and now in the voice of Dr. Fried, Science, and on top of him, Sex.
He finally said, "I'm sucking my secretary's toes."
There was a silence while Dr. Fried digested this information. He finally said, "I'm very glad I called, Gelding. I thought it might be something like this. Does this happen very often?"
Rancid was glad to talk to someone who would discuss his problems with him sensibly, without rancor, and who didn't seem to want anything. "Only when I'm fucking her, and not every time then. You see, she uses Oriental techniques that have been handed down from generation to generation, and occasionally she does the Dance of the Five Virgins with her toes. It turns me on."
Dr Fried's voice seemed to be strangled. "I imagine it would. You haven't told me about this part of your life, Gelding," he accused.
"You never asked me," said Rancid, surprised. "You always wanted to talk about my childhood."
"Well, yes, the childhood experiences are important, but there are other things, current problems, the here and now, that as therapists we have to know." Dr. Fried lowered his voice. "I want you to have a special session with me tonight, and I want a complete description of each and every one of those acts that take place between you and your secretary, and we'll go over them, bit by bit, to extract every ounce of reality from them." He seemed to lick his lips. "Every last bit of meaning, Gelding."
"I'm tied up tonight, Doctor," protested Rancid.
Dr. Fried seemed not to hear. "You don't, by any chance, have pictures, or tape recordings? So that we can have accurate details?"
"No I don't, Doctor," cried Rancid. "And I can't make it! I have other appointments."
Rancid turned back to Wee Kling, looking at her beseechingly, hoping against hope that he could find the solution to his problem there, but her almond eyes only shone coal black, her toes still marking time to the intricate internal rhythms of the Dance of the Five Virgins, and with a feeling of horror he suddenly saw that she was no longer willing to put the moment of truth off, her body still splayed in the T-shaped split, moving in a grinding arc on top of him, her cunt compressed to its maximum, so that he felt as if he were being crushed, and suddenly, the momentum began building up in him, he felt her clitoris grow, and he suddenly knew they were both in the Zone of No Return. There was that growing tickle at the base, and he hardly noticed that she was bent over parallel to her legs, her hair tossing wildly, eyes dilated, her short body almost touching his chest, the muscles in her parted legs fluttering wildly, her buttocks vibrating as she tried to engulf the tool that he in turn tried to push through her, the fountain beginning to boil, finding surcease in that flow, but not quite obliterating the nagging reminder on his desk, the seven people that were waiting for his decision, that expected him to take on more responsibilities, that expected him tonight, and at the very moment when he pumped away, when his long compressed jet of pleasure broke through, almost lifting ninety-seven-pound Wee Kling into the air, who at the same time, was lost in a seething mass of dervish-like movements, her belly sucking in and out, her body trying to curl in on itself, he worked out the solution, the escape!
With an arm, he punched the whole row of buttons, and at the peak of his orgasm, he shouted, "I'm leaving! I can't make it tonight! I have to take the Screw-way!"
There seemed to be an answering gasp, and even Wee Kling, her eyes fogged with pleasure, looked at him with surprise.
He shouted again, relieved, both of his need and of his responsibility. "If anyone wants me, they'll have to find me. I'M TAKING THE SCREW-WAY!! ! "
And settled back quietly, his decision made.
TWO
1
Rancid lay there for a moment, glad of being able to get the conflict off his mind and the pressure off his prostate. Perhaps, he mused, he had taken on too much in the frantic scramble for status, success and full tenure. It was that old Devilish Protestant Ethic working within him that prevented him from putting on a robe and going out to be a hippie, to be nothing but a carefree flower child, stirring his pot.
"Wee Kling," he said lazily, "I'm through." He tried to roll over, but her legs were scissored across him, pinning him down.
She leaned over, her small breasts still full and engorged, playfully teased him with her bangs, and put her mouth to his ear. "I could do with a multiple today, boss! You give me that old feeling."
Rancid had no room in which to draw back. "But Wee Kling, didn't you hear me? I'm going to take the Screw-Way!"
"That's just talk," she murmured. "You wouldn't try to escape that way."
To himself, Rancid said, I certainly would! Out loud, he said, "It's hardly an escape. It's time that I proved it was a perfectly safe, swift, and efficient means of transportation."
"You're kidding, boss," she grimaced. "You know the track record on the Screw-Way."
Rancid nodded with some difficulty, still pinned down. Despite the fact that he had managed to change the subject, she continued to pin him down, and he could definitely feel the sly throb of her cunt as she tried to encourage him to continue. And she was right about the record of the Screw-Way as he knew all too well, having worked out the basic principles himself. He had been on the President's Commission for Advanced Transit and they had come to a dead end, having rejected rockets, planes, trains, busses, automobiles, bicycles, and horses as forms that required too much space. Rancid remembered saying, "What we need is a transportation system that will fit into your hip pocket!"
That night, as if on cue, the inspiration struck him, and for three furious minutes he frantically scribbled on his night table on the telephone pad, later saying it was as if he had "received a computer read-out from upstairs" to Shilly Brahmin, who nodded wisely. The next morning, he put the notes into his hip pocket and transcribed them in his office, where the basic theory for the topological instant vector transportation methodology was derived. The engineering was simple, and it should have worked perfectly. You merely drove onto a Screw-Way entrance, realized that it was called the Screw-Way because of the vague, cloudy screw-like road ascending upwards, and arrived where you were going without traffic jams or long hours behind the wheel.
Except that it only worked part of the time. Sometimes you got there and sometimes you didn't. Nothing could account for it. Those who had managed to get through to their destination said it was simple. Others seemed to be lost forever. Potential users were discouraged, since there hardly seemed to be any saving in time over the crowded and stinking freeways, and the brave souls who ventured on it had dropped to a dribble.
Rancid felt guilty about his part in it, and had sworn that someday he would investigate and try to correct the deficiencies, but he always seemed to be tied up in so much other work.
This was the opportunity! It was an escape, true, but a fruitful one, and perhaps he could be of some further use to humanity. But Wee Kling still continued to lay on top of him, now beginning to grind slowly, lazily and sensuously, her rounded ass twinkling.
He had to be hard and cruel. Without a second thought, he pushed himself up, flipping her off, where she lay on the floor for a moment, her belly rotation gradually subsiding. She looked at him sadly, and for a moment he almost weakened as he saw her naked, ninety-seven-pound form open to him, her pussy twinkling against the plush rug, her nails still curved, waiting.
But he had his duty. "I have to go!" he said coldly, looking at the console on his desk, the seven voices now switched off. He started to dress.
Wee Kling stood up, looked at him, and said, "I can't let you go alone. I'm coming with you!"
He felt a sudden surge of confidence. "If you want to take the chance," he said. He waited for her.
2
Palomine Gelding stood in front of the full-length triple mirror, examining her naked body critically. Her stringy ponytail ran down her back, which was roughened and browned by the sun. In most women it would have been considered a sign of poor skin care; to her, the leathery quality was a thing of beauty, and she only wished it could be curry-combed and brushed to a high polish, like her beloved stallion, Herman. She half turned, her muscular thighs and legs knobby in the mirror, glad that she wasn't soft and white and frail like other women. The patch of black hair stood out in the center of her body and without thinking, she took the stiff brush on the dressing table and combed it directly downward, almost absently, glorying in the sensation of warmth that emanated from there, unconsciously pushing harder, reaching between her legs with the brush, feeling the sensation of stiffness against the lips of her cunt. Her small breasts, as brown as the rest of her, began to stiffen, the dark leathery whorls becoming molten with blood.
Maybe, she thought, if she were white and soft and helpless like some of her society counterparts, she wouldn't have to do this, and Gelding would act more like a good husband than the passive figure that she had to literally whip in order to get any action, and even that, she knew, was dictated by his need for her money and social position. If she had purchased a husband with as much care as she had purchased Herman, she wouldn't be in this kind of mess.
Stepping away from the mirror, she cantered into the huge bedroom from the dressing room, throwing down the brush in anger. The leather cover on the huge king-size bed, the leather chairs, the sheen of the leather walls, gave the room a rather Western appearance, complemented by the array of equestrian implements hanging on the walls. A saddle hung at the end of the bed, and she looked at it with disgust remembering Rancid's performance of last night. How feeble his attempts had been to simulate the bucking and the tossing of a horse, but there was one thing she had to say about him: He tried. Rancid couldn't be faulted in that respect. But the next time, she thought, she would have to try to do something to make it a little more realistic, so that she could feel the existential fear and trembling under her thighs. Perhaps a pair of spurs, replacing, of course, the rowels with hard rubber, so that it wouldn't cut the poor man up too much. Just thinking of it made her nostrils stiffen, her breathing come faster, the warmth boil up into her haunches.
And now, she thought, he probably wouldn't be home tonight, as usual, and she would be all alone, the poor little rich girl, rattling around in her big old empty house. A delicious thought suddenly came to her. She was alone! The servants were gone. There was nobody to interrupt or ask questions, and goodness knew if she would ever see Rancid again, if he went flying away on that silly Screw-Way. It was obvious the human race was meant to go place to place on horses.
Her mind made up, a cloud of anticipation sweeping over her, causing her to walk stiff-legged, she went to the outside wall of the bedroom, and opened a pair of floor-to-ceiling double doors.
She looked in, and called, "Herman, boy, here Herman," in a rough, masculine but strangely sweet voice. The big brown eyes looked at her out of the darkness, and the stallion stretched out his shining body as if he knew what was expected of him.
Herman might be a strange name for a horse, but she named all her stallions Herman, after Herman Obber-runndder, her first riding instructor, who taught her how to ride at fourteen, and later on, in the musty, horsy, leather filled stables, taught her a few other things. The psychiatrists later told her that she had a "horse fixation" because of these traumatic experiences, which could easily be fixed, but she had by then decided that she didn't want to bother, and that she loved horses too much to tinker with her obsession.
Herman gave a snort as she gently patted him, nudging him into the room, his well-groomed body filling the bedroom. Palomine went to a wall and took down a rather complicated harness, came back to Herman, cinched it around his midsection. It formed a platform much like a hammock under his belly, about a foot away. Her steps were getting short and jerky by now, as she began to feel the imminence of the drama that she was about to enact, the primitive communication that she would enter into with this fabulous piece of horseflesh. With a final jerk, she tightened the buckle, and tottering a little by now, returned to the dressing table, giving a quick glance at her brown body in the mirror, took a generous handful of cream from a jar, slathered it generously around her cunt, pushing her hand into that generous orifice to lubricate the inward parts.
It was never an easy procedure, but there was something about it, the drama of communication with horse to human, that made her excitement mount, that she could feel through her knobby knees, her trim, hard belly, boil through her body.
It was difficult to control her mounting excitement as she came back into the room, and Herman obviously felt the same way. When he saw her, his face cocked, and slowly, out of his haunches, slid his instrument. With practiced ease, she slid under him as he stood there, wriggled her body that now seemed to be on fire as it touched the belly, her breasts straining against him, pushing downward along the harness until the huge horsecock was in contact with her thighs. Her hand reached out and she was almost crooning to him as she guided the massive thick instrument into her waiting cunt, feeling the initial pain as it spread her, even through the lubricant, and then closing on it triumphantly-throwing her legs up against his rear haunches to hold it in, wrapping her long arms around his body, squeezed to him, as he began to move in and out, slowly at first, and then as his excitement grew, beginning to realize that she was helping with the rhythm, that the odd noises she was making were not pain, but moans of agonized ecstasy, her brown thin body stretched into tight bundles of sinews, pumping into him. Herman snorted as he began to approach the climax, and he rose on his rear hoofs, the traditional position for mounting a mare, sliding her body further down, sliding deeper onto that enormous prick that was beginning to boil.
With one part of her mind, Palomine thought, I'll make Rancid notice, even as the blood fever of the humping began to affect her vision, and she suddenly decided that she would follow him up the Screw-Way, that she would take Herman and toc him to notice her, and then it overtook her, her center clamped together in that enormous vise as the contained fountain of the horse exploded in her, spilling in her thighs, warming her being, and she gave a long, excruciating whinny and was gone.
3
Hott Cock raised up his hand as a signal to the others in back of him, telling them by the position of his middle finger that he was ready to go, frowning slightly at the last words on the radio telephone, shutting off the set with his black gloved finger, kicking at the starter of his BAM angrily, scaring Shenta to the point where her bare hand slipped out from under his leather jacket.
"Something wrong, Hott?" asked Shenta Vidus, her recumbent form and bare breasts poking up from her cradle in the body of the BAM, wiggling her narrow butt and tufted snatch below the bar on which Hott Cock sat, now deep in thought.
"Copout!" he muttered. "That finking WASP thinks he's too good for his old friends, and now he thinks he's going to get away from it all, up that Screw-Way in the sky." He made a gesture up with his eyes, but the sky wasn't visible, for he had polarized the canopy of the bike, except for the small porthole from which he could signal his cohorts. He rather liked the BAM for this reason, despite the fact that it was considered over-luxurious by Horney Demented standards, since there was really nothing wrong with power steering, air conditioning, ultrasonic navigation, dead-fix radar, computer-aimed weapon systems, and a few of the other products of modern technology that he had, by dint of long, hard struggle been able to achieve.
Let the middle classes come out on Sunday in their Horney Demented and their Racy Gracies, hair blowing in the wind, goggles askew, driving like demented demons down the freeways, up and down hills, burning rubber. Personally, he liked the deserted byways, to leave his followers, and to enjoy nature in comfort, depolarizing the canopy so that he could see the greenery, allowing a controlled amount of filtered outside air to be cooled through the vent, effortlessly taking pictures with his built-in camera system.
Besides, nothing but the BAM offered the Stable Cradle, where Mommas like Shenta Vidus could lay, all spread out for his delectation, offering him a built-in pneumatic cushion while he rode, relieving him of that constant physical need that obsessed so many other drivers and ruined their concentration. For wasn't it one of Gelding's imagine friends, Sickman Fried, the analyst, that had once told him that a motorcycle was simply a huge penis symbol between his legs, a massive extension of the power that every man would like to have, burrowing down the road, overcoming everything in its path, but carrying with it its own destruction.
It had seemed to be too good to be true, but Hott, always on the lookout, immediately saw the possibilities, making it possible for Mommas to relieve him of that omnipresent need and leave his mind clear for planning the rumbles and the gang bangs that others didn't have time for, making him the leader of Cock's Pox, the most fearsome crew on the road.
"I don't think," began Shenta Vidus, demurely.
"You're not here to think!" barked Hott Cock. "Let me do the thinking. Go into your dance."
"That's what I was thinking about," she said hastily, falling in with his black mood, determined to satisfy him, not wishing to risk her position as Hott Cock's Momma in the Stable Cradle for an instant. And the Shenta Vidus dance was one of the things that kept him tied to her. "But can we have some champagne and pheasant afterwards?"
Hott smiled down at her, "Always hungry, aren't you Shenta? You still remember those deprived days down in the slums, when you were in the bottom one-third of this nation. The answer, of course, is Yes." His eyes flicked to the built-in refrigerator on the side, loaded with Mumm's and pheasant under glass, as well as a few other delicacies. He did keep a can of well-known beer in there, in case it were necessary to pose for any of the numerous publicity spreads that he had been given, but he tried to keep his private tastes out of the public eye.
Shenta began to breathe deeply and sensually, her eyes half closing, to get herself in the mood. In reality, she had very little space, being cramped down the body of the cycle, her head in a special spot hollowed out under the handle bars, fitting into a foam rubber cradle that cushioned the road shock under her. The cycle began to move as Hott raced the throttle for a moment and eased it into the automatic transmission. It helped to have the feeling of motion, for the dance was difficult enough as it was.
She raised her arms slightly, extending her fingers out, and did the same with her knees, stretching her toes out toward the rear of the cycle, where the faint thrum of the dual exhausts sounded through the canopy. Her fingers first began to twitch, rhythmically, regularly, as if following the road noise that came from the tires, and the toes immediately followed suit, then the contractions extending to the bottom of her feet and the palms of her hands, moving suddenly to the wrists and ankles, and for a moment she looked like a Javanese bell dancer without bells. But faster than the eye could fathom, her elbows and knees became involved, joining in that rhapsodic movement, and as quickly as Hott was able to look at that, to comprehend her beauty and grace in the constricted cradle, her arms and thighs followed, the next step being her face and neck, the hair sensuously moving with the joggling waving beat, her skin almost contracting and expanding under the immense strain of her muscular control, and then without a loss of a single vibration, it moved to her breasts, which by themselves began to move, up and down, sidewise, the nipples stiffening into little rods that bounced gently in the breeze, from there moving downward into her belly muscles which became a waving sea of movement rippling and in, centering on the nave". Sweat began to pour from her even in the air-conditioned interior, and suddenly, her head was thrown back as she reached the ultimate center of her being, her slit beginning to open and close, even her clitoris vibrating with concentrated fury as her body went into the final act of the Shenta Vidus dance.
Hott's cock by this time had received the message from the vibrating body, and at the moment that the waves reached her cunt, his tool, hanging massive and hard below the single bar that served as his seat, slid into her passage and was immediately engulfed, immediately made the object of that violent muscular contraction that wrung and twisted him, yet at the same time left his mind clear as he pumped away into her, turning the throttle to maximum, the BAM screaming with the fury of its concentrated horsepower, and as he felt the tearing away of his semen, Shenta's body a blur under him, he screamed into the wind that roared outside:
"We'll show him. We'll take the Screw-Way and get there afore him!" Hott Cock bared his teeth as he gripped the handle bars tightly and pumped his ass into the heaving body of the girl, momentarily emptying him of his frustration and anger, as she moaned and gurgled in the final states of the Shenta Vidus dance.
4
Shilly Brahmin never did anything halfway. What should be good enough for Upstairs, he would roll his eyebrows significantly, should be good enough for Downstairs. But in the multi-flickering colors of his projection room, his face was thoughtful. So Gelding thought he was going to escape by taking the Screw-Way? Perhaps he thought he had found a direct route Upstairs, without going through a middleman. That offended Shilly Brahmin's sense of propriety, and if one probed deeper, his sense of financial stability, since his basic desire was to take his percentage toll of the routes.
Not that this was possible, he thought wryly, the human being such a silly, unpredictable creature, going for one fad after another, but he had done well enough so that the Downstairs was a fair approximation of what the Upstairs might be, given several million dollars and a free hand.
like this specially built projection room, which had only been modified a short time ago when he had begun his research into the possibility of taxing screwing. In screening pornographic movies, he had found a great deal of repetition and sameness, not to mention the incredibly poor quality. To speed up the process, he had imported technicians from Sweden to install a projector that threw simultaneous images on four walls and the ceiling. After a few days of going through the available pornographic movies, he had been horrified to find that their effect was emetic, rather than aphrodisiac, and had decided that the only solution, after prayer and consultation with the Omnipresence, was to make his own movies, the better to do research with. There happened to be some loose Omnipresence cash lying around in his safe, so he immediately sent for Frowup Fumoni, the noted Italian director from Bayonne, New Jersey, and to save rent of a movie studio, used one of the gathering places of the United Followers. He detested calling them churches except for tax purposes, since that sounded so staid. The introduction of cocktail lounges had livened things up a bit.
He bit his lip as he saw the results of Fumoni's work, spread out against the four walls and the ceiling, the bigger than life-size figures panting and grappling in full color. They were not all the same, and the possible combinations and intercombinations approached the infinite, although he wondered at Fumoni's use of lenses. One of the screens kept focusing on the pupil of an eye, dilating and expanding, then shooting away down the lithe brown body on the rug, zeroing in with a super-zoom on the curly-headed male busily working inside the cunt of the girl. It was a bit too artistic for mass taste, he felt.
There was no sound except for the faint hum of the projectors. He had turned it off so that he could better commune, and come to more adequate decisions. This had led to his impatient telephone call to Gelding.
"You look disheartened, great one," came the feminine voice.
Brahmin was startled, then suddenly remembered. He always took a few communicants into his confidence, so that they could better open up a clear channel to the Omnipresence. Mrs. Gotta Gettit kneeled on the thick carpeting, her eyes flickering from wall to wall, to the ceiling, as she participated in the rites of the United Followers. Her hands were upraised in prayerful attitude.
"Yes, my child," intoned Brahmin, "the decisions that we have to make in the workaday world sound so trivial and so mercenary, when I compare them with the faith of a true believer such as you." It was, he reflected, something of a misnomer to call her a child. She was fortyish in actual chronological age, but being married to the richest man in the world had certain advantages, such as being able to obtain a nineteen-year-old's heart, a fourteen-year-old's skin, and a twenty-six-year-old's cunt, along with a miscellaneous assortment of breasts, lungs, lips, hair, eyes, and a liver. Despite this melange, her over-all appearance was rather exotic, although on the order of a Cubist painting. Mercifully, she was hidden in the dark, among the flickering lights thrown off by the screens.
She clasped his legs. "You're so good!" she gasped.
Brahmin wanted to say, "And you're so rich," but merely continued to pat her head absently, watching one of the other screens while a pert blonde worked up a series of setting-up exercises, setting up the two men on the bed with her, who helped her out in her athletic endeavors by placing her between them and holding her steady by means of their cocks, inserted from the back and front, while her legs and arms continued to wave. A third screen showed a long shot, in typical Frowup Fumoni style, of an S-shaped daisy chain, but despite the numbers involved, and the interesting intercombinations that they achieved, the effect seemed rather flat. He would have to speak to Fumoni about that, and try to explain to him that he was now in America, where punch and action were important ingredients of my-thing meant to appeal to a mass audience.
The remaining wall was another of Fumoni's specialties, stark realism. A girl stood against a wall, clothes torn and disheveled, while an endless stream of juvenile delinquents came up to her, stuck their pricks into her, made three quick jerks, came, and backed away, and once again, another took his place, and then the camera zoomed away, her face in the foreground, composed and patient, with a shot of a long string of youngsters patiently waiting-the Earth mother, Brahmin supposed, introducing man to his fate, hardly the thing for a stag, but it might do for some of the more advanced couple's groups.
The ceiling was the most interesting. He looked up and saw nothing but a torso, curvaceously heaving up and down, and realized he was included in the movie, a participant, and almost felt it as the camera moved down the torso to the cunt, zoomed even closer, and almost felt the clitoris between his teeth as he counted the hairs around the slit.
He felt Gotta move up his legs. "You're in touch with the Omnipresent," she breathed, her hand coming upon the signal that sprouted from his body.
"Yes," said Brahmin, "his spirit moves me at the most unexpected moments." He kept his eyes focused on the ceiling, waiting for more inspiration. It was quick in coming, for in the darkness, the hand was replaced by a warm pair of lips, and he felt the spirit being absorbed into Gotta's mouth, the warm juicy interior making him the receptacle for those delicious sensations that the Omnipresent had seen fit to allow him to feel. He grasped her head, and could feel the vibrations enter into her, as she gave out with a low groan.
Above, the camera angle had shifted as if he were now the participant, and there was the long stretch of the girl's body as if he were looking down while laying on her, pumping the eternal life-giving fluids into the hips that were jerking frantically, knees upraised, cunt hair matted down, the pink walls inflamed and showing through the slit, breasts engorged into primitive mountains topped by lava, the rounded belly quivering, and Brahmin knew, he felt, that it would only be a minute before she let go, before Fumoni's artistry would cap it with a boiling explosion that could no longer be contained, and besides Fumoni's artistry, there was the skilled and clever mouth of Gotta below him, her arms now tightly circling him, working at the serious and holy business of serving the symbol of the Omnipresent.
Brahmin never allowed himself to forget his problems. So Gelding was running away. That would never do. The sudden flash of inspiration came as Gotta suddenly began to receive the ministrations of the power that came through him, and as Shilly Brahmin stood in the semi-darkness, crouching, a vessel for the outpouring of that power, feeling the rush as it coursed through him, he made the decision.
Gelding was needed Downstairs, rather than Upstairs. "I'm going to follow him up the Screw-Way," he said triumphantly, allowing the last flutter of sensation to leave him, his mind now clear.
And remembering something, he again patted Gotta on the head, and said, "You can come too, if you wish, dear."
After all, why should he use his credit cards, if there was cash available?
5
J. Burnup Gettit devoted a half-day per week to the poor. Frowning he remembered that this was his half-day, and he had already spent much of the time that should have been devoted to them talking to that crazy Gelding, who seemed to be losing his mind. Taking the Screw-Way, indeed! One did not dismiss J. Burnup
Gettit like that, especially when he had just had an idea that might, just might, revolutionize the whole business system. Previously, he mused, it had been devoted to expanding markets, to creating needs that those markets really didn't know they had until the wonderful dynamic apparatus of the business community got busy, but it was a slow process, netting maybe three to four hundred percent a year on your money. This idea that had just struck him, to begin the whole thing anew, to create a whole continent-after J. Burnup Gettit and Hydronuke Industries had finished with Africa, there was all of Asia. The world could be re-created every three to four years, keeping money in circulation, and creating the healthy business climate that was needed for competition to truly thrive, especially if he managed to get there first.
But it was all a game, he realized, just like all other games. That was why he liked to devote some of his time to the poor, to feel with them, to understand their problems. He wondered if the servants had made them ready. This was the afternoon that his wife spent with that preacher, Shilly Brahmin, saving both their souls, so the time actually turned out to be a net loss. The poor cost some money, and that Shilly had a technique for turning her head and getting some more largesse for the Upstairs, which Gettit was sure was kept Downstairs until the Upstairs was ready.
He buzzed.
His valet, Trudgen, answered. Gettit asked, "Are they ready?" Without blinking, he answered, "Yes, sir. Fed and waiting."
"Is the money there?"
"Yes, sir. One hundred thousand dollars in small bills."
"I'll be there in a moment." This was always a moment of anticipation, to realize that just a few short steps away there were people to whom money was the most important thing in the world, and for a short while, they would be allowed to see how unimportant it was, how empty and spacious the craving was.
He walked to the door at the side of the room, waited for Trudgen to open it, and stepped through. There was an aromatic hiss in the air of the marble room. The huge bath in the center held three figures reflected over and over again in the mirrors that lined the walls. It was almost as big as a small swimming pool, and the three girls looked empty and forlorn in the bubbling liquid. On a marble dressing table at one end there was a neatly stacked pile of money. The eyes of the women looked from it to his entrance, hopefully.
"Good afternoon, girls," said Gettit, becoming cheerful. He noticed they had met his specifications again. In the central files of the welfare department there was a discreet program that had been introduced into their computer, designed so that whenever poor people that met his specifications applied for assistance, they could be discreetly referred. Female, age 21-25, passable looking, weight and measurements within certain limits, and in need. This trio seemed to meet the criteria adequately.
He bent over and stroked the hair of the one nearest to him. "How does your champagne bath feel, dear?" he crooned, wishing to soothe her. She was trembling.
"It's a little c ... cold" she said, with a considerable amount of spunk.
Gettit liked that. There was no reason why anybody had to be resigned to their fate. But, in order to test her complaint, he dipped his hand into the champagne and tasted it, making a face. Not the highest quality, and a poor year, but adequate for the purpose. It was somewhat chilly.
"Trudgen!" he called, still smiling at the dark-haired girl who tried to protect herself from his gaze by folding her thin arms over her breasts. Her well-formed hips and thin legs, waving in the liquid, were clearly visible, and Gettit was pleased to notice the bubbles collecting around her snatch hair, creating a very pleasing effect. A thickset blonde watched him cautiously, and when he smiled at her, preened and made a point to put her leg out of the level of the champagne, knee cocked, and run her hand sensuously down her calf and thigh toward her brunette pubes. The third woman was rather heavy, her huge breasts seeming to float on the liquid, almost a mass of foam from the goose pimples that had appeared around the circumference. Her dimpled face looked away, troubled, and Gettit wondered if this taste of luxury were insufficient to drive away the memories of her poverty.
Trudgen appeared. Gettit said, "The champagne is cold!"
Trudgen's face didn't flicker. "I'm sorry, sir. It must have occurred while we were waiting for you. I'll remedy that immediately." He went over to a gold-plated tap, and pulled down a handle to the right. A stream of steaming bubbly immediately shot into the pool and the warm liquid began to spread. A look of relief came into the three faces as the warm liquid hit their bodies and they seemed to sink deeper into it, reveling as Gettit would have wished to revel in a champagne bath when he was young and poor.
Trudgen left. Gettit smiled. "Better, girls?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on. "You've all been well fed, and well taken care of?" They nodded, the thin girl with her lips lightly pursed, the blonde wiggling her ass against the warm current, forming little waves, the thickset heavy-breasted big-thighed woman leaning back, her appurtenances sloshing around like two tugs berthing an ocean liner.
Gettit moved over to the table with the money. "I don't want you to worry about a thing. Your old rags have been burnt"--there was a moment of shock from three faces-"and you will be outfitted with a completely new wardrobe when you leave, courtesy of J. Burnup Gettit!" He beamed.
Then he took a gold-plated object out of his pocket, placed it on the table, took up a group of greenbacks, and fanned them out. "This, girls, is money!" he triumphantly announced. They looked on with various expressions of intermingled greed, awe, and interest. He took the gold-plated lighter in his hand. "I like to give a short lecture on money to my guests at these weekly sessions. You have all had difficulties with money. That is why you were chosen. Those difficulties stem not so much from your outer environment, but from a different cause entirely." He waved the bills. "They come from within!"
Pleased at the expressions of incredulity that information had created, Gettit continued, fixing his eyes on the plump one who in turn stared down the flooded valley between her breasts, as if to find the source of all her mistakes. "Money has no real value in itself. It is merely a symbol. You are poor because you treat it as real, instead of a symbol. Watch!" He flicked the lighter on, and took the sheaf of bills and applied it to the flame. There was some difficulty in burning it, but it slowly began to char. The eyes of the three in the pool seemed to gleam in that light. He took another bill, this time for a hundred dollars, and did the same, waving the faint flame in the air. "This money is good for nothing except what other people value it as. Pieces of paper smoldering away!"
J. Burnup Gettit became excited, striding back and forth. He took off his coat, and finding it still warm, hastily unbuttoned his shirt, dropped his trousers and quickly kicked off his shoes. He stood there in his tailored underwear and socks, and grabbed a handful of bills, holding them high. "What are they worth to you? Are you willing to revise your ideas about money, to renounce it as a reality and accept it as an abstraction?"
The girls nodded yes, the heavy-breasted one rising as she did so, her red-capped volcanoes stirring the water into whirlpools, and Gettit suddenly began to take the money, throwing-it into the pool, a carpet of green splattering them, and as he quickly removed the remainder of his clothing and floundered in with armfuls of the remaining paper, pasting it over himself as it became wet, taking a long roll of thousand-dollar bills and inserting it over his prick so that the green object pushed out in front of him for several feet. The tremendous tittied one came up to him, slid her curved torso between his legs, and squeezed her breasts together until they clasped the roll of money, looking at him with triumph, while the other two swam over and smothered over the rest of his body, almost pushing him over and under the surface of the liquid, playfully jabbing at him, offering themselves, the champagne finally having penetrated to their brains, as they took the money and stuffed it into whatever crevices they had available, knowing that the paper would survive and they would get their full value, while Gettit was joyous in his regression, leaning over the twin baby mountains of the largest one, the money now gone from his vehicle and replaced by a pair of bowed lips that took his temporary banks and tried to draw more of the deposit out, her rounded healthy face underwater, huge breaths stored up in those massive lungs.
But Gettit, reveling and splashing, was not quite happy, still felt the nagging sense of failure in the back of his mind even as the greenback-stuffed blonde was running her tongue up and down his back, while the thin brunette was almost vertical in the water, frantically offering her night deposit vault to be filled, the protective devices uncovered. He shouted, "Trudgen!"
Trudgen appeared, expressionless, picking up a wet bill and throwing it back into the pool.
"Get the car out," ordered Gettit. "We're going to take the Screw-Way!"
6
Senator Homo Humnuts was an expert in sight and sound. The sight and sound, that is, of his own voice and his own body. He stood in front of the bank of mirrors, and it was several minutes before the voice registered on his consciousness:
"-and by the drive that made men free, and freed the yokes of the oppressed from the chains of the oppressor during the time of travails, I swear upon the cross, the wheel, the pentagram, the oxcart, the rifle, the exclamation point, that nary a school bus, that conveyance that so faithfully has . ... "
"I'M TAKING THE SCREW-WAY!! ! "
"-made America great, given us the educational facilities that enabled the far-flung frontier, row upon row of shocked bellies of wheat, the friendly Red Man behind each shock, waving his tom-tom and his deadly jug of firewater, saying 'Better Red than Dead!' while our brave cavalrymen circle around, hoping against hope-"
Senator Homo Humnuts stopped, and felt suddenly chilled by the silence. Had Gelding deserted him? He went over to the wall and punched the button on the wall speaker, installed so that it would leave his hands free to properly make rhetorical emphases when rehearsing speeches, which was almost constantly. After all, politics was a difficult trade, and demanded constant practice. It was important that no one else get a word in edgewise.
He pushed the button again. "Hormone!" he called, asking for Hormone Humnuts, his wife, then recalled that she was out. He glanced around discreetly, then turned back to the mirror, admiring himself again, his short pudgy body, his heavy barrel chest, so suitable for the breathing qualities that were necessary for the practice of his profession. Hormone was a good wife, he realized, and he rather missed her, but there had been a rather hang-dog look about her lately.
He had asked her why they had never had any children like other families. He saw other politicians on television with their families and they all had a crew of neatly brushed and combed children with them.
She had blushed. "I think you had better ask the doctor about that, dear."
The consultation with the doctor had shaken him up. The doctor had sat back, after he had demanded the reason.
"Well, Homo, it's like this." He had taken out a small illustrated book in his desk drawer, and it had shown pictures-not pictures, really, but diagrams, but yon could easily see what they meant-of men and women together, and the men were inserting their things into the women. The doctor had gone on, "And after that, the sperm fertilize the egg and in nine months, it comes out of the woman." He smiled. "New life is brought into the world."
It was hard to describe the rage that Homo Humnuts felt at that moment. Here was this man, supposedly educated, having gone to medical school, spieling his filth and trash at him, a United States Senator! Accusing his mother and his wife of doing something so unspeakably low and dirty that even the poorest, hungriest woman in the most underdeveloped country in the world would rather kill herself than submit!
He rose. "Doctor!" he intoned majestically. "In all my years as an honorable man, never have I heard anything to compare with your foul accusations." Homo leaned over, breathing hard with rage, but not hard enough to prevent him from speaking. His red face looked the doctor directly in the face. "You've treated me and my wife for a good many years now, and you're the last I would ever have suspected of this foreign malignancy that has come over you, this hideous alien ideology, spreading smut and pornography over our fair land, and I warn you, Doctor, I'm giving you a final chance to clear your name and reputation. You must destroy every bit of this material you have in those so-called medical books, probably published in Peeping, Tom., and you must, sir, never breathe a word of this to any other living soul, for your secret is safe with me until the grave."
The doctor said, "But..." but Homo had already stalked out, realizing later that he never had found out about getting babies, but if this were the type of response he was going to get, he decided that even a politician could get along without a family.
His long arms reached past his waist, and as Homo continued to gaze in the mirror, they almost instinctively reached toward the middle of him, toward the two balls that hung below his lollipop, and he took a firm, cupping hold on them, feeling the tightness and comfort as his hands gently squeezed, he noted with pride that his little dingaling was not so little any more. Usually it hung there about an inch and a half long, but now it was sprouting, and reached its full majestic spread of three inches, as thick as a cigar, and once again Homo Humnuts had done his magic trick, had made wine into water, and he felt like bursting into speech. But suddenly, struck with the wonder of it, with the majesty of his own body and his own lovable self, adored by millions, Homo Humnuts, who had once been laughed at in the streets as a small silly boy, was now a ruler of the greatest country on Earth, a member of the United States Senate, and again at the thought of it, his candy stick began to squirt, and he felt that great relief and great pride.
It was over. Homo turned away from the mirror, and realized that his voice had returned, which he only lost in highly emotional moments such as this. So had his problems. Well, he thought, I need that material, Gelding, and I'll follow you to the ends of the earth to get it, for you can't hide from a U.S. Senator.
Even if he had to take the Screw-Way!
7
Norman Pitter-patter looked at his watch, cunningly carved in the shape of a Dong, looked at the Grand-dong clock on the wall, swept his cape even tighter around his shoulders so that his Dong made great leaping circles around him, and cursed.
He was Out! There was a time for anger, and a time for sadness, and he realized this was a time for both. There were times when he had been In, and the very drawing room that was now so empty had been filled with a gay and laughing crowd, and he had managed to get on with both the gay ones and the laughing ones, going from group to group, tossing off some new epigram that he knew would be jealously stolen and quoted at some other cocktail party. For his parties were the only ones where Dongtails were served, and each publication of another of his works had been the occasion for ripples in the world of art to spread from coast to coast and across the sea. Once, he had even had a U.S. Senator there, Homo Humnuts, who had talked constantly-but so did everyone else-and who had admired his Dong just like everyone else, and who had gone away extolling the praises of the great American pet, the Dong.
Now it was empty, his hopes blasted. His new book wasn't even sufficient to draw the crowds, and he suddenly realized the Dong school was dead, swept away by the current winds of fashion and fad, and he was the laughing stock of both the academy and the public, nevermore to throw his Dong high in the air in triumph.
There were remnants of old glories all around him, like the Dash Balder mobile occupying the place of honor in the middle of the room, its innumerable tiny dongs tinkling with any errant breeze. It had once been the centerpiece of one of the most fantastic literary salons that had ever existed, for very few could afford a Balder mobile, and of those few, even less could pay for it. There were autographed portraits of Dongs along the walls by some of the most famous names of their time. "To Pitter-patter, whose Dong will ever remain in my memory, Jam Stembuck." "Truly a giant among Dongs, Merkin Hemandhaw." And others of the same ilk, containing old and dear memories.
And now Gelding had failed him. He had always supported Science, and now, when it came time for Science to give moral support to Art, he had failed. Rage overtook Pitter-patter. Of course, he was to have picked up Gelding, but he was trying to escape up the Screw-Way.
It was unfair of him to do this, he thought, and something would have to be done. Just thinking about it made Pitter-patter swing out with his Dong, knocking down furniture, devastating the beautifully furnished but empty room, and he vowed, as he swung in his rage, as his Dong sent the Balder mobile swinging, that he would follow Gelding and demand an explanation! Up the Screw-Way with his Dong! And laughed.
8
Doctor Sickman Fried leaned back on his swivel chair in the center of his control tower, frowning. The last words from Gelding had puzzled him. F. Rancid certainly had numerous problems on the fantasy level, unable to fully ingest certain childhood remnants of omnipotence, and besides, he worked much too hard, but that seemed to be no reason for running away. The introduction of the blatantly overt sexual material into the short telephone conversation was also different from his usual pattern. He had never suspected that Gelding might be actually having an affair with his secretary, and on such an exotic level.
Doctor Fried allowed himself to muse for a moment on the implications of this, fully aware of the three patients he was treating concurrently. The image of the toes kept dancing into his mind, the Dance of the Five Virgins, and Gelding busily working away on them; now that was really imagination. In their analysis they had managed, after three years, to get to the point where Gelding had reached the age of seven and was reaching for his first groping grapple with grimness in the greasy garage of the new house they had just moved into, and Byr Mashave, the nine-year-old enchantress who served as the Welcome Wagon lady for the junior set was about to initiate him into the intricacies of "Find the Honeypot" when his mother had come searching for him. She had been an enlightened type, and had merely looked on, Fried feeling that there had been a certain wistfulness in her approach to the problem. She had finally interrupted the juvenile efforts of the two, Byr having quickly stripped off her panties and pinning Gelding to the ground, by saying, "Rancid, dear, I'd like you to run an errand for me."
Gelding had answered, lost in this new mystery, "Not now, mother. I'm playing."
"You can play when you come back. I think you had better tell your little friend to go home now." Gelding, rather sadly, had disentangled himself and brushed himself off. As Fried understood it, it was another two years before he had a chance to play, because of circumstances not under his control.
And that was the part they were going to come to this afternoon when Gelding, now nine, would have his first real piece of ass with the then eleven-year-old Byr Mashave, grown into a ravishing creature of budding breasts and rosy thighs.
Fried knew enough about himself, as any analyst should, that this was the real reason he had been so short with Gelding. He had rather been looking forward to this afternoon's fifty minutes of adventures, and anticipated the halting, dim recalls of that first erection, the tentative fumblings with the pink rayon panties, perhaps this time by the banks of a blue, gurgling river, and the slow lazy unfolding of the great adventure, that first trembling, almost unbearable suspense as the probe is lowered into the wound, and then that first rush, the total delicious unawareness. Fried sat there for a moment, trying to recapture those moments of innocence, wondering if he should try to renew his own analysis and try to rid himself of these regressive tendencies, realizing that he had been disturbed by Gelding, whom he pictured as a virginal nine-year-old, sucking on the sophisticated toes of his secretary, schooled in ancient Oriental arts. He breathed deeply.
Another reason for his displeasure was the imbalance it caused in his therapeutic environment. Long ago, he had realized the impractibility of wasting sixteen years of education on treating one person at a time, as well as trying to pay the debts that had been incurred during that period with the minimal income that would accrue. After all, what was a hundred dollars an hour in this day and age? So, he had sought for electronic and mechanical aids, and finally worked out his present system.
He sat in a glass-enclosed control tower, around four cubicles on a slightly lower level, so that he could see into each one and observe the patient on the couch. The patient's free associations were tape-recorded, and Fried was free to interject into the two-way system anytime, without being overheard by any of the other systems. Most of the time he relied on his automatic cueing system, in which any pause would be filled in by his recorded "Ughs" or "Yes?" or "Go on," and it was unnecessary to do much more than tend the machinery.
Since psychoanalysis was free association, and there was no real need to make progress, the burden being on the patient, it worked fine. Fried had worked up several variations on the system that he was carefully experimenting with.
But one cubicle was empty, due to Gelding's defection. So instead of the carefully planned therapeutic community of four intermeshed problems, there were only three. He hoped for his and Gelding's sake that he. could divest himself of his hostility long enough to make the next session less punishing for him. Fried brooded about this. Take the Screw-Way and escape, would he? He wearily turned back to his work.
Cubicle One, where Gelding should have been, was empty. He turned the ninety degrees to Cubicle Two, which contained Amanda Punchingjelly. She was a rather rotund young woman who had, at the age of twenty-two, not as yet received a proposal of marriage or much of anything else. The huge pink mound of flesh was quivering on the white couch as he looked through the two-way mirror-a rather shapely mound, but still big. Her arms were folded over her navel and her legs were apart, knees up, as if ready to receive visitors. Fried had his patients remove all their clothing before they put themselves on his couches, to free them from their inhibitions, and to give him a better view of their naked selves. He gawked for a moment, then punched the communication button.
She was free-associating. "-and when she saw me in the corner, she was real mad, and put her finger to her lips, because I don't think she wanted Uncle Ned to know that I was in the room, because Uncle Ned was awfully busy right then on the other side of the bed, with his nice curly head between her legs. I asked, 'What's Uncle Ned doing, Mommy?' very quietly, but she must have been afraid Uncle Ned would hear, because she tightened her nice white legs over his ears, and Uncle Ned was pretty well buried in the pretty muff she wore at the bottom of her stomach, so he couldn't see, and when she answered she had to breathe very hard and was stretching out on the bed and she dug her nails into Uncle Ned's hair, and she said, 'Uncle Ned is having a meal at the Y,' and I giggled at that because I knew the Y was downtown, and you had to take a bus to get there because I sometimes did so I could sneak a look in the girls' shower room, but being a waitress at the Y must have been pretty hard, for Mommy began to go up and down on the bed and she tightened her pretty legs around Uncle Ned so that you could hardly see him and her rump was moving around so that you thought she was serving melons and her head began to jerk back and her tongue came out of her mouth. She waved for me to go away, but I wanted to get closer because even then I had always been interested in eating, and she said, real out of breath, like waitress work was real hard, 'You can have the box of chocolates that Uncle Ned brought all to yourself if you go out in the kitchen and eat them quietly,' so I knew a good thing when I saw it and I took the pretty box and left but I took a quick look back through the keyhole and I saw that Uncle Ned had finished his meal because Mommy shook for a moment, waving around all over the bed, and then lay still, and Uncle Ned took his head out of the trough, the pig, and in order to wake Mommy up who was lying there with her eyes closed he took a big needle out of his underpants like the doctor has but a great big needle and put it into the place where he had been eating, and Mommy suddenly waked up and put her arms around him, squeezing and hugging him because he had been such a good eater, and I went out in the kitchen like she said and ate the whole box of chocolates and later when Uncle Ned came out of the bedroom, looking very sleepy, he licked his lips and gave me a five-dollar bill and I went down to the soda shop and had five dollars worth of..."
A simple case, thought Fried. She was still retrogressively trapped in the Edible Complex and because of Uncle Ned had difficulty struggling out of the Genial Stage. Fried watched her as she pantomimed the movements, her hands moving over her large body, trapped in the psychic jungle of Paranoid Nutriment, eternally seeking the satisfaction that she had lost that day. But difficult to cure. While pondering ways and means, he turned another ninety degrees to Cubicle Three, wherein lay a Greek, Meph Stopholes, or something like that, passively awaiting release from his awful fate, body shining with an inner light.
It was by far the most puzzling case he had ever had. His full armamenterium of diagnoses had been run through as he had listened, month after month, to the grandiloquent, grandiose plotting of this man. He punched the button.
"Yes?" he heard his recorded voice saying, and the droning voice of Stopholes continuing in one of his interminable descriptions of his vices. "-and then I took this broad, see, we were in her bedroom, and I guess the flashing neon lights outside set up this old thing in me, and I grabbed the can of lighter fluid and sprinkled some on her twat and on my hose, taking the time to rub in the fluid up and down and I grabbed her snatch to make sure it got in there and it was stinging by that time I can tell you so that it felt like a million fire-ants running up and down the old pecker and you could see she was surprised and she was trying to scratch herself and I took these matches and lit one and lit up my pecker, you know you really don't feel it but don't let it stay on too long or you'll have broiled wienie-that's a good one, broiled wienie-and I let it flame up, let it crawl into my crotch and then I gave it to her and as that flaming knob touched her, she flamed up, and zowie, we were together, as hot as it comes and when I say comes, have you ever shot off in flaming pussy? It took only four strokes, and by that time the flame was pretty well out but it sizzled as it hit, I heard it and it seemed to last forever, all fire, and she groaned and screamed, she never had anything like that before-"
I bet, said Fried to himself. At first, he had thought Meph might have been a nice normal psychopath, but the art and cunning behind his actions became too much. Fried had discarded Paranoid Testicles as a diagnosis, when he finally hit on it. The man, very simply, was possessed by the devil, and consulting some old books on witchcraft he had worked out a rather unique method of therapy. He surrounded Stopholes with a pentagram, rejecting the hexagram theory, and sprinkled a few odd ingredients on his balls, and let him lay there and free-associate. That didn't do anything for or against the devil, but it justified charging him a hundred dollars an hour, and what good could he do for him to spend an hour on a patient? The analyst was trained to enter into a relationship, not cure people.
Fried encouraged Stopholes. "You're doing fine. How do you feel?"
The voice came back. "I feel like going out and getting a little, Doc. I thought this powder you gave me was supposed to stop that."
"That's normal," soothed Fried. "You'll just have to wait."
Cubicle Number Four contained a thin, dark-haired bundle of quivering fury that lay on the couch, vibrating. Nim Phork, remembered Fried. She had come to him because she claimed she wanted it all the time, and when he mildly asked her if it bothered her, she said no, but she certainly had a hell of a time finding a man who didn't give up after an hour or two, and would he like to try?
Sickman certainly wouldn't have been averse to the mini-skirted bundle of energy in front of him, but he sadly remembered the Hypomanic Oath and that she had come to him for help. "Perhaps we can cut back on your feelings of anxiety when deprived and reinforce your Ogasmic Depth." He listened.
"-now there was this bunch of fliers who asked me if I'd ever done it in free fall, and I told 'em I'd done it for free and I'd done it falling but not both together so they took me up in this specially equipped plane with a padded cabin and the pilot took it into a special kind of dive that took the weight off us and I took on four of them in a row, it was kind of funny flopping all over and I had to grab onto their asses so that we could stay together, and then the pilot came back and one of the other fellows took over, and we sort of started all over again, and then we had to land-"
Fried took over, in his soothing, low analyst's voice, suggesting, "We all have to land sometime, Miss Phork." It was a highly directive statement, but he noticed that when she had thought of the free-fall incident, her hips began to churn and her pussy moved in and out, her back arching out as if an astronaut's grip had her by the ass. Sickman wanted to stop this over-stimulated state, perhaps out of jealousy, for he too felt something, but he was doomed to sit in his control tower and help these poor tormented creatures.
He turned back to the empty cubicle and felt vexed when he remembered that Gelding wasn't there, that he was escaping, and taking with him the story of his relations with his secretary and the secret of the Dance of the Five Virgins, something that certainly should be his analyst's property as well as his.
In a fit of pique, he took direct action. This was a therapeutic move that he occasionally used, but he saw Miss Phork desperately thrashing about on the couch, her thin limbs in danger of cracking if some sedative wasn't applied, and there was Stopholes burning up in the other cubicle, so he punched the button that slid the partition apart, and saw the surprised look on each of their faces when the naked man confronted the naked woman. Stopholes stood up, brushed the powder and bits of newt dung off his balls, smiled devilishly, and moved over to her. Miss Phork spread her legs apart and hopped up and down on her butt in anticipation.
Fried turned away, still disturbed, only vaguely aware of the sounds that began to emanate from the cubicle-the rasping, groaning and grunting of the two as the devil met his match. What he was about to do was unethical, he knew, but if that rat Gelding could escape his responsibilities, so could his analyst.
He opened the partition separating him from Amanda and smiled when she looked up in surprise, her cupid's-bow lips still moving. "Hello, dear," he said, "I'm your Uncle Ned. You're very, very hungry, and I have a dear little lollipop for you, and I'm going to go and nibble at your soda fountain for a little while, and we're going to have a little party!" Suiting action to words, he placed himself on top of her, head to toe, and her astonished mouth immediately began to imbibe at the delicacy that he offered her, and at the same time, he began to search through the folds of flesh, carefully removing his glasses first, for the cafeteria that waited for him down at the Y, and he saw the flashing red sign peeping through, signaling him with little jerks.
And then, he thought, when I've fed and been fed, I'll go and escape up the Screw-Way, just like Gelding!
THREE
1
Ninety-seven-pound Wee Kling held on tightly to F. Rancid Gelding as he walked out to his private parking spot and inserted his middle finger into the keyed door, which swung open. Almost wearily, he slumped down into the molded bucket seat, reached over and flipped the door open for Wee Kling, turned back and allowed the automatic belt to wrap him in a tight cocoon.
As Wee Kling sat, she was pinned into her molded seat by the belt. She said dreamily, "I'd like to sit next to you."
Rancid shrugged, saying nothing. She knew perfectly well that it wasn't possible in a Raunchy Stabber, especially the Upper Deluxe models, complete with the 612 cube dual overhead camshaft turbine, four on the floor and five on the wheel, power radar steering, dual-coupled blow-proof tires and controlled climate headlights. This was the Sex Symbol model, available to only a few in the know, and Rancid knew that to the general public, its penis-like shape might have been ugly. To the true aficionado of the evolution of the automobile, it took its rightful position at the apex of the automobile design school that felt that the automobile should reflect its master's personality. Rancid thought it was a bit showy, but for a young man on the inside track, a certain amount of ostentation was permissible, and almost necessary. After all, despite its steep price, including the options, it still cost less than the college president's Cuddlerack, with the old-fashioned whip-holders on the body, and a quota of whips used to put down student protesters. Of course, that was only since the Regents had agreed that this could be done, and the whips had been on since long before that time, the rumor being that the president indulged in wild orgies behind the drawn curtains of the limousine model. Gelding tended to discount this, as he personally knew the president was a strict heteromaniac and hardly ever went in for that kind of perversion.
He sat there, baffled. "T need help," he finally admitted to Wee Kling, who looked at him, concerned. Rancid felt drained. He should have remembered that the Screw-Way required the use of the Automated, Self-motivated, lust Feedback Cycle, since he himself had designed it. It was a measure of his tension that he had forgotten, and he doubted if he could remember the theory of the Screw-Way, even if he were forced to. Instant topological vector transit, but there had to be some way of controlling the vehicle. Human reactions were useless. Gelding had finally managed to work out the system, realizing that the sexual organ was the most sensitive in the body. The engineering wasn't fully understood, but it was only necessary, for the male, to stick his prick into the Electronic Cunt furnished with every vehicle fitted to use the Screw-Way, and steer with it. For the female, they had worked out the Vector Dildo, that did the same thing through the clitoris. It was a rather unnerving sensation at first, to control all that monstrous horsepower with the intense concentration usually only reserved for a good fuck, and might have accounted for the unpopularity of this method of transport. As well as the problems involved in not getting back. Women had a more difficult time, since many of them were not even aware that they had a clitoris.
Not Wee Kling. "I'll drive," she said confidently, reaching for the Vector Dildo in its case in the middle of the dashboard, but Rancid had already reached for the Electronic Cunt and was unzipping his pants.
He was slightly miffed, both at this threat to his masculinity and the perception that she would get a great deal of pleasure out of it. He tried to mash the object over his limp prick, still flaccid from his exercise and realized another practical difficulty with the Screw-Way. It was almost necessary to have a hard-on before you could get started, which was one of the reasons a small closed-circuit Deeper-Peeper was furnished with every unit, giving a selection of erotic tapes catering to every need. He paused, and was about to punch a small button marked LESBIANISM on the dashboard.
Wee Kling sounded a little disgusted. "Here," she said, "I'll help you." Stretching her lithe body over to him, her mouth descended on the limp organ and with a few expert quivers of her lips, it was soon playing a tune and the note stretched to the bellows of her mouth. He pushed away her head roughly, and jammed on the Electronic Cunt while it was stiff. The small atomic pile driving the Raunchy could be felt, rather than heard, and suddenly the energetic throb of the turbine took over.
Wee Kling looked rather plaintive. "Sorry, boss," she finally said. "I got carried away."
Rancid nodded as he wheeled the savage vehicle away from the parking space, silently swooshed out into the street and headed for the Screw-Way. At the acceleration attained by the Raunchy, the white misty entrance soon appeared, and with that imperceptible little flick, as if something had happened at the base of their brains, they were on it. Rancid now drove easily, having settled down, and began to feel quite good about the prospect as he automatically guided the Raunchy up the corkscrew-like expanses, as if he were doing something that needed to be done. He smiled at Wee Kling. "I'll try to make it up to you," he said, as they passed a shrouded form that seemed to be plodding up the road on, of all things, a horse.
2
Palomine Gelding found the going fairly easy after she discovered the trick. It had been somewhat of a problem to find the entrance to the Screw-Way because horses were naturally not allowed on the freeways, and they had to go over the countryside. Herman was a bit tired after their experience together, and an almost fond smile lit up Palomine and she patted the sleek flanks when the going was slow. They finally found the entrance and bravely trotted onto it. Herman couldn't move.
Not wouldn't, but couldn't. His feet seemed to be riveted to the ground, just inside the Screw-Way entrance. Palomine tried to spur him on with gentle endearments, and when that failed, tried to think.
There was something special about the Screw-Way. It required a special type of guidance, and Gelding had one of those things in his Raunchy. For the men, you had to put it over their little diddling thing, not like the magnificent tool that a horse like Herman might have, and for the women, you inserted something.
It couldn't hurt to try. She always rode bareback, because she liked the feel of that powerful horseflesh between her thighs, and it was only the work of a moment to strip off her jodhpurs and climb back on, feeling the smooth sheen between her muscular legs, trying to stretch her legs around him, feeling faintly excited as she remembered what she had had with Herman just a while ago, recapturing the thrill of that relationship, trying to force her cunt down on his vertebra.
He moved slightly, and stopped.
Wouldn't it be enough? she thought. She stripped off her blouse quickly, and again bent down, pressing her small tits into the mane, and was relieved to feel Herman give that old vibrant snort and start off up the Screw-Way.
Within a quarter-mile, somebody passed, almost sending her off the road with their huge overpowered car. She continued to quietly plod upwards.
3
Hott Cock was well on the Screw-Way before he realized he was alone. It was not only the lack of radio communication, for that was expected, but the feeling he suddenly had that there was nobody behind him. The whole group had roared up to the entrance when he had communicated his intention, but they had obviously finked out at the last moment.
He unpolarized the canopy to get a better view, and since it was unnecessary to see to drive his BAM, he looked around at the hurtling landscape, blinked when he thought he saw the naked figure of a woman on a horse, which instantly disappeared into the surging mist-like corkscrew below him, and nothing else. "Chicken bastards," he yelled, to make himself feel better.
Shenta lay on the Stable Cradle, contentedly munching a leg of pheasant and dribbling a small bottle of champagne into her mouth. "Something wrong, Hott?" she asked, disturbed from her reverie by the invective.
"Motherfucking cop-outs!" he shouted again, then re-polarized the canopy and settled back. That was always the way. Lot of talk, no action. And he wondered if deep down below, he wasn't a little scared himself. To reassure himself, he rapped the back of his hand across Shenta's belly so that she burped.
"What was that for?" she complained, taking another swig of the Mumms, and wiggling her ass deeper into the Stable Cradle. "Want me to go into the dance again?"
Hott shook his head. It had been enough of a problem to get into the Triangulation Twat that controlled the cycle on the Screw-Way after the last Shenta Vidus dance. He had roared up to it, hit its spongy entrance, and come to a dead stop before he realized what was wrong.
"Tickle me," he had ordered, and Shenta had cooperated enough to put aside the pheasant leg and to stretch her hand out and gently scratch the bottom of his balls. The soothing, pleasant sensation soon gave Hott enough stiffness so that he was able to slide it into the Triangulation Twat and feel the transmission of the BAM take hold.
They had slid onto the Screw-Way gathering speed, and once again, as the BAM passed a large vehicle, Hott wondered why he had to do this. Was this the ultimate challenge, the one act that would ultimately prove himself, the existential moment, as those imagine friends of Gelding would say? Would his rage and fury get him through this, as it had so many other places?
"Burp!" said Shenta, contentedly.
"Screw it!" snarled Hott, and continued to roar up the vaguely defined passage.
4
Shilly Brahmin liked to steer a narrow course between comfort and ostentation, which is why he had purchased an Impurgated Lemon Brougham instead of a Cuddlerack limousine, feeling that his UFO members wouldn't understand. He sat in the plush of the huge back seat, paying little attention to the featureless landscape of the Screw-Way, and worked on preparing a message for the United Followers of the Omnipresent by reading his ever-present Omnibus, tastefully bound in lithographed, glossy scenes of the Upstairs. The Upstairs seemed to resemble a resort hotel more than anything else, which was understandable since the printer had quite a few multi-colored brochures of that type left over and had contributed them as his gift to the Omnipresent.
When he had settled in the back seat, Gotta Gettit had started to climb in with him. "Drive," said Shilly.
She had dutifully moved the front seat and had managed to move the huge machine to the Screw-Way entrance. There they had stopped. Shilly was brusque. "What's wrong?"
"It won't go!" she had wailed.
"Put the Vector Dildo in!" he commanded. "That'll take care of the rest."
"In where?" she had asked plaintively, taking the plainly marked object from the instrument-studded dashboard.
"In where?" mocked Shilly Brahmin, ashamed of himself immediately. He said, "I'm sorry. In your cunt, of course. You steer with your cunt."
She turned, and blushed. "I haven't had anything up there for a long time." Her eyes took on a faraway look. "Way back, when Burnup and I were first married, we used to do it that way. Then we began to grow further and further apart. I wouldn't know how!"
"Try," urged Shilly Brahmin. He was becoming impatient and wanted to return to a particularly interesting passage in the Omnibus. "Try."
Tentatively, Gotta pulled up her skirt and started to wriggle out of her girdle, pulled it down, took off her shoes, and pulled her stockings off, put on her shoes, again picked up the Vector Dildo, and held it up.
"Put it on," said Shilly soothingly. "It's pre-warmed and sanitized."
Reaching down and not looking, she began gently inserting the object into her box, shuddering a little at the unfamiliar feel of its plastic coating, and then her neck snapping as it bumped against the clitoris, and her breathing slowly becoming heavier as she wormed it up the canal. Finally, she sat down on it. "It feels good," she said, exhaling.
Shilly Brahmin hardly looked up, tired of the delay. "Well, then, drive on!"
She essayed a few tentative motions with it, felt it become a living inertial guidance mechanism in her mucous membrane-lined organ, began to wiggle, and the car moved out, lurching up into the corkscrew of the Screw-Way.
"Hold it," called Shilly. "Settle down." "It's been such a long time, Shilly," she giggled. "It brings back old memories."
The Impurgated Lemon Brougham continued up the road while Shilly tried to concentrate on the text:
. . .To, and it came to be, that in the far off land of Hammbear, in the great city of Kocknocker by the shores of the silvery sea that had come to be known as the LandoftheMetsandtheJets, or in the words of the Great Omnipresent, The Land of the Scribbled Clobbers, there was a Fair Queen who ruled over the teeming multitudes and the willing slaves and the cunt executives who lorded it over the masses, until it came to be that the Fair Queen was challenged by one of her dukes who, wishing to rule fair and square, thought that making it with her would bring him up the camel's ass and into the verities of the throne room. Confronting her in the Temple of the Omnipresent one fair day, he whipped out his weapon from his scabbard and shouted, so that it echoed throughout the great pillars: "Great lady, mollify my impertinence, but tell me that you will be mine, and I will be thine."
The Fair Queen looked at him with amusement and tenderness, and then whipped his own weapon out of his scabbard, whirled it over his own head to gain speed and penetrating power, and said, "If you really want to be mine, turn around, Buster!" For in truth, the Fair Queen was really a Fairy Queen, who had at the moment of truth found the whole thing to be a real drag. And to this date the Great Omnipresent is worshipped in the highways and the byways by the three words, "Turn around, Buster!" with its genuflections. Thus be it.
Shilly closed the Omnibus gently and sighed, inspired as usual by the immortal words, the wisdom of the Omnipresence in giving man his inspiration through the immortal book. They wound up on the Screw-Way, still a little wobbly, but Gotta seemed to have found the touch.
He leaned over and tapped her on the shoulder. "Everything satisfactory?" he asked. She was gently wriggling in the seat, humping up and down slightly as the Vector Dildo, buried deep within her, continued with its task of transcribing the incredibly complicated code of her movements into linear progress on the Screw-Way.
"Uh-uh," she burst out, "you never told me it was so much fun!"
"My girl," said Shilly, "the Omnipresent always gives you a little if you give it a little." At that, her movements speeded up and she clutched her thighs frantically, as if to hold herself in place, and shivered.
Shilly settled back, contented that he was on the right road. They passed an odd sight, a horse plodding along with a brown, naked woman on its back. Further on, a cycle passed them. Shilly wondered at the traffic.
After all, some people would do anything to get Upstairs.
5
"Are you certain this is the correct way. Trudgen?" asked J. Burnup Gettit, lolling in the front seat of the Cuddlerack. Trudgen nodded, sweating a little as they approached the Screw-Way entrance. He seemed to anticipate what would be required of him.
Gettit sometimes sat in the front seat with the driver, to emphasize his equal status with his help. He seemed impatient at the delay. "What's wrong, Trudgen?"
"Sir," Trudgen said carefully, "to get up the Screw-Way, you have to use the Electronic Cunt."
"So!" said Gettit. "Put the damn thing on and let's go. I want to catch that damn Gelding."
Trudgen looked at him, frightened. "I'm afraid I'm not in the mood, sir."
"Damn it, get in the mood! I'm paying you good wages for this silly job and when I want my help to get in the mood, I sympathize with their problems, but I want the job done." Irritated, he twisted around.
"It's not my kind of thing," said Trudgen softly.
"An Electronic Cunt is everybody's kind of thing, man! You just put it in and off we go."
"I mean, sir, I'm not that kind of man." He looked embarrassed. "Now, if it were an Electronic Asshole, I might know what to do, if you catch my meaning, sir."
This disturbed Gettit deeply. After all, he was tolerant of any deviation, as a modern broadminded businessman should be, but this was going too far. "When did this happen, Trudgen?"
"When you hired me, sir" said Trudgen mournfully. "If I may say so. You insisted that there be not a hint of attachment toward the female in my make-up. I believe you were scared of what chauffeurs can do to wives. So you sent me to Dr. Fried because I said I needed the job and he really fixed me up." Trudgen brightened. "If I may say so, sir, there isn't that much difference, and once you get used to the difference, it's almost the same as before."
Gettit retreated a short distance. "Hmmmm," he said, mulling over the problem. He himself was too exhausted after an afternoon of working with the poor to do more than supervise in an executive capacity.
He was always a man of direct action. Moving on the broad front street toward Trudgen, he reached over, unzipped his pants, and began fondling the solid, workman's tool inside, almost absently as if he were manipulating a great corporation.
"Thank you, sir!" exclaimed Trudgen gratefully as the Electronic Cunt was slipped on by the hands of J. Burnup Gettit himself.
He relaxed as the Cuddlerack moved on.
6
"Open up!" shouted Homo Humnuts, into the teeth of the Screw-Way entrance. "By all that made men free, I order you to open up or take the consequences."
"I don't think that's the way," said Hormone Humnuts gently. She was a patient woman, but realized that Homo's speech wouldn't make much of an effect against that gray fog they were to traverse.
"Well, what is the way? I have to ask you, what is the way? I voted for this, in line with my progressive and superb record of having supported every major scientific advance since my tenure as a young politician, believing that science is the thing that made this country great, along with fresh baked bread, motherhood, and Coca-Cola, plus the daring achievements of the U. S. Marines, and I wish to know what's wrong..."
Hormone interrupted again. "The Screw-Way uses a different method, dear." She looked for it on the dashboard, almost eagerly.
"Perhaps I should have requisitioned one of those pregnant school busses, so that it would have some useful work to do. A national shame, I call it, a national shame, to have pregnant school busses floating around our land while the bloated plutocrats sneer..."
"Right here, dear," said Hormone, a funny look on her face. "I think that I have to put this on." She took the Vector Dildo and inserted it between her legs, drawing up her skirt.
Humnuts looked askance. "What are you doing, dear? This is a public conveyance and someone might see us."
Hormone smiled at him. "I have to put this thing down there, dear, because that's what we have to use to drive up the Screw-Way." Homo looked puzzled. "It's sort of like the brains of the car."
"Oh," said Humnuts, warming to the occasion, "deprived as I was of a proper education by the need to go out among the people and to take their wishes and fears into accounts and to represent them by public office at an early stage, I didn't realize that. I didn't know that's where your brains were!"
"That's where a woman's brain is, dear," said Hormone contentedly, as the rented car started up, entered the Screw-Way, and began to climb steadily. The Vector Dildo, she had noticed, had a little round sign on it: WE'RE NUMBER TWO, SO WE TRY HARDER. It certainly did, for she felt that warm, squishy squirming inside of her, and half-guided the car with a dreamy expression on her face, keeping it secret from Homo.
He settled back, glad that action had been taken, and closed his eyes for a well-deserved rest. "Watch out for any pregnant school busses, dear," and relaxed, hoping that they would meet Gelding soon.
7
Norman Pitter-patter was about to take his car, and then realized that he didn't have a car, being an artistic type, so he started to walk toward the Screw-Way entrance, easily visible from his house. Instead of dangling his Dong out of his cape as he did when he wished to make an impression, he slung it up in his Dong carrier, making steady progress.
His mind was a seething mass of rage at being betrayed by his friends, at the arty set that had abandoned him, and at Gelding, who should have represented Science, but was too busy running away from his problems. It disturbed him when he turned up at the entrance, and suddenly found himself stopped.
Suddenly he remembered that there was something strange about the Screw-Way, something about instantaneous energy transformations, and other equally ridiculous equations. Suppose he wasn't able to get on the Screw-Way and his elaborate preparations were for nothing!
His anger increasing, he whirled around, his cape blowing behind him, and his Dong became unloosened from the carrier. He began beating on the ground with it to release his rage and frustration, and suddenly found himself able to move. When it left the ground, he was locked tight.
Despite his scholarly accomplishments, Norman Pitter-patter was an intelligent man. He tried it again, and found, by trial and error, that his Dong being in contact with the ground enabled him to move.
"Eureka!" he cried, in the original Greek, and with a steady, slow step, his Dong dragging behind him and touching the ground at all times, he began to trudge up the Screw-Way.
8
Doctor Sickman Fried had finished a very significant and meaningful analytic session with Amanda Pun-chingjelly, and found that they really had a lot in common, like a miserable childhood and depressing current situations. Dr. Fried did not believe, as some psychotherapists did, that you had to know a patient in order to help him, so he never took any background history. One of the secrets of his success was that he didn't even have their names on file. On a sudden impulse, disentangling himself from the rosy mound in the cubicle, he had invited her to go along, and she accepted eagerly, continuing her analysis all the way. Fried sat quietly in the driver's seat of his Shovitup Sedan, listening and nodding wisely.
" ... once when I was a little older, Uncle Don came to the house and gave me a pink cuddly rabbit all for my very own but he said that I would have to do something very big and important for him because he was a foreign agent and there were some important secret documents hidden on him that had to have a very special way of being released so he took out his big round thing which he said was a diplomatic pouch that had been welded to his body and that contained priceless information that he didn't want the enemy to get and that if he allowed me to have it so that it wouldn't fall into the grip of the enemy I would have to be real quiet and never never tell anyone. So he took his diplomatic pouch and put it in my mouth and I could feel it getting harder and harder with all the important secrets inside and he took my hair and my ears and pulled me harder and harder on the pouch and all of a sudden the pouch burst open and all the secrets flooded out of it and I didn't want any to be lost so I swallowed and he took the pouch away saying that was a good girl and patted me on the head and went into the other room where my Mommy was resting because Uncle Bill had been there a little while before and Mommy didn't know that Uncle Bill had given me a bag of candy. Mommy woke up and as soon as she saw Uncle Don she put her legs up in the air to welcome back the agent and to get his information from him but he evidently felt that he had been gone too long for this kind of diplomatic work so he turned her over with her nice white shapely legs over the edge of the bed and took out the diplomatic pouch which had become filled with secrets again and put it into her from the back so that she lifted her knees and tried to get him closer to her with her ankles and made little noises in secret code and I watched until Uncle Don gave her all of the secrets and her body jerked with all the important secrets that were passing back and forth and I hugged my cuddly rabbit and ate the bag of candy..." , Sickman didn't feel like being professional at this point, so he interrupted her. "Have you ever taken the Screw-Way before?"
"No," she said, "I don't get out very much, except for your therapy sessions, which have been doing me an immense amount of good, especially the one today." She reached her massive arms out to him.
Dr. Fried smiled thinly. "Yes, there are more than several ways to skin a cat. Or hurdle the pussy, or whatever the name of the game is." He turned to her, avoiding the arms. "The Screw-Way requires sexual power to navigate. Did you know that?"
"No," she said, "but it sounds interesting." Her hips began to joggle back and forth.
Sickman reached out for the Vector Dildo and the Electronic Cunt, side by side on the dashboard of the Shovitup. "Gelding mentioned it to me in one of his sessions, and how it came to him right out of the sky. Naturally, because sex is in the head." Fried nodded wisely.
"You mean sex is all in your head, Doctor?" asked Amanda, amazed.
"It's a little known fact that I've been able to verify over and over again by the most stringent laboratory investigation. If you cut off the head of a rabbit, for example, he will not be able to have sex!" Fried was triumphant.
"I never knew that," said Amanda, feeling her thick neck. "I suppose it's one of those wonders of science they're always talking about."
Fried looked pleased. "We try to keep the public informed, but there is always a huge gap between the actual work being done on the boundaries and the popularizations that are actually given to the public. It's difficult to put all of this technical terminology into simple language."
"Does that mean you can't fuck?" asked Amanda.
"See." Fried looked displeased. "You had an example of my work back in the office, not in that precise sense, but in an oral sense."
"Sure," she said. "We blew instead of screwed."
"Good, good," beamed Fried. "We have to keep things on the reality level."
Amanda Punchingjelly brightened. "Would you like to try it again? I feel my old hunger pangs."
"As we get further into analysis, you'll realize that you can't substitute sex for food. Or food for sex. Or even sex for sex, if you take things far enough. Or food for food." Fried mused. "That might be worth a paper in one of the journals. Or a poem in one of the quarterlies. I'll have to see where the muse takes me."
Amanda looked jealous. "Is she someone else?"
Fried looked startled. "The muse? No, that's the term when something strikes me in the head, and I rush to get a piece of paper and write it down."
"I did that once when I had an auto accident," nodded Amanda.
"To return to the subject, my thesis is that sex has always been in the head. So I had a surgeon work on me, connecting an artificial organ to my diencephallic centers so that it could be experimented on with ease. I found it so useful that I kept it." He turned to her, bowed, and out of his head an object began to rise, until it stood about six inches above his head-the cylindrical flesh waving as he moved.
"Right off the top of your head!" said Amanda, amazed.
Fried beamed with satisfaction. "They all said it was a crazy thing to do, but I knew better. Any pace-setter has to put up with his share of criticism."
Amanda put her rotund arm on his. "Sickman, do you think we could try it?"
Fried looked at her. "I'd like to, Amanda, despite the non-professional aspect of the situation. But we're almost on the Screw-Way." He gestured significantly. Out of the roadway the entrance loomed up, shrouded in the whirling mist. "We'll have to go on."
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
In answer, he took the Electronic Cunt and shoved it down over the object on his head. The Shovitup immediately leaped into life, eager to start up the Screw-Way. But Sickman always felt that it was better to do things together. "Why don't you help drive?" he asked.
"With this?" she asked, holding up the Vector Dildo, a glint in her eye. She was already pulling up her skirt and rolling the voluminous mass of material around her waist. The departure had been so quick there was nothing on underneath. She began searching, wriggling on the seat of the Shovitup, for a place to put the Dildo. Her face took on a baffled expression. "It was there, the last time I looked."
"You're just excited," said Sickman, taking it, and probing with it into the rolls of pink flesh.
"There! There!" she cried excitedly, feeling the probe land home.
Sickman gently began working it in, his medically trained hand surer of the flesh. She began jouncing gently to help him at his task, a dreamy expression on her face. He felt it slide in all the way, and she gave a little groan.
But he didn't let that disturb him from his course. Settling back, he allowed the Shovitup to move onto the Screw-Way, and Amanda, rather proudly, helped him guide it. They both laughed at a scene at the side of the misty roadway in which a solitary pedestrian wearily walked on, a dirty and tattered Dong trailing behind him, but they were both having too much fun to stop.
FOUR
F. Rancid Gelding noticed the change in the landscape as he guided the Raunchy Stabber up the Screw-Way. Sight, of course, was one of the least necessary senses, he had found almost immediately, although he remembered joking with the technicians who had designed it that they would be seeing with the eye of the prick, which wasn't strictly correct, since it was designed to use the incredibly delicate feedback from the sense neurons inside the normal penis to keep the delicate balance on the Screw-Way.
He frowned, and noticed that Wee Kling was dozing, There really had been little to see, and he hadn't noticed the passage of time, since strictly speaking, the topological mathematics involved didn't allow for the time lapse phases. It was something like relativity, in which you could be your own grandpa if you worked at it long enough.
The featureless aspect of the Screw-Way had changed, and now there seemed to be huge cliffs looming above them, gradually joining the ground, as if they were surrounded by huge white parallel logs which almost imperceptibly narrowed. Gelding couldn't remember any type of mathematical analysis which would account for this type of conformation, and he was puzzled. Was this the reason why all of the travelers were disappearing? Had their carefully made calculations been based on wrong information, and had Hopeless Copeless, with the stupidity of its wonderfully contrived electronic digits, continued on and given them the wrong results? Or was it the result of something entirely unforeseen by the designers?
He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the barrier that was slowly becoming visible in front of them. His prick gave a little jerk as he saw it, then quickly settled down. He began slowing the Raunchy Stabber down from its sub-sonic cruising speed, his cock automatically feeding the complex circuits directions.
"Wake up!" He nudged Wee Kling, and she brought her ninety-seven pounds to full attention, alert and awake, snuggled in the bucket seat.
"What's wrong?" she asked, looking around curiously.
Gelding pointed out the barrier that had stopped them. It was a monstrous vertical slit, going up into the mists above them, with flaming red edges on either side, and a little to the side thick brambles of stiff vegetation grew up and down its steep face. The cliffs that they had been traversing seemed to be a part of it, for they extended out from the sides, forming black caverns underneath it.
"What is it?" she asked, as the Stabber gently slowed to a halt. They both sat there, eyeing the immensity, and without thinking, clasped their hands together in awe.
"I've heard stories." continued Wee Kling, "about the travelers who never return, and who send back choked off transmissions about a mysterious mountain."
"Mount Venrush. I've heard them too, but discounted them. Why should radio transmission stop because of a few holes in the ground?" He picked up the single sideband mike, and clicked into it. Nothing but white noise. "But it does." He stretched. "I suppose we should get out and look around."
"You know," said Wee Kling, unbuckling, looking up at it as Rancid unhitched the Electronic Cunt, "it looks like ... "
She never finished the sentence, for the silence was suddenly broken by a two-wheeled, canopy-enclosed vehicle, screaming and skidding to a stop. "Hott Cock," said Rancid. "What in the hell is Hott Cock doing up here?"
The canopy of the BAM depolarized, and they could see Hott sitting on the bar, with the Triangulation Twat between his legs and laying on the Stable Cradle there was a young, naked girl, munching on something she had obtained from the built-in frig. Rancid sighed. That was the way to live, on a cycle, without all of the womb like amenities of monsters like the Raunchy Stabber.
As they stepped out, the canopy rolled back, to be molecularly reconstituted when needed again. Rancid and Wee Kling watched as Hott disengaged the Triangulation Twat, then casually slapped the girl across the chops, who stared up at him in surprise.
"What's wrong, Hott?" she asked, almost choking on her food.
"Eating all the time!" he growled. "I take you on these trips and all the time you eat, eat, eat!"
She shrunk back. "Do you want a little, Hott?" she asked, pained. "What else is there to do laying down here!"
Hott didn't bother to answer. "We're here, stupid! Look around!" She began to swivel her head, taking in the cavernous slit, the growth around it, being surrounded by the massive, tapering cliffs.
"Where?" she asked.
"Don't ask stupid questions," he muttered, puzzled himself.
Rancid thought it was time to intervene. He walked across to the BAM, a machine that he admired, but he preferred his Horney Demented, despite the lack of extras. He asked, "Whaccha want, huh, Hott? A rumble?"
Hott Cock looked at him. "I wish you would try to answer that, Gelding, without lapsing into the pseudo-vernacular of the streets. I'm up here because you're up here, driven by motivations that I am hard pressed to understand."
"Sorry, Hott," said Rancid. "Frankly, I don't know where I am. According to the theoretical programming inherent in the Screw-Way, this shouldn't exist."
"But it does," said Hott. "Look at it." The four of them did, and it seemed to move slightly as if it were alive.
"I know," said Shenta Vidus excitedly, pulling her lanky frame from the Stable Cradle and pointing at it. "I know what it ... "
Again they were interrupted by another car proceeding steadily and slowly toward them, slowing to a gradual and steady stop. A woman was at the wheel, and the passenger side opened. Rancid recognized Homo Humnuts.
"Why, Senator," he said, proffering his hand. "What brings you up here?"
Humnuts stared at him. "You do. And what is this blocking our passage?" He stared at the ominous configuration in front of them. "A pregnant school bus, one of those monstrous alien invasions by those who would destroy everything near and dear, by the enemies of our country, of that which made our country great and foremost, and by the strength of every bone and sinew in my body, I vow to fight this menace with everything that I have learned in a long life of service to mankind."
Rancid sighed. "We don't know, Senator." A plump woman came out of the driver's side and joined them. She had a satisfied expression on her face.
"My wife, Hormone," beamed the Senator. "My true and blue, neat and sweet little wife. Her feminine intuition guided us up this infernal pathway and, without her, I wouldn't be where I am." He hugged her happily.
Hormone Humnuts smiled. "The Senator exaggerates, I'm sure," she said, "but we did have a pleasant trip." She blushed. "It's such a different way to travel."
Hott Cock laughed. "You bet, lady. Stick it up, and leave the driving to the rut!" He seemed proud of his joke. "But that doesn't explain why we're here, and what's holding us up."
Hormone looked the slit in the face of the barrier up and down. She looked sideways at Homo. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "that looks just like..."
Two more figures suddenly appeared at the edge of . their vision and the rest of her sentence was lost. The figures rushed toward them. One of them was a naked woman on a horse, arms tightly around its neck. The horse looked weary, and was being led on by a tired man in a cape, his Dong dragging on the ground.
"Palomine!" called Rancid. "It's Palomine, my wife." He walked rather slowly to her side, and looked up at her. "What are you doing up here with Herman?" He looked puzzled.
She raised her weary head and looked at him. "I wanted to be with you, Rancid. You're always running off and leaving me alone, and I thought I should have a chance to go with you." She patted the horse. "All I've got is Herman."
"What about me?" asked the man in the cape, brushing the dust off the bedraggled Dong.
"Norman Pitter-patter!" exclaimed Rancid. "You're the last person I would expect to be on the Screw-Way!"
Pitter-patter, despite his weariness, sneered. "You scientists, srubbing us artists! I came up here to have it out with you, to prove to you that we're not just mouthpieces to justify your depredations!" He held his head. "But I'm too tired now. I found this woman almost stopped a while back, and led her up here. But where is it?"
"We don't know either where it is or what it is," said Rancid, looking up at it with the rest. Wee Kling tapped her foot restlessly. Shenta Vidus wandered around, looking over Homo Humnuts, who looked as if he were about to make a speech. This was his normal attitude, and evidently didn't bother Hormone Humnuts who was looking up at the abutment with a half smile on her face as if she knew a secret concealed from the rest. Hott Cock was staring at her avidly.
Norman Pitter-patter rested his weary Dong and leaned against the Raunchy Stabber. "You know what it is?" he asked casually.
Gelding turned to him. "You know?"
"You see the balance between the vertical lines and the horizontal lines as they implode toward the vertex? The attempt to distract the mind with the patches of undergrowth before attention is fully centered on the stable elements in the design? The ultimate consummate artistry of leaving the bottom empty and cavernous, with the work suspended in the air, civins us the airy impression of space and time and infinity?" Pitter-patter sighed, turned away, and sighed again. "It might very well be the work of someone in the Done school."
"But what is it?" almost screamed Gelding, his nerves at the breaking point. Was this the point of his journey? To be stopped by some idiot barrier that nobody could define?
Palomine Gelding said, bored. "Anyone can see that it's a..."
With perfect timing, the Cuddlerack limousine slid silently and smoothly into their midst, coming to a rest almost on top of Hott Cock, who glared at the huge machine. "Pig," he spat.
J. Burnup Gettit exited from the passenger side, looked over the assembled crowd, and at the barrier stopping their progress. "What's going on here?" he asked in a commanding voice. "And don't call me a pig, young man. I'm merely your friendly corner capitalist."
Gelding tried to force his face into a smile. "I'm sorry, J.B.. but something seems to be holding us up." He gestured at the facing that stood before them.
"Where, may I ask. were we going before this stopped the progress?" Everybody looked at each other as J. Burnup Gettit asked the question.
"We were following Gelding," said Hott Cock contemptuously.
"True. But did Gelding ever know where he was going?" More glances. Trudgen had released the Electronic Cunt and stepped out of the Cuddlerack, standing by the door at attention. Gettit asked him, "Trudgen, what do you make of it?"
Trudgen, with his practiced servant's eye, looked it up and clown. His eyes screwed together as if he were trying to resurrect a distant memory. "Back when T was a young man," he began, "I remember something like this, something that was very important to me."
"You're not an old man. Trudgen," reminded Gettit.
"No, sir, but this was a long time back, and when we were young, it was something that we desired very much, that we would have sold our souls for, that was the most important thing in the world." He brightened. "I think I know what it was, sir. We called it. . . "
The Impurgated Lemon Brougham rolled into the group, a little wobbly but majestic. The face of a woman shone through the driver's side. In the back seat sat a man, immersed in a book.
J. Burnup Gettit looked surprised. "It's Gotta, my wife!" He walked over to the door. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his composure ruffled.
Gotta Gettit giggled. "I'm driving Shilly's car, silly! And I've never had so much fun in my life!" She gave a suggestive little swing of her hips, removed the Vector Dildo, and regretfully hung it back on the dashboard. "We should try it sometime."
"I devote my attention to the poor and needy," said Gettit imperiously. "I haven't much time and energy for that type of nonsense."
Shilly Brahmin looked up at the word nonsense, looked around, saw the curious group, slid over to the door, opened it, still carrying his leather-bound copy of the Omnibus, stepped outside, and looked up at the cause of all the difficulty. "The Omnipresent has been here before us, I see," he said comfortably.
"The Omnipresent?" asked Gelding, looking around suspiciously. "Everybody else seems to be here. Why not him?" he asked bitterly.
"Or, is it a him?" Brahmin looked interested. "That's never been quite decided. The Omnibus doesn't clarify the point."
J. Burnup Gettit asked, "What does your Omnibus say about this?"
Shilly Brahmin looked the obstruction up and down. He turned and flipped through the Omnibus. "I'm sure there's something right here that explains the whole thing," he said, calmly. "The Omnibus is the collective wisdom of the Omnipresent in omnivorous form, open to orchestrations of omniscience." He smiled, and continued to flip through the volume, eyes lighting up at some old familiar passage. Gelding waited, impatiently.
"In the land of Uptight, there was a young King, conceived under the sign of Keepoffthegrass who began to have strange dreams in which nubile maidens would come to him night after night, crawl into his opulent bed, dance the dance of the Perverted Butterfly, but he would have strange and backward desires and push them off, fending them off with the strength developed in the days of jollity and exercise, until he was forced to go to the Court Physician, to whom he recounted the strange story.
"What is it you wish me to do?" asked the kindly Court Physician, but inwardly pained because lo, the week past, he had treated one of the Princesses, and upon examining her tender breasts, had loth to ask, "Dost thou know what I do?" and she had answered. "Thou lookest for cancer," and he had examined her tender belly, as fair as a pouter pigeon at dawn, and had rubbed and asked, "Dost thou know what I do?" and she answered, "Yes, thou looketh for the inflamed appendix." And he himself on fire by her sweet nakedness forsook the Hypomanic Oath and, shucking off his physician's robes, clambered up on the table and inserted his own hardened speculum into her tray; on top of her, aflame, with lust, he asked, "Dost thou know what I do now?" and she answered, "Yes, doctor, I do, you look for the diseases of venery and you looketh in the right place for that is why I am here," and the Doctor had been bemused by all this.
The King answered quietly, with the bravery that only the inhabitants of Uptight can imagine, "Break my arms!"
But the Doctor was old and wise in the ways of the world and he advised the King, "Do not grieve, for you must search among the Kingdom for that which you forsake now," and that is all he said, for he was impatient to return to the laboratory and search for the magic elixir to treat his groaning organ betrayed by the evil Princess.
So the King searched far and wide among the highways and byways of his land, from Pismo Beach to Fargo to Bayonne, and did not find that which he sought, but heard fabled tales of Mount Venrush among the Happy Lachians, wherein lay that which he sought for so ardently, for in bed at night, the King began to fear that he would forever be in thrall to the monster that visited him each night, that sprouted from him, and threatened to take him to the Land of the Orgasm as the chant would resound in his mind, "Come-come with your Dum-dum!" But the King gritted his eyes and suffered his member and finally, lo, one day he came upon the slopes of Mount Venrush and there appeared to him the vision, and with a thousand joyous voices as one, he rushed forward and cried....
Shilly Brahmin stopped, knowing with his inner sense that he had lost his audience, and looked up. An old Shovitup sedan was pulling up. In the front seat sat a man with a beard, a strange object sprouting off the top of his head. Next to him was a mountain of a woman, giggling and laughing.
Gelding turned. The door of the Shovitup was opened after the bearded man had pulled something off his head, and replaced it on the dashboard. The object retracted. Gelding said wearily, "Dr. Fried. How nice of you to come."
Sickman Fried winked. "You don't know the half of it." He turned back to the girl, who was removing the Vector Dildo with some difficulty since she had some trouble finding it. Dr. Fried, with his usual gallantry, helped her, his arm up to the elbow. She hugged him as he began to extract it.
"No, he doesn't!" said Amanda, her great self.
"This is Amanda Punchingjelly," said Fried, gesturing vaguely. "She helped me drive up here. She's one of my patients."
"Isn't that unethical?" asked Gelding.
"It's a fine point," conceded Fried. "But I was in such a hurry to find you that I didn't think too much about it. When T heard of the problems that you were encountering, I considered it my responsibility to follow you." He leaned forward and whispered. "We'll have to get together and discuss this matter of your secretary. Is that her?"
He made a lewd gesture in the direction of ninety-seven-pound Wee Kling, standing quietly. "Yes," answered Gelding.
"Do you think she would do the Dance of the Five Virgins for me?" asked Fried, barely restraining himself.
Shilly Brahmin looked the motley throng up and down, as if calling for silence. Gelding noticed this, and trying to rid himself of Doctor Fried, held up his arms. "Everybody quiet," he shouted. "We interrupted Brahmin just as he was about to give us a revelation."
Shilly shook his head. "If that braindrainer would look Upstairs once in a while, we wouldn't have so much trouble Downstairs."
Hormone Humnuts said, "I know what he was going to say!"
Wee Kling looked bored. "It's obvious."
Palomine Gelding looked embarrassed, and patted Herman. "It is rather suggestive," she said.
Trudgen looked nostalgic. "I'm sure that's what it was."
Norman Pitter-patter said unrealistically, "It must be from the Dong School."
Shilly Brahmin went back down into the Omnibus, refreshed himself, raised his eyes toward the Upstairs, and then brought his eyes back to the abutment. "The King," he continued majestically, crawled forward and cried: 'IT'S THE GREA T CUNT!' "
FIVE
F. Rancid Gelding screwed up his face with irritation. "What are you talking about, Shilly? The Screw-Way's got your metabolism all screwed up. We all know what a cunt is. That thing's too big to be a cunt. Who in the hell has a whang big enough to handle that?"
But the harangue passed over the heads of the rest of the group. At the majestic words from Shilly, they had all turned toward it, and with the frame of reference given them, it was unmistakable. The vertical, oval-shaped slit, the pink folds of the inner labia, the outside lips, and towering above them, the outcropping that was the clitoris and the glans, surrounded by the patches of pubic hair, laying there in a position of receptivity, the legs outspread, the caverns reaching back to the ass, and the remainder wreathed in the eternal mists of the Screw-Way.
Norman Pitter-patter looked it over with his aesthete's eye. He reluctantly conceded, "It could have been done by the Dong school, but now that you mention it, there is a certain resemblance."
The women chorused, "We told you so!"
Trudgen blinked, and peered at it with his weather-beaten chauffeur's eyes. "Yes, it does look like the ones we used to know when I was a boy."
Gelding looked back at it contemptuously. "As the one rational person here, I can only ask, so what? What if there is a huge cunt in front of us? We can always go back."
Hott Cock had been restlessly prowling over the area and pointed toward the mists from where they had come. Gelding walked over. He looked. He shuddered.
"What happened?"
There was nothing there. Not even the insubstantial roadway. By some frantic topological upheaval, it had disappeared. Gelding looked away.
That certainly hadn't been included in his calculations.
"What do we do now?" asked Hott Cock, eyeing Shenta Vidus, who in turn was eyeing Homo Humnuts, who in turn looked as if he were about to make a speech. He noticed Hormone Humnuts looking at him speculatively.
Sickman Fried walked over to join them, followed by Palomine Gelding, leading Herman. He said confidently, "I've got it all analyzed."
Gelding asked, without much hope. "What is it, Doctor?"
"It's all in the head!"
Gelding, Hott Cock, Hormone Humnuts, and Palomine turned to look at it. "It is?"
"Certainly!" assured Dr. Fried. "What else could it be? It's a mass projection of our infantile desire to return to that which we all came from."
"I came from East St. Louis," said Hott Cock suspiciously.
"I mean the womb. We've addled our minds by following Gelding up here and all we have to do is follow him back down." Fried was triumphant. "I've suspected Gelding for a long time of having highly charged narcissistic fantasies, and this is the result."
"What's that?" asked Gelding, pointing to the abyss.
"Strange," said Fried, peering into the distance. "There seems to be nothing there."
"Nothing," said Rancid gloomily.
Hott Cock brightened. "Maybe we can go ahead. It must lead to something."
"Ask Shilly Brahmin," said Palomine, talking for the first time. "Maybe his book has something to say about it."
Gelding, with an almost overwhelming sense of helplessness, slowly walked back, followed by the others. Shilly was still standing by his Impurgated Lemon Brougham, quietly reading the Omnibus. He looked up.
"We are looking for further revelations," said Gelding, as humbly as he could.
Shilly, instead of crowing, quietly thumbed through the Omnibus. "There is a revelation in here to suit every situation," he admitted. "It's too bad the Omnipresent didn't see fit to include an index." He flipped a few more pages. "Or even a table of contents. As long as we're so close to the Upstairs, we should notify him."
"I thought you didn't know what sex it was," said Hormone Humnuts.
"I've decided on a Him for It, since we are currently confronted with a She, in the form of the Great Cunt. And it would be mighty appropriate for the Omnipresent to be of that sex. The Big O, as we who know him intimately, call the Omnipresent, is a bit of a swinger."
"The revelation," urged Gelding.
"Revelations are not given up without a little thought and study." He opened a page, and then began to read:
Lo, and there was a great battle sweeping over the darkling plain and the enemy was mowed down as by scythes, for Thor, the god of war, had entered the strife on the side of the just and the best-looking broads, and after the engagement had been won, the best-looking broads found out that the engagement had just commenced for, lo, upon that night there was an orgy that lit up the skies with flashes of fire and thunder, enough to bring the dead back to life, which was done many times ere the morning light came ...
Thor awoke the next morning, and as gods are wont to do, stretched, and noticed one of the better of the best-looking broads standing by the doorway in deep distress. 'I'm Thor,' he said, concerned.
'You're Thor!' she cried. 'I'm tho thor I can hardly pith!'
There was a silence. Then Norman Pitter-patter jumped up and down excitedly, wincing as his sore Dong touched the ground. "I recognize that. It came from the Dong school."
Gelding ignored him. "Where does that leave us?"
Shilly Brahmin winked. "It leaves us out here, while all the action is in there." He waved at the Great Cunt. "If the Omnipresent hadn't meant us to go in and explore it, he wouldn't have left it there. We have to look at each situation as it comes up. For example, here's another good point from the Omnibus." He wet his finger and turned a few more pages. ho, the Prince found himself with bride, and after great celebrations in the provinces and the cities, with fireworks and joyous shouts, the happy young couple retired to their bedroom, there to find in each other the bliss that they so greatly sought, and in the glow from the sky and in the glow from their bodies they Wentatit and the Prince forgot all about the ancient custom of Turnaround Buster, until lo, five times had the skyrocket gone up in the night and exploded into a million fragments, and five times had the new bride clung to her lord and master, twisting and turning on the huge bed, glad to have found someone who could Ramitupher and give her Whatfor, legs lifting in obeisance to the Omnipresent who watched about them.
Ere the next morning, the young couple woke, it already being noon, and the bride turned to the Prince, hoping that there would be more prayerful observances in which the Prince would get on his knees and groan the prayers that made her hips wiggle with excitement.
But she looked at his prayer stick and burst into immediate sobs as if her heart had burst. The Prince tried to comfort her by placing his broad arm around her shoulders, but she shook him off and would not be comforted.
'What is it, my fair one?' he asked, distraught and shaken.
His bride, crying as if trying to fill the torrents of the kingdom, pointed at his scepter, which was small and wizened from the mighty efforts of the night before when the fireworks had exploded in all their glory, five glorious bursts from the heavens itself and cried, beside herself, 'Look! We used it all up last night!"
Shilly Brahmin stopped. "The lesson from that bit of wisdom from the Omnibus, is that we mustn't live as if we were afraid to use it up."
Sickman Fried nodded wisely. "I told you it's all in the head."
Gelding slowly walked to the great abutment, looking faintly ominous in the gray light of the clearing, examining it. The oval slit ran all the way down to the bottom, and the lips formed a partial platform that led into the dark interior. From a distance he peered inside.
"Are you really going to go in?" asked Hott Cock.
"It wouldn't be the first cunt I've entered!" snapped Gelding.
"I know, I know," said Hott Cock soothingly. "But without precautions, with only your bare hands?"
"Maybe it takes the pill," suggested Wee Kling brightly.
Rancid thought about it. "I believe we ought to try penetrating it by some other means than our feet."
Sickman Fried nodded wisely. "I agree. It's not in the feet, it's in the head."
"Look," said Palomine. She pointed directly into the crevice. A short distance behind the lips, slanting eerily off into the darkness, a misty gray curtain seemed to cover the entrance.
"What is it?" asked Hormone.
"Probably the hymen," said Sickman Fried, drawing on his medical knowledge. "I remember that from those medical books they used to make us read, until I found out it was all in the head."
"We'll have to break through," said Wee Kling. "It has to happen to everyone."
Gelding felt dazed, as if the pressure for a decision were becoming too great to handle. "I'll take the Raunchy Stabber, and you can follow me in," he said, trying to make his voice decisive. Glad to be free of the further need for discussion, he broke into a trot and headed toward the low-slung vehicle, went to the driver's side, and flung himself on the form-fitting seat. Wee Kling quickly did the same on the other side.
"I wanted to do this alone," he said. "It might be dangerous."
Wee Kling laughed. "When will I ever have a chance to poke a hymen?" The penis-like snout of the Raunchy Stabber stretched in front of them, full of the cunning curves designed into it by Elong Ferkin, and as Rancid touched the controls, the turbine purred into life, vibrating the surface as if it were eager to plunge into that entrance. Gelding checked the radar, took a visual read-out, and noted that the others were behind him, ready to plunge after him. Wee Kling was buckled into her cocoon, looking small and helpless, but an eager, anticipatory expression was on her face.
Rancid gave a quick touch of the throttle, and the miniaturized atomic pile fed streams of raw energy to the turbine which in turn Was converted to mechanical energy by intricate, high-strength alloys in the driveshaft and the smooth wafer thin latex of the wheels gripped; and they moved. It was a short distance to the lips and Rancid languidly guided the tip of the Stabber toward it, accelerating so that he would hit it with sufficient speed to bring him up the ramp and hit that barrier.
There was a change in traction and they were headed upward toward that black maw, the gray layer closer and closer. Suddenly, the blunt tip of the Raunchy touched it, the wheels took on more bite as they found resistance, it held for a fractional moment and then began to spread apart, tenaciously trying to hold the Stabber back, but the power of that atomic-driven turbine was too much, the point pushing it ahead, until it finally broke apart, leaving a great gaping hole through which the Stabber entered, and righted itself on the floor-like platform. Rancid drove in for a short distance, and stopped. He noticed the remainder of the group pouring in through the gap.
"Did you hear anything?" he asked Wee Kling.
"What?" she questioned.
"Like a scream, when we broke the barrier."
She shook her head. They were in a cavernous passage, and as their eyes adjusted to the dim, glowing light, they saw that it wasn't perfectly smooth, but striated in complex patterns. Toward the end there seemed to be smaller passages leading out of it. Rancid felt unreal.
He opened the door and stood on the surface, which seemed to faintly pulsate in some rhythm of its own. Above him, he saw the beginning of the projection which they had previously identified as the clitoris. The last of the group was coming in through the entrance.
Suddenly, there was a movement. The walls, ceiling, and floor seemed to contract at the same time, almost pulling Rancid off his feet. Each individual striation in that long barrel-like passage seemed to draw itself together.
And the entrance closed!
Rancid saw the light being shut off, made a quick move toward it, and saw that he was too late. There was only an unbroken, muscular-like wall there, letting in no light. He could dimly see in the blood-red light that seemed to come out of the walls itself.
J. Burnup Gettit strode purposefully toward him, stumbled, and recovered himself on the vibrating floor. He raised his hand to lend force to his words. "We should have defoliated before we went in. Defoliated!"
Gelding grimaced, thinking of what that would have been like, the great cunt-like object defoliated. "You're just a bit excited, J.B., and I'm sure that if we stop and think things over, we'll be able to use our cognitive powers and come to a conclusion, and then we'll be able to work our way out of here."
Sickman Fried joined them. "As I've said, it's all in the head."
And suddenly, the heads of each of them resonated with wave lengths of unimaginable intensity, neurons activated in cross-synaptic firing, and simultaneously, without the need for external perception or time-delay lags, they perceived the voice:
WELCOME TO THE GROUP-GROPE, HUMANS.
"What was that?" asked Hott Cock, startled.
There was a sudden rising babble of voices, and another interruption.
CALL ME ASS-START, AFTER ONE OF YOUR GODDESSES. I'VE COME A FAR PIECE TO HAVE A PIECE. JOKE! SPEAK TO ME IN THE ACCENTS OF YOUR RACE, AND I WILL REVEAL MY MISSION IN OUTER SPACE!
Soddenly, the group stared at each other in the gloomy half-light of the red walls, waiting.
SIX
"Why?" asked Palomine Gelding, her ponytail a bit bedraggled by her adventures, a delicate curl still on her lip, "does it have to use that idiom?" She had managed to bring Herman in with her and he stood there, nuzzling her contentedly.
Sickman Fried mused. "I knew it was all in the head, but there is a difference between knowing and certainty. I'm certain now." He rubbed the top of his head.
J. Burnup Gettt looked around suspiciously. "There might be commercial possibilities in that trick of speaking in your head.".
"What do you suppose it is?" asked Hott Cock, looking around.
Homo Humnuts took a step forward. "If this is what the alien invasion of pregnant school busses has done to our morals, then I, for one, will have nothing to do with it!"
Gelding said, "We might try listening to it." YOU REALLY HAVE NO CHOICE, YOU KNOW. YOU WERE BROUGHT HERE FOR A CERTAIN
PURPOSE. THE ASS-START ARE AN OLD AND WISE RACE, WHO HAVE LONG AGO DISCARDED THEIR CORPOREAL BODIES BUT ARE INTERESTED IN HELPING OTHER RACES IN THE LONG CLIMB TO FULL MATURITY.
"Listen to it!" said Shenta Vidus. "It talks like a schoolteacher."
Gelding asked uncertainly, speaking aloud, wondering if that was their method of communication. "What do you want?"
YOUR REFERENTS TO WHAT IS WANTED AND OURS HAVE NO COMMON MEANING. TO I TRY TO ILLUMINATE THE SITUATION, WE HAVE A CONFLICT ON THE META-GALACTIC LEVEL WITH THE UP-STARTS. WE ARE, IN EFFECT, JUDGING YOU AS TO WHETHER WE CAN ENLIST YOUR HELP.
"It seems a very complicated method of doing it," answered Gelding, becoming more confident. "Was the Screw-Way your idea?"
PRECISELY. WE WISHED TO GATHER TOGETHER A REPRESENTATIVE SAMPLE OF YOUR RACE IN ONE SPOT. TO DO THAT WITHOUT AROUSING SUSPICION, WE HAD TO INTEGRATE OUR PROCESSES WITH YOUR TECHNOLOGY. IF WE HAD MERELY LANDED OBSERVATION PROBES, IT WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SUFFICIENT. BUT IF WE COULD LEAD YOU ON TO A NEW TRANSPORTATION DEVICE, IT WAS ACCEPTED WITHOUT QUESTION.
"What happened to those who didn't come back?"
THEY ARE UNDER OBSERVATION ELSEWHERE, QUITE SAFE, AND WILL BE RETURNED TO THE HUMAN GROUP WHEN OUR PRESENT STUDIES ARE COMPLETED. THEY WERE VERY USEFUL FOR OBTAINING PRELIMINARY INFORMATION ABOUT SOME OF YOUR HABITS.
"Watch out!" warned Hott Cock. "It may be a trap."
"Of course it's a trap," answered Gelding. "But I don't see the object in trapping us. Why, for example, did they set up the Great Cunt?"
THAT'S AN EASY ONE. BECAUSE IT IS OBVIOUSLY THE OVERWHELMING PREOCCUPATION OF YOUR RACE. WE HAVE MONITORED VARIOUS FORMS AND OUR ANALYSES OF YOUR NEURAL NETWORKS AND THE PHYSIOLOGICAL CONCOMITANTS DEFINITELY SHOW THAT SEX, BY A HIGHLY SIGNIFICANT MARGIN, IS THE PATTERNED OVERLAY BEHIND MUCH OF YOUR ACTIONS. YOUR OWN PHILOSOPHERS AND PSYCHOLOGISTS HAVE SUSPECTED AS MUCH. POSSIBLY BECAUSE YOU SOLVED YOUR SURVIVAL PROBLEMS IN THE ENVIRONMENT SOME TIME AGO.
"You talk as if you had experience with other races," said Gelding. "Is this common?"
THE DRIVE BECOMES MODIFIED INTO DIFFERENT SENSORY MODALITIES DEPENDING ON THE PHYSIOLOGICAL CONSTRUCTION. IT IS SUFFICIENTLY DIFFERENT SO THAT WE NEED FURTHER INFORMATION.
"But this couldn't be the total range of your interest?"
A SUBTLE QUESTION. NO, THERE IS CONSIDERABLY MORE THAN MERE OUTWARD APPEARANCES INVOLVED. BUT YOU WILL PROBABLY REMAIN UNAWARE OF THIS UNTIL FERTILIZATION OCCURS.
"Fertilization?"
THE CONCEPT IS INCOMPREHENSIBLE TO YOU EXCEPT IN THAT TERM. CALL IT A COMING TOGETHER.
"It sounds alien and dirty," warned Humnuts.
Gelding ignored him. "I don't see why we are necessary."
IT WAS THE MOST DIRECT WAY. WE HAVE GATHERED REPRESENTATIVE SAMPLES OF YOUR MAJOR INTERESTS. HOME, CRIME, BUSINESS, RELIGION, ART, POLITICS, SCIENCE, AND TECHNOLOGY. WE WANT YOU TO INTERACT. "Interact?"
SEXUALLY. IN PREPARATION FOR THE BIG MOMENT. "Where?" THERE.
Without preliminaries, the floor seemed to hump up slightly in the back part of the passage. More light seemed to be concentrated on it, and it glowed, forming a stage.
"You want us to put on a show for you?" asked Gelding, amazed.
NOT A SHOW. JUST NATURAL INTERACTION IN YOUR NORMAL HABITAT. THIS IS WHY WE MADE ELABORATE PREPARATIONS TO PLACE YOU INSIDE OF A FEMALE ORGAN. TO MAKE YOU FEEL AT HOME.
"We don't usually do it that way," said Gelding. "We have bedrooms and other trysting places."
PERHAPS WE HAVE BEEN MISLED, BUT IF OUR ANALYSIS IS CORRECT, THIS IS THE PLACE WHERE YOU STARTED AND IT SEEMS TO BE THE PLACE WHERE YOU WANT TO RETURN.
"My point, exactly," cried Sickman Fried. "But you forget about the head!"
"I don't see how you can expect any results from this."
WE EXPECT RESULTS, AND KNOW WE WILL GET RESULTS, BECAUSE YOU GET RESULTS WHEN YOU PUT YOUR RATS IN A MAZE.
"That isn't very complimentary."
FLATTERY WILL GET YOU NOWHERE.
"I don't think we'll be able to perform, knowing that we're being watched."
YOU GIVE EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE IMPRESSION, IF WE CAN RET TEVE votjp POOKS AND MAGAZINES. YOU SEEM TO ENJOY IT.
"I'm not at all sure you'll get the results you're looking for."
WE HAVE ALL THE MATERIALS. EIGHT MALES, SIX FEMALES, AND ONE HORSE.
"Horse?" asked Gelding, shocked.
AN INCREDIBLE AMOUNT OF YOUR ENTERTAINMENT IS DEVOTED TO THE HORSE. I FELT IT ONLY FAIR TO INCLUDE A SPECIMEN.
"The horse opera," muttered Gelding.
WE'RE JUST WASTING OUR TIME AND YOURS BY THIS CONVERSATION. TO USE YOUR PHRASE, IT'S TIME TO GET THE SHOW ON THE ROAD!
It stopped. Gelding knew they were expected to do something.
Everybody was staring at everyone else.
SEVEN
1
Homo Humnuts broke the silence, drawing himself up to his full five-foot-two inches of stature, and clenching his fist. "We will fight on the beaches, we will fight on the landing strips, we will fight on the freeways, and we will never surrender. No longer in the history of human affairs shall the pregnant school busses from outer space come down and plow furrows in our hallowed land, not as long as there is a breast in my breed!"
Hormone tapped him on the shoulder gently. "I don't think that's what this is all about, Homo."
Before he could answer, Hott Cock snarled. "You mean we're supposed to do our thing in this misbegotten split beaver, right out in front of everybody?" He gestured at the stage. "I don't perform too well in public!"
"There's some question there of performing, buddy boy," rejoined Shenta Vidus, giving a wink to Homo Humnuts, who was about to burst into speech again.
Gelding broke in hastily. "We mustn't quarrel. I have a feeling that the future of human race might depend on our actions here."
"Don't eye until you see the fires of their whites!" cried Homo Humnuts.
Gelding tried to break in frantically. "We must make a decision. I believe the thing wants to see a thing."
Wee Kling asked, "Are you looking for volunteers?"
Sickman Fried came forward. He was humble. "Not that I would have any particular claim to such an honor, but I would very much like to have the Dance of the Five Virgins done on me. I have little to offer, except sex in the head."
Wee Kling was thoughtful. "Since Rancid gave away all our secrets, I don't see why not!" She glared at him, then turned back to Doctor Fried. "How's your health, Doctor?" she asked, as a precaution.
"In my head!" he responded eagerly, and trotted toward the stage.
2
Wee Kling followed, a little reluctantly, and looked back at Gelding with impatience, as if waiting to be reprieved. He stood there stolidly, with a stolid jaw, and she shrugged. Approaching the stage, she shucked the clothes that had only been put on a short while ago, mounted the low, flesh-like platform. As she did so, the light seemed to become perceptibly birghter and outlined Sickman Fried, already laying down, his clothes hurriedly discarded.
He smiled up in anticipation. Wee Kling looked him over, her ninety-seven-pound frame tense as she remembered that her sexual tension had not been dissipated by the episode in Rancid's office. That was a man for you, too busy to pay attention to a woman's needs.
Her eyes automatically scanned his body, wondering how to proceed, when they returned to his midsection. She stared.
"I told you," said Fried. "It's in my head!" And with that, he allowed the end of it to protrude momentarily out of the top of his head, and then retract.
Wee Kling drew back. "I don't know," she said doubtfully. "I'm pretty much of a middle-of-the-road girl!"
"You don't have to worry about a thing, Ma'am," he said, and tried to bow, a bit difficult in his recumbent position. "I will be glad to work out any cultural blocks you might have after it's over. It's a service I'm entitled to give, because of my extensive training in problems of the head." He appeared impatient.
"It's not the mental blocks that I'm worried about," countered Wee Kling. "I'm worried about what happens when you try to shove the whole business end up."
"I'm very careful," said Fried, humble again.
Again Wee Kling looked him over, then allowed her small frame with an abstruse wiggle to step over to him as he lay there, and took a position directly over his head, so that Dr. Fried could see up her thin, muscular legs, follow the line of her muscular calves as they blended into the smooth knees, and then could watch the pistons tapering out and blending together finally into the ultimate split. She glanced down with displeasure. Dr. Fried, with his medical knowledge, would see the red inner lips, hardly contained by the prim outer labia, red and swollen by her need, and would surely make use of it. And the thing that really disturbed her was that she was looking forward to it, for every time she thought of the odd object in Dr. Fried's head, her clitoris gave a little jump, a little notice telling her to draw on her reserves, that it was ready.
She was facing the length of his body. The Dance of the Five Virgins would be very difficult in this position, but she had calculated her angle of attack beforehand, and it was quite clear that the act was impossible in any other position.
Wee Kling began. To give Fried the jolt of adrenalin that would rouse him, she suddenly drew her right leg up, all the way to her small, well-formed breasts, held it there for a moment so that the thatch of glossy hair on her cunt shone in the soft light, her body an evil blood red, and then with a flick she brought down her foot, her heel aimed directly between Fried's eyes, and stopped a fraction of an inch short.
For a moment, Fried's eyes were filled with horror and his body stiffened, waiting that crushing final blow from the skilled Oriental heel, and then when his reflexes knew beyond all doubt that he was safe, the intended reaction set in, the body gave a galvanic jerk and the prick at the top of his head literally flew out, like a knife leaving a spring-loaded scabbard. Fried waited, quivering, mouth open in delicious agony.
Wee Kling rather enjoyed this part of it, the tormenting of the male in the preliminary play until he was pliable clay in her hands. Delicately, as if absently drawing curlicues in the sand with her toes, she first placed her big toe quickly in Fried's mouth, who eagerly snatched at it, but tantalized him by withdrawing it with those cat-like reflexes while his mouth closed over empty air. His body jerked spasmodically, the cock at the middle of the head engorging even further.
Relenting, she carefully placed the big toe back in, as if she had found the temperature to her liking, and Fried grasped at it, as a drowning man for a life preserver, and the shiver of pleasure that accompanied the entrance of another toe could be seen by the spectators; slowly the dance proceeded, Fried now reaching up for her delicate ankle, trying to cram the whole foot into him, his tongue frantically licking the sole of her foot, while the head cock grew even larger and more frantic.
Wee Kling glanced at it, her eyes lidded with her own excitement, shown by the gradual opening of her cunt, and then with infinite cunning and grace, drawing on the ballet-like movements she had shown before, she lowered herself, her foot still in Fried's mouth, her other leg controlling her descent until she was even with it, haunches swaying in time with its movements, her eyes almost closed now, dancing a dance of her own now, her full ninety-seven pounds contorted into a packed mass of energy about to explode. With a slow movement, she fitted the bulging end of Fried's projection into the lips of her cunt, paused a moment to get her timing correct, and with the faintest of graceful movements, drove the length of that instrument into her until she was straddling his bald head, rubbing her labia against it, no longer quite in full control of herself, contracting the muscles in her fiery ass into clumps of threaded power as she wiggled in infinitely meaningful movements, her leg still upraised, the right foot continuing the Dance of the Five Virgins. Suddenly, with the remainder of her strength, she lifted the other leg, brought the foot up, and crammed both sets of toes into Fried's mouth, whose body responded with frantic upheavals as he felt the sensation of the Dance of the Ten Virgins.
Both of them seemed to know that the level of intensity of their dual efforts could not continue, for Wee Kling crouched on her haunches on the billiard-ball head of Fried, her body streaming with sweat, feeling the length of the head cock as it penetrated into her, mouth and hair back, dual sets of muscles rippling on her belly and thighs like a frog given strychnine, his response beyond all control, she felt his rod give way, and she followed, a vibrating mass of red painted energy, all ninety-seven pounds concentrated in that vortex below. They gradually slowed down from that inhuman tempo, both spent.
Fried lay there as if dead, Wee Kling falling from her perch to lay in a warm, curved bundle for a moment, breathing softly. Then she looked up.
"Who's next?" she asked.
3
Wee Kling rose from her womb-like posture, uncoiled herself, and padded back to the group, who had gathered in a semicircle watching. She looked thoughtfully at Fried, who continued to lay there, the extension off the top of his head slowly retracting. She picked up her clothes and absently began to wiggle back into them.
Gelding went over to her. "That was quite an enthusiastic performance," he said.
"It was your suggestion," she said, her Oriental face expressionless. "You wanted us to do our thing in front of the thing. Me and the head man do our best."
Gelding turned away. "It doesn't have to look so real," he complained jealously. "Anybody else?" he called to the crowd.
Hott Cock drew back. "Why don't we rush it? Show what the human race is made of! That we can't be trapped into a cunt and made to act like animals!"
"I don't believe there is anything to rush," said Gelding. He turned toward the direction of the stage. "Dr. Fried!"
The sprawled out psychoanalyst opened an eye in their direction. "Uhh," he said, lapsing into his professional self. Then he seemed to remember where he was, opened both eyes, felt the top of his head, and smiled as he remembered. "What is it?"
"Is this real?" asked Gelding. He waved toward the fluorescing pink walls, the length of the striated structure, the closed womb-like shape.
"Real?" said Fried, surprised. "It's all in the head."
"I don't mean that!" said Gelding impatiently. "I'm merely asking if it has any physical reality. Does it exist?" He thought about it. "For example, is the physiological reconstruction of the vaginal structure correct? You've had medical training."
Dr. Fried looked around. "Of course, when I was in medical school, they didn't let us poke around as much as we wanted. But the answer would have to be No. This isn't a real cunt. It doesn't seem to breathe, it doesn't smell, it isn't as nasty as a real cunt." He shuddered. "Speaking strictly from a medical viewpoint, it seems to be an ideal cunt."
"I thought so," said Gelding. "And if we inspect it further, I'm sure that we would find it merely to be an energy reconstruction, rather than protoplasm. I'm sure that nothing we could do would make a dent in it."
Hott Cock looked discouraged. "You mean we're going to have to lay here and take it?"
Hormone Humnuts had been standing at the edge of the group. She moved over and stood beside him. "It really isn't so bad, Mr. Cock. We're warm, we're dry, we're certainly not uncomfortable." She shifted her stocky, capable body from foot to foot, and impulsively moved her arm out to stroke his hair. "Why don't you just relax?"
Hott moved closer to her. "But it's so strange," he complained. "I'm the type who needs freedom, the open road. I wish I had my BAM with me." His face had a mournful expression.
Hormone Humnuts grasped his arm urgently. "Why don't we go over here and talk about it?" Unerringly, she led him to the stage, where he allowed her to seat his big bulk. He crossed his legs, and watched her every move. She continued to stroke his long hair while he looked up, a soothed expression on his face. Her other hand moved down to his loose shirt and she placed her hand on the whorls of hair in there, gently rubbing the massive, muscular body, the fingers soothing his nipples. The tension seemed to leave his frame and concentrate on his crotch, where the skin tight pants began to bulge.
"See?" she said, almost whispering in his ear, "Look at what's happening. We're chasing away the Big Bad Wolf from the great big body and the Big Bad Wolf is trying to find a way to get out." Her hand moved further down and began to unzip the fly, now tight because of the immense pressure underneath it. Hott's face began to assume an expression of intense concentration, as if he were trying to help in pushing out the Big Bad Wolf.
Almost without stopping in her ministrations, she managed to unzip her simple gingham dress and shucked herself out and with a smooth movement, drop her slip so that she stood there in her surprisingly gaudy bra and panties, her curved well-formed body hovering over Hott, who smiled dreamily. She dropped to her knees beside him. She crooned. "The great big boy needs lots and lots of strength to chase away the Big Bad Wolf, and the great big boy needs his nourishment."
Her hand took his, almost immobilized with surprise, and guided it to her solid back, singing to him, "Great big boy want to take off bra so that great big boy can see num-nums," and when his fumbling childish fingers failed to unclasp the snap, swiftly opened it for him, so her bra fell off and her breasts sprang out, long concealed behind the decorous garments of the politician's wife, well-formed, well taken care of, rose-tipped and bursting out, and again she crooned as she threw the bra aside, "Great big boy want to taste the num-nums so great big boy will get well," and Hott, eyes glazed, living in a dream of the past, grasped at them with his hands and his mouth, while Hormone continued to tease the Big Bad Wolf who was begging to be let out of his cage as Hott continued to try to draw nourishment out of the well-formed num-nums that had been set out before him.
Hormone's three little pigs were evidently giving her warning signals for she began to twitch, her belly moving, rubbing against Hott at every opportunity, enfolding him in her well-formed and powerful arms, forcing his head into the cleft between her twin peaks, her solidly muscular buttocks moving now, unclasping and clasping under her pink panties until she impatiently ripped them off, alternately raising one broad thigh at a time, until her straw house was exposed. She soothed Hott, "Wouldn't the Big Bad Wolf like to try to huff and puff and blow it down?" He just looked up dazed, a child-like smile on his face, so she gently drew him to a standing position, made difficult by the configuration inside of the skin-tight pants where the Big Bad Wolf was waiting to do its work. She reached inside of his shirt and gently drew it off, throwing it on the growing pile of clothing, and then her hands continued down his back inside of the trousers and kept on going, taking the trousers with them until they lay rolled around his ankles and he proudly smiled as he showed off the jack-in-the-box that suddenly exploded and displayed itself to the world, waving there proudly. Hormone looked at it for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then gently lowered herself to the surface of the stage, sitting down, her arms held out, saying, "Great big boy wants to blow the house down with the Big Bad Wolf," and Hott swayed there for a moment, then half fell into her arms, and she immediately fell onto her back, her large body holding his under the armpits, her legs spread apart, and she asked, "Put the Big Bad Wolf in the hole so he can try to huff and puff and blow the house down," but Hott seemed beyond that point in his ecstasy so she reached down and with a quick flick of her thumb and finger showed the Big Bad Wolf the way through the woods and she lay back, head arched back, as Hott instinctively began looking for a passage out, his huge body pushing through the underbrush with frantic chopping strokes forcing Hormone to counteract with a grappling bear hug and to try to push her legs toward the treetops propelled by immense swings of her ass. Suddenly, after a few more massive strokes of his mighty chopper, Hott took on a stricken expression as the Big Bad Wolf was about to try his mighty final blast and blow the house down, and Hormone suddenly shouted, "Thar she blows!" and Hott increased his energy, pumping away, and then lay there.
Hormone gave him a pat on the back, which suddenly changed to a blow, as he lay inert on top of her, and gave him a dissatisfied glance. She asked, almost sharply, "Is the Big Bad Wolf out of wind?" and Hott managed to raise a bleary eye, and nod.
Hormone lay there for a moment, then began whispering in his ear, her face still tense, for it seemed that the Big Bad Wolf had failed to blow her house down, or perhaps the construction experts that had failed her so often in the past had built another one in place of it, for she tapped her heel impatiently and wriggled her toes. "Wouldn't the great big boy like to eat at Grandma's place now that he's found his way through the woods," and Hott half-looked up at the soft voice, nodding, and taking this as assent, she grasped his long hair and began to wriggle out from under his bulk, pushing him down as she snaked upward, allowing him a few moments of surcease at her num-nums, then allowing him to follow the full curve of her belly, letting him lick her navel, then forcing him further down, to the garden that sprouted so luxuriously where the little red snapping bean stuck out surrounded by red vegetation, and seeing this, Hott plunged his lips into it, thankful finally to be at Grandma's house, licking and smacking his lips at the delicious fare offered him, while Hormone retreated on her back, gently moaning, saying, "The great big boy is so good to Grandma and Grandma's going to give him a great big surprise when he eats at her house," and suddenly, the surprise came over her, for her churning thighs suddenly engulfed Hott's head, and her back arched as the garden began to grow even faster under Hott's insistent watering and her belly went into the little curlicues of shivering motion as her buttocks alternately pumped away, her eyes closed, tongue out, head drawn back, breasts thrust forward, and suddenly there was final massive movement of earth as the shovel penetrated to the treasure chest and Hormone gave a quick shriek, almost doubled herself up, and then lay there.
Hott raised his head with a beatific smile on his face, looked around, and then laid his head on her belly and closed his eyes. Hormone lay there satisfied, a relaxed smile on her features.
Homo Humnuts spoke up from the audience, his voice proud. "Hormone has always been very good with children and fairy tales and things like that, you know."
4
Shenta Vidus put her sinewy, tough motorcycle Momma's arm on Homo's sleeve. "I always thought that Hott Cock was really sort of a fairy tale."
"Yes, Ma'am," smiled Homo, "fairy tales are one of the things that made this country great. Why, I remember when I was a little boy at my mother's knee, my mother used to tell me all about my very own fairy tail that grew between my legs, and how I mustn't play with it, or it would go away completely. Why, when I got a little older and I felt those awful urges from the Bad Fairy and I felt it growing, I would think of the Good Fairy and after a while it would go away. That's how I managed to keep my fairy tail short and sweet instead of big and clumsy like all those other men, and my mind has been kept clear so I could devote my life to my country and my constituents, those dear, sweet creatures that keep voting me into office and showing me how clever and smart I am." He looked at her more closely, still naked from her ride on the Stable Cradle, her tough street body lithe and limber, her breasts only minor eruptions on her gamy little body, almost passing for a boy with her short hair.
Homo Humnuts stopped short, looked at her again, and seemingly at a loss for words, walked around her, inspecting her closely. "Where's yours?" he asked.
"My what?" She looked mystified.
"Your fairy tale. That doctor had his on the top of his head. Where do you keep yours?" Homo wore a puzzled frown on his face.
"I don't have one. I'm female. Didn't you notice your wife?"
"Certainly, I noticed my wife," Homo said indignantly. "There's nothing like a good woman to make your life complete, the sweet little wife behind the man of action, backing him up, helping to shoulder his burdens, plowing the fields, picking the corn. Didn't you notice her out there taking care of the little boy and telling him stories."
Shenta was unbelieving. "Is that what they were doing?"
"Of course, she's such a good soul that way," said Homo. "Why, when she was younger I used to come home after a hard day on the hustings and there she would be, as sweet as apple pie, giving some young fellow a hand. But that doesn't answer my question."
"Females don't have fairy tails," said Shenta. "You should ask your wife about it."
Homo bent over confidentially. "Young woman, I've learned better than to try to talk with a woman. To her, but not with her, and only if she can vote. I'll have to remember to remind her to get one. Why, it's a shame for the wife of a United States Senator to be walking around without one, when they are paid very well indeed for administering to the problems of this great nation, especially if a few vital contracts running up into the hundreds of millions are at stake and the forward looking businessmen of this country would like to make sure that these contracts are handled with the best interests of country at heart. Why, I'll send her to the best department store in Merryland, and hang the cost, she'll get a fairy tail."
"But women don't need one," said Shenta.
"Nonsense. It's one of those things that you can be deprived of and not know what you're missing until a good politician, who is alert and alive to the real needs of the country, comes along and points out what is really needed. Why, what would they do without one?" Homo paused a moment to get a breath, ready to answer his own question.
Shenta quickly interjected. "We can do all kinds of things. I dance, for example."
Homo beamed. "I was a dancer in my prime. It's good, healthful American exercise, especially if there are a lot of voters watching."
"I don't mean that kind of dance," said Shenta. She tossed her short hair and her wiry body proudly. "I do the Shenta Vidus dance."
"I'd like to see it, young lady, some time when we're not occupied with life or death matters like this threat from outer space that has suddenly come upon us. If they knew that they had a United States Senator, I'm sure that our missile sites would have pushed the red button, at the President's order of course, and we would now be incinerated into component atoms, having given our lives for our country. I am proud of having had a hand in developing those very systems that would enable them to pinpoint this place exactly!"
Shenta shuddered and the ripples set up the beginning of the dance movement in her fiery young body. She took his hand and led him to the stage, vacated by a pleased Hormone and a weary Hott Cock, his Big Bad Wolf finally subdued.
"Watch!" she commanded, and began the muscular movements in a vertical position, starting with her fingers, moving to wrists, from her toes to the ankles, the knees and the elbows, tiny jarring intricate bits of vibration that meshed together into a blur of sensuality, that spread into her thighs and shoulders, through her neck and breasts, whipping her tawny thin body into a multi-photograph montage of a dream-whipped sex act, until the fulcrum finally began to move to her center, and she reached out desperately for Homo, who stood there, unmoved.
"That's real nice," he said, "and I'd sure like to tell the folks at home all about it."
Shenta stopped abruptly, muscular tension holding her together, only the faintest shiver of her cunt betraying her need. "Don't you want to dance with me?" she asked, glancing sidewise at him.
"Oh, no!" said Homo, "I couldn't do that. Why, if Hormone saw me dancing with a naked woman, why my name would be pretty well mud at home, I can tell you that." He laughed at the very thought.
Shenta changed her tactics. "Don't you want to leave something for the Good Fairy, so that when she comes in the night, she'll leave something for me."
Homo looked interested. "You mean, it's something like the Tooth Fairy? It can be very profitable, you know. When I had my last bridge I left all my teeth under the pillow and you should have seen the haul I made. Why, there was a hundred-dollar bill under there, and she hadn't even bothered to take the teeth. Of course, for some reason, she wasn't the reliable type, probably one of those Old Country Tooth Fairies and she left the money under my wife's pillow but it certainly came in handy in my next campaign!"
"That's exactly the way it is," smiled Shenta, and still holding herself in check, moved closer to his stocky body and delicately chucked him under the chin. When he giggled, she used the opportunity to slip his coat off and began unbuttoning his vest.
Homo asked, "You mean it's necessary to remove all this clothing?"
"Of course," soothed Shenta. "How else are you going to be able to leave the magic potion for the Good Fairy?" With hands almost as swift as her dance, she darted around him, over him, under him, slipping things off, sliding them through, and finally Homo Humnuts stood there in his broad-chested majesty, smiling and waiting.
He was about to say something when Shenta put her fingers over his lips and stood directly in front of him, almost able to reach his height by standing on her tiptoes, and began the dance again at the point where she had left off, her body turning into a vibrating mass of compressed energy, a whirlwind of motion that blinded Homo. Out of that mass of movement an arm snaked out a hand that suddenly took Homo's little elf and began to move it toward the cave in the middle of that white tornado and Homo could do nothing except stand there, mouth open, as that vibrating hand took the one-eyed elf and magically made it grow bigger and bigger, bigger than Homo had ever seen it, until it grew and grew and suddenly, the hand pulled it into the middle of that cave in the moving muscles and the cave took the elf into its darkness, the expression on Homo's face growing more and more frantic as the blinded elf frantically tried to thrash around in that cave, each stroke only enmeshing it the more in delicious gobs of goodness from candyland, until it felt as if it must eat more or die, and suddenly, the figure of Shenta Vidus, going into the finale of her dance, began to writhe and jerk like a puppet and the elf suddenly released his magic potion into the cave, great pumping strokes that pushed the elf right back out, now wizened and small because the magic spell had left, and the whirling dervish that was Shenta slowly slowed down, and gracefully stopped. "Thank you," she said, tweaking Homo's chin. "The Good Fairy will be grateful."
Homo raised himself up, pleased, and preened. "She can count on me for regular contributions! I didn't know giving was so good until now! I feel like ten new men!"
5
Hormone Humnuts, who had been watching from the semicircle of the crowd, spoke rather bitterly, "I didn't know you cared, Homo."
Homo gathered up his clothes and dashed over to her, pulling them on as he went. "Dear, you mustn't misunderstand. We all have to do our part in these days of peril and stress, when everything we hold near and dear is in danger." He stopped and looked at his cock, still holding up, throbbing with power that he had never known it contained, patted it gently, and slipped on his trousers.
Another voice from the crowd announced, "I, for one, consider this a rather disreputable display of exhibitionism, and totally alien to true aesthetic values, for which I have fought all my life, as my battle for the Dong has proved. There seems to be no beginning, no end, and the middle reminds me outrageously of the modern theatre, where people stand around and spit at each other and take their clothes off. Where is the dramatic catharsis in all of this?" It was Norman Pitter-patter, his Dong growing redder by the moment, angrily rising and falling, as he expressed his artistic disapproval.
Gelding sighed wearily. "Try not to think of this as a dramatic experience, Norman, but more of a happening. One to which you weren't exactly invited, you know."
"There it is!" shouted Pitter-patter, Dong jerking rapidly in his characteristic angry mode. "Dong prejudice. Once we were the pride of American literature, and the next thing you know we'll be the subject of low-budget movies like The Dong In Outer Space. He began to weep.
Surprisingly, Palomine Gelding rose from her position beside Herman, and walked over to him. "I've always admired the Dong school," she said, "even though that dilettante lout of my husband may not appreciate your genius."
Impulsively he took her hand, his Dong giving a flip of appreciation. "Thank you. It's difficult to wait for posterity to come along and appreciate one. It's much better to have a little understanding here and now."
Palomine shook her ponytail nervously and stretched out her angular body. "Your Dong is impressive. I have a very good friend who has one very much like it, and I haven't been able to find a match. Could I look at it?" She looked guiltily back at Herman, who seemed contented to rest quietly among the strange goings-on.
"Certainly!" said Norman, profferring it, half turning so that she could grasp it in her tanned hands. "It's been a long time since anyone has even shown very much interest."
Palomine stroked it gently and firmly with her skilled hands, as if she were feeling a fine piece of horseflesh. "It seems a bit run-down and ragged. Does it get much use?"
"I'm afraid not," said Pitter-patter, almost shyly. "It's my complaint."
Palomine smiled at him, showing her well-formed teeth. "Why don't we go out here where there's more light?" and gaily taking him by the Dong, led him to the stage where she continued to soothe the poor, battered, and misunderstood execration that had once served Pitter-patter so well, and was now merely an appendage.
"Tell me," she asked tweaking it with her long fingernails, causing Pitter-patter to jump and hop around, "what is the Dong school?"
"I thought everybody knew what the Dong school was!" exclaimed Norman, astonished, and not a little breathless at the changes that were happening to his Dong. Instead of hanging dull and lifeless with the black hopelessness of his position, it was showing signs of life. He looked at it amazed. "The Dong school believes that everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end. The middle should be at the equidistant point between the beginning and the end."
"But what do you mean by the beginning?" asked Palomine, her strokes becoming longer and soothing, now grasping the Dong in both hands as if vigorously currying it. "Is this the beginning?" Her hands curled around the Dong where it sprouted from Pitter-patter's body, and gave a vigorous squeeze.
Norman jumped, his mouth a circle. "My old Dong hasn't felt like this since my first short story hit the critical arena. A Dong of His Dong. Or was it, Shake My Dong! Yes, that is the beginning." His body began to move from side to side as the Dong grew to alarming proportions.
"And then this must be the middle!" Palomine's hands moved up and grasped the sprouting branch which was growing under their very eyes, and massaged it soothingly, trying to rub away the aches and fears of Pitter-patter's defeats.
"Yes, my good lady, that is the middle!" shouted Pitter-patter triumphantly. "So few have understood the simple basic principles on which the Dong school is built. They insist on putting the middle in the concentric skewed apex of the helical parabola, while trying to form an infinite series sine wave instead of the ending."
Palomine herself was becoming more and more absorbed in her work, moving up through the middle toward the end, which suddenly grew and formed a definite and distinctive knob. Now her arms were in play, propelled by the tension in her wiry body, her ponytail switching back and forth in rhythm with her concentration. She was triumphant. "And this is the end!"
Norman groaned. "Yes, that's the end, the catharsis point, but it's been so long since anybody has even attempted to follow my work to its conclusion that I feel it's hopeless."
Palomine smiled, showing her teeth, her lips curled back. "But we have to try, don't we? Isn't that what the Dong school stands for, that we have to try to go from the beginning, through the middle, into the end, and to have the catharsis?"
"That's right! That's right!" shouted Pitter-patter in an ecstasy of appreciation as his Dong rose to new heights, waving to keep his balance, as Palomine grappled with it, her brown body twisting and fighting it. Suddenly, to show her worship of it and what it stood for, she kissed it directly on the end, her thin lips hot and dry as if she were attempting to extract more meaning from the huge symbol she held.
Norman twitched again, his cape flying off, and he lost his balance, falling on the cape, his Dong now stretched toward the ceiling of the monstrous cunt, laying there gasping. Palomine stood over him for a moment, her slightly bowed legs shadowing the monstrous growth that reached up toward her withers. She said, breathing hard, as if from a long canter, "I'm not going to let you get away without trying. Every one of us has to do that. I'm going to show you that the Dong is not obsolete."
Slowly, controlling herself, as if inserting herself into the saddle of an unbroken stallion, she bent her tanned body, the breasts now splotched with tips of pink and red, over the huge Dong and with a smooth movement, slipped herself onto it; slipping onto her knees, she dug the side of her heels into Pitter-patter's flank.
"This is also the beginning," she breathed hoarsely, "of a long ride that knows an ending." With the practiced, accomplished movements of the skilled horsewoman, she began to move up and down, not in a crude uncontrolled manner, but with that lithe sway that marks the expert, riding the Dong with little plays of her body, bringing herself down to the base, then pulling herself up so that the massive knob on the head was almost visible, edging down again with vibrations of that controlled organ that had already been well prepared by Herman, stopping in the middle to savor that sweet feeling of absolute power, while Pitter-patter closed his eyes, rolled his head to the side, and clutched his cape in an ecstasy of appreciation that had not been able to reach him while the world turned his back on him.
The ride began to increase the tempo, the trot to a canter to a gallop, the horsewoman drawing her head back and allowing her ponytail to follow the movements of her body, switching and thrashing, heels digging in ever farther into the recumbent man, the movements proceeding to a blur and a boil that extinguished the difference between the Dong and the receptacle until there seemed to be a final slight hesitation. Palomine set herself for the final jump of the steeplechase, I;. t thin body poised high and, suddenly slashing herself .own-ward, exploding into controlled fury, while Pitter patter lay there, the catharsis showing in the whites of his eyes as they rolled, his very body was stimulated to move upward.
Palomine stopped and lazily gave him a slap on the chest. "Good ride!" she said, her voice softer.
Pitter-patter raised his head triumphantly. "The Dong school still lives!"
6
"But the Dong doesn't," said Gotta Gettit. pointing and giggling. In truth, this seemed to be the case, for Norman's Dong was rapidly shrinking as Palomine dismounted, her racy angular body looking softer in the red light.
Rancid looked at her thoughtfully, with new respect in his eyes. She walked toward him, her nut-brown body proudly naked, preening herself. "Didn't think I had it in me, did you?" she half sneered.
Gelding shook his head. "I saw that it was in you, dear. And frankly, I was amazed. What I didn't see was where you put it all." Rancid had been aghast, wondering what would happen to the organ of his wife, the aristocratic, delicate, horsy type, as the Dong seemed to keep sliding in. There must have been a trick somewhere, some form of hypnotism, although he had always felt that Palomine had potential. Perhaps she had been developing it elsewhere? He had been neglecting her, he realized, and wondered if it would do any good to read some of the books of the Dong school, like After the Dong-What?
Gotta Gettit felt rather uncomfortable, overhearing this conversation between man and wife. It was a long time since she and J. Burnup had even talked to each other, except through the offices of Trudgen. She felt uncomfortable in other ways after watching the exhibitions put on by the other members of the company. It seemed like such a silly way to spend one's time, but it had also stirred vague memories of the long ago. She knew that J. Burnup was a very busy man, and did so much else besides his business, like giving up an afternoon a week to help the poor, and she had her own interests, like helping Shilly Brahmin worship the Omnipresent which was certainly satisfying in its own way but, after all, one should certainly have some claim on one's own husband, even if he were one of the world's rich and powerful.
Suiting action to words, she called, 'Trudgen!" Trudgen was standing stiffly in the middle of the semicircle, face expressionless, cocking his head when he heard the familiar command, and walking over to her. "Yes, Ma'am?" he asked.
"Trudgen," she said, "tell J. Burnup that I'd like to ask him a question." Trudgen nodded and walked over to the other end of the semicircle, where Gettit was talking with Shilly Brahmin. He asked the question, received the answer, and walked back.
"He says, 'Go ahead.' " Trudgen waited.
"Ask him," said Gotta, "if he would like to go out on that stage with me?"
Trudgen walked back to Gettit, waited a brief moment until there was a lull in the conversation, asked the question, and walked back.
Trudgen said, "He asked, 'To do what?'"
Gotta become a little impatient. "To do what everybody else is doing out there. To fuck!" Her face was a little imploring as he walked back.
The question was asked, and Gettit gave her a quick look across the way, and turned back to Brahmin. Trudgen came back. He shook his head. "He says that he is a bit tired from his afternoon with the poor, and besides, it would be a break with tradition."
Gotta felt disappointed. She had known that this would be the answer, but thought that J. Burnup might have relented for once, considering the special nature of the occasion. It wasn't often that representative members of the human race were called on for a command performance before an all-powerful creature from outer space, who had created an oversize vagina specially for them. The atmosphere was so conducive to it. She gave Trudgen a wistful look, and suddenly had an idea. It would be breaking the bonds, but after all, being trapped in a giant cunt was really a once in a lifetime occasion.
"Trudgen," she asked, "go over and inquire whether or not he would mind if you and I went out there."
Trudgen's face remained expressionless. "You mean you and me, Ma'am?"
"Yes. Just ask him." Trudgen again covered that distance in his solemn stride, and asked the question. There was a momentary look of surprise on Gettit's face, than a cursory nod.
Trudgen came back. "He sees no objection, Ma'am.
But I should warn you as to the reason he has no objection. He knows I'm queer."
"Queer?" asked Gotta, surprised. "I haven't noticed anything, Trudgen. Your lipstick has always been very unobtrusive."
"Thank you, Ma'am. But it was a reversal dictated by my position in life. Mr. Gettit doesn't feel that it suits a gentleman's gentleman to be anything but a gentleman's gentleman." Trudgen was impassive.
"That sounds like J. Burnup, narrow-minded as usual!" exploded Gotta. "Well, we'll just have to show him. Lead me to the stage!" she ordered.
Trudgen strode solemnly ahead, tall and impressive in his formal uniform. Gotta followed, feeling loose and free, especially since she had left her girdle in the car. The bulges, she felt, still weren't too bad.
Trudgen waited. "What now, Ma'am?"
Gotta said, "Help me off with my clothes."
"Of course. Ma'am," said Trudgen, and moved over to her, unzipped the back of her simple black thing; as she unshook herself from the arms and stepped out of it, he folded it neatly, looked around for someplace to lay it. and placed it on the ground in a compact square. He then reached down to the hem of her slip, took it in both hands, and began carefully lifting it. As he brought it to her waist, her head half-turned, and she whispered to him.
"Can't you be a little more impetuous. Trudgen?" she hoarsely asked.
"Impetuous, Ma'am?" Trudgen rolled the slip over the breasts. "Why. I am being extremely impetuous."
The slip slowly came off over her head, was folded into a neat, silky square, and laid on top of the other clothes. "I would have liked to have seen you when you were a gay mad blade!"
"I did okay. Ma'am," said Trudgen, half turning her so that he could unhook her bra, his capable fingers flicking the clasp off, and gently removing it down her arms. She now stood there in nothing but black pumps, her breasts popping out, surprisingly firm and tipped with nipples that had risen, her hips a little wide, but still solid and curved, her legs thickened but smooth.
"How do I look?" asked Gotta, half turning herself, carelessly letting her hand drape over her snatch.
"You look fine, Ma'am. Rather seductive, if I may say so." Trudgen stood there.
"Well, do something about it! Take your clothes off!" ordered Gotta.
Trudgen responded to the order with the same smooth, practiced movements with which he had undressed her, taking off his tailcoat, and in the absence of a hanger, folding it carefully, doing the same with the other articles, until he was down to his shoes and socks. "Yes, Ma'am."
"Well, do something," Gotta demanded impatiently, her hips beginning to sway. She hugged herself.
"I warned you, ma'am," said Trudgen, perhaps with a touch of regret in his voice.
"Nonsense!" Gotta was beginning to feel the need for this tall, well-built man in front of her, and for once, she didn't wish to be denied. Remembering how she had worshipped the Omnipresent with Shilly, she went over, dropped to her knees, her ass stuck out at an angle, and without preliminaries, took Trudgen's calling card in her mouth.
There was no response at first, and Trudgen continued to stand there, wooden-faced, until she suddenly felt a tiny growth of mold in his pantry, and the walking stick began to extend and to grow. As she worked on it, she was surprised that he was so big.
"You must have been quite a gay blade," she said, removing herself, not wishing to spoil the fun for herself. Trudgen said nothing, but his face seemed to break slightly. She stood up.
"How do you want it?" she asked.
"Ma'am?" said Trudgen.
"How? Backward, forward, upside down. You know." Gotta was a little impatient.
"Well, Ma'am," answered Trudgen, "I have a predilection for the missionary position."
Gotta looked intrigued. "Is that a new one?"
"That's the position preferred by the missionaries who went to the South Seas and taught the natives how to do it. That way, they received the full advantage of the sun on their backs, preventing colds and lumbago." Trudgen stood there, still rigid. "The woman lays down and spreads her legs."
"Like this?" asked Gotta, lowering herself to the ground and settling back on her firm haunches, bending her knees.
"Yes, Ma'am," said Trudgen. "Then I lay on top of you like this." He put his knees on the ground, leaned forward and put his hands on either side of her, and settled on top.
"But what about your calling card?" asked Gotta, breathing hard now, and waiting.
"I almost forgot," said Trudgen. "That is inserted into the receptacle." With a little help from her, this was done, and she gave a little groan.
"I thought you were queer," she breathed, her hips beginning to move, taking Trudgen up and down with it.
"I forgot about that in my impetuous behavior," he said, as he struggled to follow the gyrations under him, stroking one breast, then the other. Gotta wrapped her solid legs around him, her back arched, rolling from side to side.
"I'm coming!" she yelled, pumping frantically, so starved that she couldn't hold on any longer, her head back, tendons straining in her neck. And she let go, her pumping hips tailing off into sympathetic vibrations.
Trudgen felt himself go at the same time, his polished ferrule suddenly giving way, but he was never one to forget his training, for at the final moment, as he spurted into that body, he managed to say, "Announcing Gotta Gettit and Trudgen, who came!"
7
Shilly Brahmin was involved in an interesting conversation with J. Burnup Gettit, and the two hardly noticed the byplay on the stage. Whatever was going on couldn't be very interesting to Gettit, since it concerned his wife and his servant, who were fixed figures in his world.
There was a casual comment from someone in the audience, almost sneering. "Look, they're doing it in the missionary position!" It was obviously intended to convey contempt at the banality of it all.
J. Burnup used this as a gambit. "See how little the Upstairs means to the people Downstairs," he commented to Brahmin, who had glanced in the direction of the stage.
"Exactly the opposite," said Brahmin. "It means that the whole background of our society is imbued with the basic concept of the Upstairs, and that the missionary position is a basic frame of reference from which all other positions are defined."
"Nonsense!" said Gettit vehemently. "The business of business is to do business, and any other interpretation of our times suffers from shortsightedness."
Brahmin peered toward the stage where Gettit's wife and Trudgen were just finishing up. "Shortsightedness, of course, is a disadvantage in our time. Many is the time when we should be looking Upstairs and we're staring Downstairs, or should be looking Downstairs when we're looking Upstairs. That's a particularly pithy point, if you follow me, symbolizing as it does the reversal of roles in our society."
Gettit glared. "You men of the Upstairs tend to get too deep for me."
Brahmin glanced back as Trudgen and Gotta walked off. "Men of the Downstairs also can dive pretty deep. But it is important to keep your perspective. I was just reading a short passage in the Omnibus that illustrates my point perfectly." He took the book out from under his arm, opened it instantly to the passage he wanted, and read:
There was a young man from Purdue Who was only just learning to screw
But he hadn't the knack
And he got too far back. In the right church, but in the wrong pew.
"That's not very informative," complained Gettit. "Anyone knows the difference. I do a great deal of works with the poor, and despite the disadvantaged life they had, they know the difference very well. Just as well as they can spot the numbers on a hundred-dollar bill from thirty feet."
"Anyone can do that," said Brahmin. "The Upstairs has given us special vision for that purpose."
"The Omnipresent doesn't seem to me to be very practical," said Gettit. "Why doesn't it get us out of here? I must be losing millions by being trapped here."
"There is a purpose in all actions," said Brahmin. "Perhaps we can't see the purpose when the purpose appears apparently purposeless, but the Upstairs will find a meaning."
"What meaning could there be to this?" Gettit asked.
"Come with me," said Shilly Brahmin, "and I will try to show you." He led the way toward the now empty stage and stopped, the book in his hands. Gettit followed, puzzled.
"Put your hands in your pockets," ordered Brahmin.
Gettit did so.
"What do you feel?"
Gettit felt with his fingers. "Oh, the several thousand dollars of bills and spare change I carry around with me in case of emergency."
"Hmmm," said Brahmin, appearing more eager. "And what good does that money do you now?"
"It's rather comforting, I suppose."
"Would you like to receive even more comfort from that useless bunch of paper?" asked Brahmin.
"Well, I won't deny that it's useless," said Gettit. I can't call a taxi with it."
"Put it in my pocket," ordered Brahmin. Gettit, surprised, hesitated for a moment, then took the wad and placed it into Shilly's pocket. In return, Brahmin took his hand and placed it into Gettit's pocket.
"What's this?" asked Gettit, feeling trapped, as Shilly wouldn't allow the hand to move.
"Move your hand down further and I'll move my hand down further, and we'll see what surprises have been left for us by the Upstairs," said Shilly, putting his arm deep into Gettit's pocket. Gettit reluctantly did so.
"Feel the surprise?" asked Shilly, almost coyly, as his hand contacted the soft round bundle in the middle of Gettit's body. He took his fingers and gently began to draw interest into the money wad that lay there. Gettit was about to draw back, but felt the first faint stirrings of capital gains as it grew, and stood still, a bemused expression on his face.
"What does this symbolize?" he asked.
With his other hand, Shilly Brahmin again took the Omnibus from under his arm and flipped it open. "I like to go to the good book for my explanations," he said. But before he began to read, he gave Gettit another squeeze, and Gettit instinctively responded by reaching for Shilly Brahmin's chalice as he felt the flow of warmth through his vault. He felt Brahmin chuckle.
It was in the days when the wells had run dry and the holocausts had seeped through the land and lo, there was nothing to watch except daytime TV at night because the commercials had crept and crept into such length that last night's commercial had extended, lo, until five o'clock in the afternoon and Humper Growntight's News which had wrapped the events of the world at six now stretched through the witching hour of one because of the new products and the new devices and the new ideas that the art of television had made possible took so much time to advertise and elucidate so the public would go out and buy more products so research could devise more products to use more commercial time. And lo, more and more were turning to amusements such as "Find My Ruby Gooby" or as the world seemed in imminent state of collapse with the end of TV at hand, even to such as "Turnaroundbuster" with its attendant increased sales of scented soap that the Great Omnipresence-ever aware of the dangers-decided he had to smote and to find a new game for his followers to play. And lo, he came out with "Upyourpocket" which he introduced with great flourishes of lightning in the sky, which some thought to be thermonuclear doom and others thought to be the aurora borealis and others just stood around with their hands in each other's pockets, which they had always done anyway, but on the sly, and had a great deal more pleasure.
"You see," said Shilly, energetically moving his hand, using both the opposed thumb, and the rolling index finger techniques, rocking Gettit's time lock with nitroglycerine while Gettit in turn, stimulated by the searching dialogue with Brahmin, worked his fingers in Shilly's pocket, clumsily at first, then pretending he was counting money. Shilly's eyes began rolling toward the Upstairs, and he intensified his search for the combination of the safe; using the inverted finger over the lip technique, he clicked the combination once while Gettit counted up into the tens, clicked the combination again while Gettit counted into the hundreds. Shilly moved a little closer to the Upstairs and finally, he found the combination that opened the time lock and Gettit made his deposit while at the same moment Shilly gave his homage to the Upstairs, both bent over as they were Indian wrestling each other's cocks, and exhausted, they rose, taking their hands out of each other's pockets.
"I see your point," said Gettit. "It sure beats all that business of getting on your knees." He straightened his clothes. "There is one thing that puzzles me. Why did you take all my money?"
Shilly Brahmin rolled his eyes upward. "Haven't you ever heard of Jack Off?" he asked, amused, and headed toward the sideline, Omnibus in hand.
8
Amanda Punchingjelly, as usual, was left out. This was always the way, ever since she had been old enough to realize that her bulk made her look odd in the eyes her peers, and the realization had played back on her behavior. At parties, while everybody else was doing their thing, she had sat in the corner and stuffed herself, feeling lonely and sorry for herself, not even noticing when a gallant would come by and admire her bulky, solid body and ask her out on the floor so they could do their thing together. Later, when she had learned what her thing was all about, and that it wasn't merely another mouth at the other end of her body, she had disturbed the few boy friends who had managed to surmount the wall of flesh she put up around the world by being constantly hungry and asking for more peanut butter just at the time they were coming. Finding it a disturbing experience, they hardly ever came back. Although there was one young man who did, bringing more peanut butter with him, and they shared their passion for peanut butter for a time, but he eventually ran off with a bread heiress.
The most satisfying thing she had ever done was to start going to Dr. Fried, who took up an hour a day of her time, but just when she thought that a real relationship had begun, not just the words that they exchanged back and forth from his control tower, when he had come down and touched her, like something from Upstairs itself, he had to go out and make a complete ass of himself with that skinny little secretary and her foolish little dance. Or more properly, he had made a head of himself out there on that stage.
In fact, everyone else in this odd place had been out there doing their odd little things, while she had been left completely out in the cold. Of course, there was somebody else, that fellow who led them to this place, but he seemed like such a nervous, leader type that it was hopeless, and besides, he seemed to be avoiding the whole thing. Then, of course, there was the horse.
Amanda had heard that horsy type woman call him "Herman" but she had shown little interest in him after she had gone through some disreputable exhibition or other out there on the floor with that artistic type chap, who was a rather interesting exhibitionist with that Dong of his, but she doubted if she would have wanted him as a neighbor. The poor horse was standing around just as lonely as she was, looking at all the goings-on, trembling a little. She went over to him and put her arm around his neck to console him.
"Hello, Herman," she said softly.
Herman didn't reply, but it was evidently quite a shy horse, so she gently blew in his ear. His ears pricked up, and she blushed as she noticed something else pick up under that strong body of his. Strange things went through her mind.
And oddly enough, Herman seemed to feel the same, for he delicately stamped his forepaw, put his head down, and nuzzled her between her huge breasts. "Why, Herman!" she giggled, "I didn't know you cared."
That seemed to stimulate Herman to new endeavors, for he bared his teeth, caught the cloth of her dress between them, and yanked. There was a long, audible rip. Amanda fell apart, billowing in tent-like folds of material, and stood there in her pink majesty. She blushed, remembering that she hadn't really put anything on underneath since Dr. Fried's office and that long trip, but no one seemed to care. Least of all, Herman, for he rubbed against her the side of his head, his flanks, and as she giggled and began to breathe more deeply at the gentle touch, he lowered his head and placed his cold nose, burrowing through the layers of flesh, on her sugar cube.
She jumped. "Herman!" she chided him. "You shouldn't do that, you naughty boy, youuuuu!" and her flesh heaved as the nose gently scraped against her inner lips. Frantically, she caught his head, and he gently began to lead her to the stage.
"This is silly, Herman, you mad, foolish thing, you!" and giggled again, but Herman paid no heed to her, leading her on, taking a little hop and waiting. He stood there, head still nuzzling her, puzzled.
"What's wrong, Herman?" she whispered, and the horse immediately pressed against her, almost pushing her down. "But I don't see how that can be done, Herman." Herman was insistent, giving her a little nudge here, a push there, and once, when she seemed to step too far out of line, a little tap with his hoof--not enough to injure her but causing her to emit a little "Oof" which seemed to excite Herman unbearably. As Amanda saw the result of that excitement issue from underneath his rear haunches she began to shiver violently, partly in fear and partly in the delicious foreknowledge of what was to come.
"Herman, Herman!" she cried. "How?"
It was a difficult problem. The physiology of the stallion is suited to rutting in a semi-upright posture, entering the mare from the rear and pushing it in, wild and free. Amanda's problem was further complicated by her bulk and weight, and she so wanted to help the poor horse, who must have been stimulated out of his withers by all the goings-on.
Amanda tried to mentally arrange herself on the floor. Should she get on her hands and knees? From what she remembered of horse coupling, that would place an immense weight on her, besides being of doubtful help to Herman. Upside down. A possibility, but how?
Herman was prancing around, obviously eager.
She began to wonder. This obviously wasn't the first time. And the answer hit her. It was that horsy, rich woman. She had been giving Herman a little! Probably using some imagine contraption that her money could buy, and now poor Herman was all frustrated, while she laughed and chatted, leaving him out in the cold.
Her heart always went out toward others who, like herself, had missed out on the good things of life. She gritted her teeth. "Don't worry, Herman, we'll find a way, we'll show those plutocrats that the two of us can get together, and that they can't keep us apart!"
Herman heard her voice and whinnied slightly, obviously so excited that he could no longer delay. He gave a sharp push with his body against her bulk, and Amanda felt herself toppling willingly to the floor, where she lay, spread-eagled for a moment, Herman hovering on top of her. The horse moved so that his hooves were on either side of her, his haunches, with his long bit at the ready, directly on top of her. His hind legs began to slowly buckle, and Amanda realized what a tremendous discipline this must be for him, for this was a totally unnatural position.
She had to help all she could. Rolling herself into a tight ball, she raised her ass as high as she could, stretching herself up by her legs, spreading them apart, until she could feel the crack in her center unfolding and visible. Herman felt it, and continued to lower himself until the tip of that monstrous whip touched those outer lips, and Amanda, with a glad little cry, gave one further shove and Herman was in.
Despite the incredible physical problem for the horse, pain was quickly forgotten as he began to slide that immense rod back and forth in the distances of Amanda's cunt, pushing further each time, as Amanda used up her allowance of calories in heat and with every ounce of strength she had, pushed back, her mouth now wide open in an O, but with absolutely no need of anything to cram into it, being filled at the other end with bliss.
Amanda did have one problem. She was used to free association while lying on her back, and as soon as her back touched the floor, she began, in the routine, automatic voice, her associations triggered by her recent contacts with animals. "Once I had an Uncle Ben who was real good to us he gave us a big black dog and I used to like to watch Mommy and the dog on the bed in the morning and the dog would wrap his paws around Mommy and they would play together and the dog would lick Mommy on the legs cleaning her where Uncle Ben had just given her some soup and Mommy would laugh and giggle and then take the big black dog in her arms and say, You Devil, and Uncle Ben would walk around the room with his leash so stiff and straight watching Mommy give a little exercise to the dog and one day Uncle Ben caught me watching and he sneaked up on me the dirty old man and asked me what T was doing and I said I was eating some cookies so he said he would show me a trick and he had me take my panties off and he said he would put a cookie up my pantry and then he called the dog Run Spot Run and suddenly the dog was eating the cookie in my pantry and it felt real good so T kept putting more cookies in my pantry and the dog kept going back to the pantry and I felt warmer and warmer up there and then Uncle Ben said he had a roll to put in the stove in back of the pantry and he was going to put it up there but Mommy saw him and yelled at him and said that if there were going to be any rolls it was going to be a roll in the hay and I thought that was awful funny because we didn't even live on a farm so I just had to watch and play eat the cookie with Spot while they rolled in the hay but it wasn't even hay it was the sheets and they must have been pretending."
During this time, Herman's motions had become deeper and deeper, his actions more and more directed toward the final goal that was evident in the set of his haunches and Amanda's movements had become more active, her body soaked with sweat, as she strained upward toward that flickering organ, plunging deep into her rolling flesh, until there was a moment when Herman whinnied long and loud, his body sunk deep into her, and she hung suspended from him for a moment, her legs reaching toward him, heels trying to catch into his sweat-covered sides. Then he let go, pumping, and the mass of his discharge pushed her off, threw her back onto the floor, and she lay there, dazed for a moment, while Herman stiffly climbed back to his four legs and stood there, quietly, his breathing a pcaen to his satisfaction.
Amanda stared up at him. "I knew if I blew in your ear, you'd do anything for me!" she said, contented.
EIGHT
F. Rancid Gelding had tried to make himself inconspicuous and had evidently succeeded. Only once had he seen anyone look at him in the back of the crowd, and that was only that fat babe that Sickman had brought along, and then she had been distracted by the horse. He wondered what the Ass-Start thought of all of this, because as far as an orgy was concerned, it had turned out to be somewhat of an insipid performance, without that flow or rhythm that Rancid thought belonged in a true circus. But that was neither here nor there, because he was the only one left, and he was damned if he was going to stand out there and pull himself off. Besides, he hadn't brought his baseball glove along because he certainly didn't think this was going to be one of those occasions. All he had wanted to do was the relatively simple act of running away from an unbearable environment from which he was alienated, and all these complications arose. In the books he read, he thought wistfully, it was actually accomplished and some resolution followed, but there seemed to be nothing at the end of this particular road but a big cunt.
Rancid looked around again, spurred by this line of thought. The lips, as far as he could tell, remained tightly sealed, and from this vantage point he doubted if it would be possible to get them open by any means known to man. Above them, in the eerie light, the clitoris and the glans glowed. There must be some possibilities there for mischief, knowing the reputation of the clitoris. He set the possibility aside for later inspection.
Toward the end, past the now quiescent stage, past the semicircle of onlookers, there was the passage he had noticed before. Gelding looked at it with narrowed eyes, and tried to remember his basic physiology. Obviously, this was only a symbolic construct, but that should be the uterus.
Trying not to attract attention, he sidled around the group, staying next to the wall, until he was at the bottom of the passage. It narrowed considerably, and he was forced to descend to his hands and knees and half crawl. It took a steep upward pitch and, although Rancid had to support himself by putting his arms against both walls, he found plenty of footholds.
He thought he saw something on the wall above him, where it seemed to widen. As he took another step, it came into view-a pearl-like object that seemed to hang there and pulsate. Rancid stopped and looked at it, blinked at its intensity, and decided to start upward again to take a closer look.
NOT YET.
"Not yet?" asked Gelding curiously, somewhat used to the thought resonating inside of his head. NOT UNTIL THE CYCLE IS COMPLETED. "What cycle?" asked Rancid.
YOU HAVE REFUSED TO ENTER INTO PARTICIPATION WITH YOUR FELLOWS.
"You can't say that," complained Rancid. "I'm all tired out from participating with my fellows. That's why I came up here."
WE HAD TO USE THAT AS A MOTIVATION. IT SHOULD BE APPARENT TO YOU THAT YOU
AND THE OTHERS WERE DRAWN UP HERE FOR A PURPOSE.
"I thought so!" said Gelding. "We certainly didn't come all this way to screw each other."
BUT YOU DID. ONCE YOU GO THROUGH WITH YOUR END OF THE BARGAIN, WE CAN BEGIN.
"Begin?" Rancid was curious now, tensed in the passage, watching the globular object as it pulsated.
BEGIN TO REPRODUCE, DIMWIT. YOU THINK WE CAME HALFWAY ACROSS THE UNIVERSE TO WATCH A MINOR HUMANOID RACE BLOW ITS NUTS? IT TAKES A GREAT DEAL OF ENERGY TO MAINTAIN THIS ENCLAVE, AS WELL AS KEEPING A CONSTANT WATCH FOR THE UPSTARTS, WHO WOULD LIKE TO TAKE YOU OVER AS MUCH AS WE WOULD.
"Take us over?" asked Rancid.
BECOME A PART OF US. TAKE A TRIP. BLOW YOUR MIND TO THE FAR CORNERS OF THE GALAXY. BE ONE WITH THE UNIVERSE. BECOME AN ASS-START AND CONQUER TIME AND SPACE. THERE'S NOTHING LIKE IT.
"I don't imagine there is," said Rancid. "But I still don't see how all this is to be accomplished."
THE SAME WAY BEGINNING A NEW LIFE IS ACCOMPLISHED IN YOUR RACE.
Rancid suddenly knew. Knew what the white object above him was, pulsating with that unearthly light.
It was the egg. On the walls of the uterus waiting to be fertilized, waiting to start its cycle of birth and conquest.
THAT'S RIGHT.
The Ass-Start evidently could read his mind.
WE WOULD PREFER THAT ALL OF YOU TAKE PART IN YOUR SEXUAL GAMES BEFORE IT CAN BE ACCOMPLISHED. THAT IS WHY THERE IS SUCH A DIVERSITY. AT THE MOMENT THAT THIS IS DONE, IT IS DONE. THE
GESTATION PERIOD HAS BEEN SHORTENED TO FRACTIONAL MICRO-SECONDS OF YOUR TIME.
"You mean," asked Gelding, "that I'm the only thing standing between you and the dissolution of the race?"
DON'T PUT IT SO DRAMATICALLY. YOU TEND TO BE SO INDIVIDUALISTIC IN YOUR THOUGHT. YOU WILL FIND THS INDIVIDUALISM OF NO USE TO YOU AFTER THIS IS ACCOMPLISHED, AND YOU WILL BE AT PEACE WITH YOURSELF, AFTER YOU HAVE YOUR PIECE!
There seemed to be a note of significance in that thought.
"What if I refuse?" he asked. "What if I think the race should stay and do their own little thing?"
WE CAN WAIT. IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME. BESIDES, WHAT ELSE IS THERE TO DO HERE?
It had a point. Gelding began to sweat, despite the coolness of the atmosphere. In spite of his good intentions, he would betray the race. It had always occurred before. It would occur again. If not with the willowy, ninety-seven-pound Wee Kling, with his wife, Palomine, or maybe even with that older, motherly type, Hormone, or that wiry Shenta Vidus, or that interesting-looking Gotta Gettit, or with that huge one, Amanda. He began to feel the heat between his loins, and suddenly wondered what it would be like with a man.
Then he suddenly realized that in his mind there were names that he hadn't heard before, that hadn't been in his repertory, and he knew who was putting them there.
It was only in the fractional moment that his loins became hot that he felt the presence leave him, driven away by the intensity of his sudden lust.
But he was now calm and cool, and felt very depressed. What power on earth could stop it? Would he be rushing up here in a short while to merge with that white egg above him, to suddenly throw the human race into a total group?
WE HAVE TIME.
It was repeating itself. Gelding suddenly felt himself scrambling down, emerging out of the passage into the huge cunt, and running toward the others.
He held up his hands. "Wait!" he shouted. "Wait!"
NINE
The tight little semicircle of faces all turned toward him, with varying expressions on their faces.
"Wait for what?" asked Amanda Punchingjelly, peacefully leaning against Herman, her thick arm around his neck. "I've been waiting all my life, and now I've found it."
"In business as in life," said J .Burnup Gettit, "waiting may prove to be a poor decision, made in the heat of the moment. Perhaps the only wait we may really count on is wating for the Upstairs while we're Downstairs." He winked at Shilly Brahmin.
Shilly Brahmin shook his head in agreement. "The Upstairs would prefer that your wait Downstairs be as pleasant as possible. And while we're talking about all this waiting, why can't you do some of that work I'm waiting for while we're waiting?"
J. Burnup Gettit nodded. "We've exhausted some other possibilities," he said, winking at Shilly, "and I would like to know what you think about my idea."
Gelding was impatient. "I'm not talking about that kind of waiting. I'm talking about the possible future of the race."
Hott Cock overheard. "I kind of like racing, like when I get in my BAM and you get on your Horney Demented and we roar over hill and dale, field and farm, the wind blowing back our hair...."
"The only wind," interrupted Shenta Vidus, "in the damn BAM is your mouth and the air conditioning which, incidentally, gives me a stiff neck, not to mention the other unmentionable pains I get out of that Stable Cradle and doing that damn dance under conditions which a true artist would not tolerate for a moment." She stopped, triumphant.
Homo Humnuts smiled at her and placed a fatherly arm around her shoulders. "I am forced to agree with the young lady, for one of the things that made this country, made this country great, that is, made it the land where the pregnant school bus can be on the streets in absolute safety, is the ability of the artist to pursue his art unhindered, with puce and ferndom for all, and if this young lady wishes to dance again, she shall dance again, and nevermore shall the critics wile away the whores..."
"Hear! Hear!" enthusiastically shouted Norman Pitter-patter, waving his newly recovered Dong-limp but whole-around. "Hear one for the arts!"
Trudgen, a step out of earshot, kept his face impassive. "Hear one farts, sir?"
Gotta Gettit continued to hold Trudgen's arm. "Whatever you wish, Trudgen. It might be an original idea at that, and if we all take internal deodorants, something to think of for our next party."
Palomine Gelding noticed Norman Pitter-patter waving the Dong around and slunk over to his side sensuously, her angular body having softened under the impact of Pitter-patter's perceptive literary criticism. "I know what waiting is, for I've waited a long time out in that suburban house of mine, and now that I've discovered the Dong school, I'm going to let you put me in your next book, just the way I am." She gave the Dong an affectionate pat.
Hormone Humnuts, "While I'm waiting, I'd like to bake a batch of cookies." She patted Hott Cock on the head. "You'd like some cookies and milk, wouldn't you?"
Wee Kling tapped her heel impatiently, her Oriental body tense and impatient. "What is all this? We come up here to get away from it all, we're trapped in a big quim, and now we're supposed to wait. Rancid, this isn't like you at all!"
"Quim?" asked Rancid. "That's hardly your language either, dear. I told you not to read those books in my locked desk drawer. They'll give you the wrong idea." He held up his hands again. "Please, ladies and gentlemen, I've just come from another encounter with our alien creature from the far galaxies, and I've found out what it wants."
"I thought so!" said J. Burnup Gettit. "If you go long enough, everybody wants something. It's a law of business. If it isn't out of reason, I'll be willing to pay. And also tell it I think we can work out some mutually advantageous contracts, such as for rebuilding Asia, which it ought to be able to do without lifting a finger."
"I don't think it has fingers, J.B., " said Gelding wearily.
"No fingers?" asked Sickman Fried. "How does it screw then? It must be an interesting creature; perhaps this big cunt is a great big wish fulfillment in the head?"
Gelding tried to be patient. "It seems to be a creature of pure energy, and it wants to do the one thing that seems to come naturally to all beings that have sentient life." He paused dramatically, to let the point sink in. "It wants to make everybody just like itself."
Shilly Brahmin asked curiously, "You mean we're all going to become one great big cunt?"
Herman whinnied loudly, startling everybody.
Amanda Punchingjelly said, "Poor Herman doesn't want to become like you humans."
Otherwise, there was silence.
Rancid almost screamed, "Well, let's have it for the human race. We're the final bulwark against Earth being dominated by an alien race, that will make us one great big ant-hive, each one identical to the other."
Palomine Gelding said, "Living in the suburbs, I thought that we had already reached that step in evolution."
"Is it something like Communism?" asked Homo Humnuts. "If there's one thing that I've studied up on, one thing that threatens our way of life, one thing that threatens the very fabric of our being, it's Communism, that horrendous alien ideology that would introduce its insidious poison into our very water!"
"That's fluoridation," reminded Hormone.
"I knew there was some connection!" shouted Homo triumphantly.
Gelding interrupted him. "Doesn't anyone care? Doesn't anyone care that in a very short while, as soon as human frailty succumbs to this diabolical trap and I fuck someone, an egg will be fertilized and the human race will become one."
"That sounds exciting," said Wee Kling. "I haven't had anything like that happen to me since I started taking the pill."
Hott Cock was angry. "If you're so smart, what are you going to do about it? You're willing to shoot your mouth off, so put up or shut up!" He looked around triumphantly. Hormone patted him on the head.
Rancid sighed. "I do have a plan. It'll take our utmost cooperation to accomplish it."
Sickman Fried said, "You can count on one vote from Science for utmost cooperation! After all, who has more to gain from saving the human race from this vile beast than us doctors, who would probably lose our patients."
"True," said J. Burnup Gettit. "I think we should try to deal with known quantities. What's your plan?"
Gelding held up his hands again. "Before I can tell you, we have to be in a state of sexual excitement."
"In actual citation?" exclaimed Homo Humnuts. "I don't know about that."
Gelding went on. "It can perceive our thoughts quite clearly unless we are in a state of sensual tension. What I want you all to do is to stimulate yourselves, but be sure and keep a clear head while you're about it, so I can communicate with you."
Wee Kling asked, "Can't we help each other?"
Gelding looked at her. "I suppose so, if you do it in moderation. But it might be dangerous if carried to excess. We'll have to be careful."
As if to punctuate his words with action, Gelding quickly unzipped his fly and began to play with his cock. Not being in the mood for any imagine variations, he used the simple thumb and forefinger technique. He was gratified to notice that despite his anxiety and tension, that old feeling was still there and that eternal miracle of growth occurred under the ministrations of his hand. When it seemed that his blood pressure was high enough to be safe from the prying mind of the Ass-Start, he looked up.
Norman Pitter-patter had teamed up with Palomine Gelding again, and Rancid had a brief flicker of jealousy as she stroked his Dong, gently crooning to it, almost as she used to do with Herman-before she discovered the literary world. One brown hand was tightly inside of her clothes, and he could almost see the finger gently rubbing over the clitoris. Pitter-patter had a lost expression on his face as the stroking rose the Dong to new heights.
Hott Cock was being surrounded by Hormone Humnuts, who had loosened her bra and was running her num-nums through his long hair, while reaching down at the same time and kneading the roll that had mysteriously grown on his confectionary counter. He looked up with a vacuous expression on his face, glorying in the patch of vegetation that he had found growing in the middle of Hormone's ample body, and as he gently ran his fingers through it, worshipping nature, a little pink worm began to throb and peep out of its hole and Hormone bent down even further so that Hott could be enveloped in the bakery-like warmth of her num-nums. Out of the corner of his eye Hott could watch Shenta Vidus, who in a sudden fit of pique, had gone into her dance, and he suddenly felt his roll rise even further, the little raisin at the end beginning to expand and bake as she went into the little quivering arches of her toes that would lead to the ankles and lock the knees into that galloping rhythm with the wrists and elbows, until finally the belly would turn into a concentric moving helix centered on the navel.
Homo Humnuts watched the Shenta Vidus dance with interest, wondering if the Good Fairy would reach out and touch his wand and make it big. He said, "By all that's wholesome and recreational in life, a young girl dancing is one of the sights that makes me thrill with joy, sends shivers of apple sauce up my old dipper, reminds me of those days when I was young and gay and full of fire, dancing from voter to voter, hoping for that magic touch that would propel me up the staircase of my ambition." He waited, glum that his request was not being granted.
Evidently it was held up in the fiery vibrations of Shenta Vidus's body, so quick were the pulsations that sound waves themselves were held up for a moment in that blurred cochlea, until they finally penetrated the ear. Then a vibrating hand moved out of the sensuous body and put a hand where Homo Humnuts had already prepared the way by unzipping his trousers and a blissful expression appeared on his face as his all-day sucker was made a part of that vortex and suddenly grew to all-week size, threatening to burst.
Gotta Gettit had been looking at Dr. Sickman Fried for some time, and especially at the top of his head. She went over to him, sidling with her new-found ability to do something besides being a rich man's wife, laying her hands gently on the smooth surface of his hand and fondling it. "I've always had a great respect for people who have a lot in their head," she said. "It makes me feel so small and unaccomplished."
Fried looked at her with interest realizing that she was the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the world, and perhaps-there was always that perhaps-a future patient, although he would have to wean her from one religion to his, but that was a minor matter, to be accomplished in two or three years of daily sessions, and then they could go on from there. He felt the stirrings of that interest on the top of his head as she continued to stroke it, watching with fascination as the growth concealed there started to rise.
"Nonsense!" said Sickman Fired, taking a supportive stance, which was difficult since he had to bend over to allow Gotta to continue stroking the fast growing conceptualization issuing from the top of his head. "Everyone has areas of growth that they can participate in and enjoy, whatever their abilities. Why, that's the first rule of a good therapist. I'll show you!"
He took the front of her simple little black thing, which he knew, by assiduous perusal of the fashion magazines, to be an O. Vari original worth at least five thou, carefully rolled it up to her waist, followed it with the slip, and looked directly at the simple little black thing that nestled at the melding of her long, aristocratic legs with the jewel-like pink slit in the middle; he reached inside for the ruby that he spotted in the show window. One hand holding up her dress with medical precision, he allowed the other hand to reach toward the top of the slit and unerringly placed his hand on the setting of the jewel and began to polish it with his finger.
"Oooh," whispered Gotta, "I see where you get your reputation." Her body arched over as the facets of the ruby were carefully analyzed, and the action of her fingers on Sickman's head cock increased, causing it to bloom into rigid prominence.
J. Burnup Gettit walked over to Trudgen, who continued to stand there impassively, watching the procedure alertly, looking, as usual, for signs of good form and breeding. "Trudgen," he ordered, "it looks as if we'll have to get in on the action."
"Yes, sir," said Trudgen, quietly reaching over to Gettit's trousers and unzipping them, placing his hand in. Amanda Punchingjelly had waddled over by that time, quite interested in the interplay of the rich and their servants.
She said , 'T remember when my Mommy used to do that to Uncle Donald because Uncle Donald was the spoiled type who had always had somebody tie his shoes and Mommy practically had to do everything for him and I even saw her put her mouth down to the zipper because it was hard to pull down and Uncle Norman as a reward let her take his lollipop in her mouth like this."
And instead of continuing on with her free association, she bent over to Trudgen and went through the same motions, and with a delighted expression on her face took the profferred joy-stick and began to work on it. Trudgen's face showed no expression, as a good servant, but J. Burnup, seeing the vast expanse of ass directly by his hand, began to fondle the globes offered to him and was delighted by the response he received from Amanda's body.
"Good work, Trudgen," he said delightedly, plunging his hand further into that delightful mass of rosy flesh.
Shilly Brahmin wandered over to Herman. "I guess that leaves you and us, while the rest frolic and gambol," he said, comforting the horse, who seemed to have been left out of it. He took the book out from under his arm. "Would you like a reading from the Omnibus?"
The horse nodded his head.
Verily, it was in the long days of the war between the Turnaroundbusters and the Rollmeoverintheclovers and the battle was being lost for not being won, until the King ordered his army to make camp on the high ground overlooking the enemy, and found out from his aide-de-camp that he was outnumbered twenty to one, but before he could sound a rousing call to retreat over the roaring ravine, the camp was spotted and the Turnaround busters could be seen massing for an attack. "What shall we do?" cried the King, knowing that his kingdom would go under.
However, a general noticed that all the horses were grazing on the long hill separating them from the enemy and he just nodded wisely, saying, "We have met the enemy and they are ours."
However, it seemed as if the enemy could hardly believe it, for row upon row upon row they advanced up that hill, while the King's horses still grazed on the hill, and the King's men waited, and then the horses were drawn back, and the enemy advanced even further, seeming as if their balls would mow down the men of the King, and suddenly, they began slipping and sliding backwards down the hill, and the general cried, "Open Fire!" and they were obliterated.
The King was amazed. "How was that done, General? By what necromancy was the enemy disposed of?"
The General bowed modestly. "Horseshit, your majesty!"
And the King promptly lopped off his head. And nevermore in the Land of Rollmeoverintheclover did a general insult a king.
Herman let out a long whinny, and along with it, spurred by the thoughts of those horses grazing on the hillside, of dappled mares in the sunshine, his sword slowly rose to attention.
Shilly Brahmin nodded with satisfaction and gently closed the Omnibus, placing it under his arm. "I thought that would get a rise out of you," he said. He looked around at the various stages of sexual manipulation being carried on, and sighed. "I imagine that it's about time I participated." Carefully moving the Omnibus from under the right arm to the left armpit, he reached down and, looking upward, began to manipulate the pedals of his organ. "Almighty Omnipresence," he said, in his rich, resonant voice, "grant me the gift of being upstanding, and help us with our tasks in the Downstairs." The Omnipresent evidently heard, for his votary bloomed into a worshipful stance.
Gelding raised both his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "and you too, Herman," nodding at the horse, "I wish to thank you for cooperating in attempting to save the human race." He looked down and was horrified to notice that his part in the race to save humanity was in danger of drooping. His right hand clipped down and made things right.
Keeping up a steady stroke, he continued to talk. Now that we're safely ou of the range of the Ass-Start; I want to explain my plan. It's a long shot, but humanity has to take a chance!"
There were nods of approval and a few vacuous looks from the audience. Rancid pleaded, "Please pay attention to me, and try not to concentrate on your jollies at the moment. We have to keep ourselves going for one big push." The faces seemed to concentrate on him
"Number one problem is the fertilization business. By some nefarious means, once we all have come, the egg up there in the uterus will cause the human race to meld together." He noticed an overly enthusiastic push on the part of two of the participants. "Please don't," he said mildly. "We're all depending on you." They subsided.
"My plan is to fertilize the egg, but not with our sexual energy as the Ass-Start would have it, but to use the micro-fission pile from the Raunchy Stabber!" There was a whirl of startled faces toward him.
Hott Cock said, "Won't that be dangerous?"
Hormone Humnuts said, "Don't be afraid, dear."
Gelding agreed. "It is extremely dangerous to remove a micro-fission pile from a Raunchy Stabber, even if you are a licensed mechanic. And none of us are. So we'll have to do the best we can. Once we do that, I will climb up in the uterus, place the micro-fission pile on the egg, and set it for internal implosion, which will create a small, twenty-megaton blast and discourage the Ass-Start from bothering the human race again!"
"Clever," said Sickman Fried. "You must have it in your head. A little less friction on the tip," he said in an aside to Gotta, who was quite enthusiastic in her newfound avocation.
Gelding nodded. "But that leads directly to Problem Number Two. A twenty-megaton blast, although I am sure it will be confined by the energy structure of the Great Cunt, will do some real damage to us if we are not able to escape."
"That sounds real dangerous!" exclaimed Hott Cock.
"Hush," soothed Hormone Humnuts. "We'll go together."
Even Shenta Vidus paused momentarily. Wee Kling had been watching her speculatively, fingering herself with delicate Oriental twin-petal technique, and immediately switched to the three-prong diddle, imported from Europe, as the gamy little body of Shenta hove into view.
Rancid tried to ignore the distractions. "Our only hope is to open those lips."
"How?" asked J. Burnup Gettit, surveying the massive, closed labia.
Rancid pointed up toward the misty ceiling, toward the dimly seen clitoris and its accompanying glans. "We'll have to get up there and force an orgasm."
"What's an orgasm?" asked Homo Humnuts.
"You'll see," promised Gelding. "My calculations come to the overwhelming conclusion that the Ass-Start had to build some human qualities into their energy construct. Such as stimulus-response. And if we stimulate the clitoris, timing it with the twenty-megaton blast in the uterus, it should force the lips open, and we should safely be boosted out with the shock wave before the radiation has a chance to harm us."
"How?" asked Trudgen, "do we get up there?"
It seemed to be an imminently practical question. In the dim arch of ceiling hung the clitoris. It seemed to take on an ominous quality. All the faces turned upward.
"The only solution," said Gelding, "is to form a human pyramid. It will take the utmost cooperation on everyone's part. But it will show the Ass-Start that we don't have to be in a beehive to work together. And at the same time, that pyramid will have to be formed while we are in a state of heat, so the creature will not be able to perceive our design."
"A tall order," said Norman Pitter-patter, "but my Dong will do all it can." It was well on the way, obviously.
"it is," admitted Gelding. "But we can do it if we try. We have Herman for a starter. It's not every day that we can begin with a horse. From that point on, it's everybody's game. And I'll try to give a few minutes after I set the micro-fission pile so that we can blow this place!"
There was a general air of somberness among the masturbating crowd, now chilled by the sudden task they had taken on themselves.
Each of them seemed to find their echo in Homo Humnuts' words. "Let's get to work and save the human race!"
TEN
J. Burnup Gettit looked impressed, his gaze a little vague under the steady urging of Trudgen. "That sounds like a clever idea, Gelding. Did you think of it yourself?"
Gelding was forced to shake his head. "Part of it of course I interpolated as the circumstances warranted, but there was something like it in a dirty book that I keep in my locked drawer. That was with a sex machine, but the basic idea is the same." He looked around at the group.
"I imagine we should begin planning," he continued, his eyes roving up to the ceiling. "Get Herman in place. Against that wall." He waved at a portion of the wall that seemed less steep, slightly away from the lips. He knew the difficult part would come when they reached the upward curving section and had to reach the center. He felt responsible for starting the action, but inside had deep feelings of queasiness. He would have to leave before the pyramid was completed to work on removing the micro-fission pile, and to bring it into place in the uterus. There would be no way of knowing whether or not the others had succeeded.
Shilly Brahmin perceived the problem just as quickly. He bent over to Herman's ear. "This is the time," he said, "when we'll have to find out what you're made of." Gently, he began to lead Herman over to the indicated spot against the wall, and stood him there, gently patting him, and Herman, as if he knew what was in store for him, spread his feet wide apart.
Gelding spotted the fat woman that Sickman Fried had brought with him, earnestly working on Trudgen who continued to have an impassive face but betrayed his emotion by patting her gently on the head. "She can be next. She has a great deal of weight and, on top of Herman, she'll make a good stable base."
Amanda Punchingjelly momentarily looked up, saw what was wanted of her, and brightened. "I had an uncle who was a baseball player and when he came over to visit Mommy he always brought along a bat and two balls and I would watch them out in the grass in the backyard while he would take out his bat and balls and then Mommy would show him her catcher's mitt and he would get to first base by using his sacrifice fly and then he would get to second on a steal and from there he would get to third by a hit and run and by that time Mommy had her catcher's mitt ready at home plate and he would hit a home run and I would watch while he belted it out of the park and one day, he said he would show me his bat and balls but I was scared because I only had a fielder's glove and maybe they wouldn't fit in but he said no he would put them in the dugout and he turned me over and tried to smack a triple but I guess the field was awfully dry that day because he was out before he got to first base..."
Gelding hastily interrupted her. "That's very interesting," he said, "but I don't think we have time for that now. Two of you men..." he reconsidered, looking at her bulk, " ... make that four of you men, lift her on top of Herman."
Eagerly, the men nearest her sprang to the task. Hott
Cock and Trudgen each grasped a leg. J. Burnup Gettit and Sickman Fried each grasped an arm, and with a mighty heave, lifted her bodily and carried her over to Herman. For a moment they stared at the height of the horse glumly, at her, and gathered themselves for one tremendous effort.
Amanda Punchingjelly lay sprawled on top of the horse, who stood there stolidly, four legs planted. The mass of flesh on top of him seemed to add to his excitement, for Gelding watched with approval as the huge horse cock gave a little twitch and spread even further.
Gelding nervously said, "Very good. Very good." He looked around, estimating weights carefully. "Trudgen," he ordered, "you're straight as a board and you look like you've got backbone. Climb up and stand on Herman and put your coat rack in her mouth so you can keep the spring in it."
Trudgen looked down and saw that a slight droop had occurred during his exertions; and while they were straightening out Amanda on Herman so that she sat straight, blithely went to the other side and sprang up. Balancing perfectly, he maneuvered himself so that his feet were planted squarely on the horse and he was facing the bulk.
His face didn't change expression. "The Lone Ranger is here and so is Tonto." The droop immediately disappeared as Amanda's Indian giver gathered it in and began to make a treaty.
Gelding had the next step worked out. "Hott," he ordered, "climb up on her shoulders."
Hott Cock looked up, was about to make a disagreeable expression, then caught sight of Hormone Humnuts giving him an encouraging look. He vaulted up on Herman, much as he would his beloved BAM, and stood on the tail end for a moment, then put one foot on the broad shoulder, lifted himself up, planted the other foot, and was standing on the broad's broad shoulders, waiting.
"Think of something exciting," warned Gelding. "You're losing altitude." Indeed, the traction of Hott
Cock's stabilizer had began to sag. Hormone, noting this, dropped her plain dress.
"Look," she cried. "Num-nums!" Immediately, Hott managed to put spring back into the torsion bar.
Gelding wiped his brow. He felt tight and tense, and wondered if it would be possible to hold out himself. His own cock was dragging, and he gave it a few pumps in order to give it more fuel.
"Homo," he asked, "do you think it would be possible for you to climb on Trudgen's shoulders?" As his eyes surveyed the distance, it seemed impossible that they could reach that long organ, so far up.
Homo stepped up proudly. "Whatever happens," he proclaimed, "we will have fought the good fight, we will have met the enemy on their own ground, and if it becomes necessary for me to jump a ten-story building, I will." He looked up. "Could I have some help, please?"
Several pairs of hands were at the ready, slowly lifting him, and Hott Cock managed to grasp a hand and put his powerful shoulders to work, pulling Homo up by sheer force. Trudgen had immediately understood the necessity of keeping Hott's stabilizer bar at a high level and was working on it, his face impassive as usual.
There was a moment of dangerous teetering, but Homo finally managed, by footwork that he had evidently learned in the halls of congress, to right himself, and the pyramid stood straight and true, going up to an imposing height.
Gelding turned swiftly to J. Burnup Gettit. "Do you think you can make it, J.B.? " he asked.
Gettit surveyed the situation coolly. "You may not believe this," he said, "but I keep myself in pretty good shape, especially in my weekly afternoons with the poor. A little swimming and a little jogging have never hurt anyone; that's always been my motto." And without waiting for an invitation, he began to mount Herman, rising easily to the rear, then placed a foot on Amanda Punchingjelly's head, causing a wince of pain from Trudgen as increased pressure was forced to her jaws, nimbly moved from there to Trudgen's shoulder, and as an experienced mountain climber, looked for every crack and crevice along the way, finally placing his hand on Homo Humnuts' cock which had just been inserted into Hott Cock's mouth; with a final leap he was on top of Hott's shoulders.
He swayed there for a moment, surprisingly composed in spite of the stress that must have been put on him, swaying slightly on top of the height as the string ot erotic couplings under him responded to cocksucking that was taking place, even Herman seeming to feel it, his back moving slightly to keep the precarious balance above him.
Gelding shut his eyes, hoping that it wouldn't tumble, and then opened them. "J.B.! " he shouted. "A little more pizazz!"
J.B. glanced down, and his eyes reflected his concern, as the strain of climbing had weakened his erection. With infinite care, he managed to get his thumb and forefinger ringing his assets and gently squeezed, pumping more capital into his balance. He said, "I'm not as young as I used to be."
"Homo, do something," yelled Gelding as Homo Humnuts stood there bemused, looking around.
"I have never been averse to doing something if it benefits my constituents, my country, and the human race," called back Homo, "but I don't understand. What am I supposed to do?"
Gelding thought frantically. "Put the little gnome that's staring you in the face, the one with one eye, in your magic purse."
He watched, trembling, as Homo looked at Gettit's gnome, ringed by a growth of gray hair, the body underneath wizened and gradually sinking. He smiled, Just watch my smoke. I thought you wanted me to do something dirty, like putting his dick in my mouth. Even for the human race, that's going a little far."
"Never," said Gelding, sighing with relief as Homo approached the troll, and with a quick little motion of his purse, brought it to life, and then found that it was politically expedient to continue the process, even if it meant not talking for a spell.
"Sickman," said Gelding, "you're next."
Gotta was still manipulating the top of the analyst's head, and looked at Rancid complainingly. Sickman looked up. "Whatever I can do with my head for my country, I will. Ask not what you can do for humanity, but what the top of the head can do." He sprang over Herman.
Gelding was concerned. "Do you think you can make it?" he asked, as Sickman clumsily mounted the rear of the horse, and then just as clumsily started climbing up the stacked couples, setting up a wave of oscillation.
He was almost up to J. Burnup Gettit now, and it seemed certain that he would fall. He clung there for a moment as the rest of the group seemed to be held only by their pumping cocks, and finally managed to step on Homo Humnuts' head. He put his other foot on the shoulder and stood there shakily, a triumphant smile on his face, his head still erect.
Gettit was about to automatically join with him the way the rest were joined, and then remembered. He gazed upward, somewhat in awe.
Gelding called up. "It does change things a bit," he said. "But there's nothing whatsoever to worry about." As he said it, he knew it was false confidence. He looked around wildly.
"Shilly," he called, "it's your turn to go Upstairs." He added, "It would help if you had a more direct mode of transportation."
"Don't worry," said Shilly Brahmin. "The Omnipresent is watching, and what will happen, will happen." He had been standing by Herman as if to comfort him; now he slowly turned, still carrying the Omnibus under his arm, and with a peculiarly efficient leap, clambered onto the horse, who seemed to give a laugh of excitement and a flick of the horse prick as the man who told him good stories added himself to the considerable weight he was carrying.
Shilly Brahmin took another step closer to the Upstairs as he put his foot on Amanda Punchingjelly's broad shoulders, moving her sufficiently so that Trudgen's mouth widened a fraction, but refused to change expression, continued on with the help of Trudgen to Hott Cock, who kept glancing downward out of the corner of his eye toward Hormone's num-nums, used Hott Cock's muscular shoulder as a stepping stone to Homo Humnuts.
He looked down, and seemed to dizzy. Then his eye rolled upwards toward the Upstairs. He stopped for a moment to steady himself, supported himself ever more carefully, one foot on Homo Humnuts' shoulder, the other on J. Burnup Gettit's arm, ready to make the final leap. Instead of immediately attempting the difficult step, he took the Omnibus from under his arm. He said, "If we look in the good book, we are sure to find something that makes our peril a bit more tolerable."
Gelding blanched. But before he could protest, Brahmin began to read:
Lo, and it was in the days when the King was courting the future Queen, having defeated the Turnaroundbusters decisively on the field of battle; thus he chose his future Queen from the ranks of the females in the kingdom, and they were in the mountains when he was seized with the overwhelming desire to make love to the maiden, and despite the warning signs 'Beware of Avalanches' put her down on a green slope where he proceeded to show the young maiden the prerogatives of being a King. After vigorously making love to her in the way prescribed in the King Manual, his prerogative was quite busy in a short time, when lo, a rock dislodged by the thunder of their groaning came down the mountain and hit the King on his ass, causing a mighty groan to issue from him and mighty paean of thanks from the maiden as she was rocked by the sudden weight. The King, despite the contumely of unfavorable fortune, finished his duties as prescribed in the King Manual, and then clutched his ass-which was bruised.
He immediately went to the King Doctor, who applied soothing unguents and aromatic salves to make it better. "You have but minor owies," said the King Doctor. "You are a very lucky King."
"That be not the half of it," said the King. "Ere it be two minutes earlier, my Kingly skull would have been shattered.'" And hearing this, the Kingdom rejoiced.
"Thus," said Shilly Brahmin, his resonant voice resounding through the great cunt, "we can give thanks for the small favors already rendered by the Upstairs."
The reading had left the group entranced, and there was only a minor swaying of the fast growing tree.
"Get the Upstairs uo there!" swore Gelding, feeling the beginning of an Exponential Headache, for which there was no known cure. Shilly obeyed, now surprisingly sorv after his refreshing contact with the Omnipresent, Omnibus still tucked under his arms, and somehow managed to find himself on J. Burnuo Gettit's shoulders, facing the uotrust force of Sickman Fried.
Gelding had pondered his next step. He made a decision. "Palomine," he said, "go up there and sit on Doctor Fried. You're the type who-likes to ride."
Palmine gave a curious look. "That's a strange way to talk to your wife."
"You come second after the human race," said Rancid.
"You mean I place?" But she obeyed, gave Herman a loving pat, causing him to bridle slightly, his bit becoming ever more noticeable, and with the experience born of long canters through the woods, clambered ud the towering structure of closely coupled humans as if they hardly existed.
Norman Pitter-patter made an objection. "Rancid," he said, "I'm the last man down here. Besides you, of course, and you're going to risk your life by transporting a micro-fission pile to the alien being." He looked hurt. "Isn't my Done good enough for you?"
Rancid turned to him. "You are the key to my plan, Norman. If my calculations are correct, we will have little or no clearance to reach the clit up there, even if we make it that high." The tower shuddered slightly as Palomine made the final bid for her perch. Gelding winced. "Your Dong is our only hope."
Pitter-patter looked up, obviously pleased. "You really mean that?"
"Yes," snapped Gelding decisively. "We'll have to place you on the very top so that you can reach the clit with your Doug. And then we except you to do the job! Science isn't everything, you know. You humanists have been telling us that for years. Now's your chance."
Norman's eyes almost filled with tears. "Thank you. Rancid, thank you. You can count on me to the utmost of my ability. When I came up here, I thought T was all washed up, out, my Dong a pale shadow of its former glory." It took a sudden leap, stretching out gloriously, having lost a touch of its shape since Palomine had stopped her patronage. "You're given me a second chance."
"You know better than that, Norman," said Gelding, forcing himself not to yield to sentiment. He swiftly turned back to the job at hand.
Gotta Gettit, left at loose ends since Sickman Fried had taken his stance on the human vine, was surprised to hear her name. "Mrs. Gettit," it said, "you're next."
She was watching, fascinated, as Palomine. having gained the shoulders of Shilly Brahmin, was now carefully lowering herself on the head of Sickman Fried, not being able to make the usual preliminary wiggles necessary in order to seat his instrument firmly on her solidly muscular labia, but in order to keep the tremors from spreading through the tower, forced to go straight down while Sickman kept his head perfectly still, despite the growing intensity of his projection, the thin tight line of pleasure wreathing his face with barely suppressed moans, Palomine's thin butt adjusting to the growing headcock under her with micrometer-like precision, coming down centimeter by centimeter, until it was fully seated and her brown body carefully balanced on the smooth dome, broken by her luxuriant growth of hair. Her wiry body was tense with the controlled sensuality that she felt, but she held it under perfect control, moving only slightly, realizing that she held the fate of the whole group in her ass if she were to allow herself to let go.
Gotta was jealous, and perhaps it was this emotion, more than any other, that made it possible for her to mount Herman, to begin the long climb upward, for she was the last to say that she was any kind of physical specimen, although she did admit that her body was still striking. It was difficult, and she was panting before she was halfway up, wishing that she had never decided to accompany Shilly up here. He gave her an encouraging nod as she climbed past him, up the dizzying heights, slipping once, feeling the tremor, the fear of toppling, recovering herself, and finally managing to stand herself on top of Shilly who to keep himself occupied-and faced with the unoccupied navel of Palomine-had put his mouth up to it and was busily tracing its whorls and complications. As soon as she was solid, Palomine Gelding's hands sneaked around to her ass and she felt the warmth of a tongue entering her crevice and gave a little start, then suddenly realized this was absolutely necessary. In a moment, she had learned to live with it, to enjoy the feel of Palomine's expert hands as they firmly grasped her buttocks, kneading the flesh gently, the fingers extending upwards into her mucous membranes, and she began to feel a part of the group, of the whole human race.
Gelding was gratified that it was going so well. There was one more step. "Shenta," he asked, "do you think you can refrain from dancing if I send you up there?"
Her whole gamy body gave a nod. "Sure," she said. "What do I do when I'm there?"
"Hold on tight, and when Norman goes up, hold on to him, do everything you can to keep it balanced, so his Dong can reach that clit and give it a working over!"
Shenta surveyed the longated structure, the coupling mass of humans now almost reaching to the ceiling of the great cunt. Gelding was sure that dancer's body would have no difficulty in making it to the top, and he had chosen her for this position because her sense of balance was well-formed, and she should be able to control it by slight movements of mass and ass.
She said, "I'll do my best."
There were four left on the ground when she began that long upward climb, moving easily from Amanda Punchingjelly, almost totally absorbed in Trudgen, to Hott Cock, who gave a start of surprise when he recognized the familiar feet, to Homo, who gazed pleasantly, to Gettit, stolid and business-like, to Sickman Fried, trapped in the mass of his own sensations, to Shilly Brahmin, who seemed to be seeking the Upstairs with every roll of his tongue around Palomine's navel, to Gotta Gettit, riding high and proud on top of the structure, feeling useful for the first time in a long time, and the final step, when she turned and stood on Palomine Gelding's shoulders, her lithe body proud.
Gotta Gettit, so impressed had she been by the effects of Palomine's technique on her, immediately grasped her tightly and began to give relief to that deprived body, her caseworker working fast and easy in that almost hairless cunt, while Shenta stood on top, almost at the curved part of the ceiling, the great clitoris only a few short feet away, awed by the spectacle of the rich giving her this much attention, feeling Gotta's tongue, gaining experience with each lick of the labia, beginning to work on her clitoris and yet being able to hold her position easily, almost disdainfully.
"Now," Gelding said to Hormone Humnuts, still exposing her num-nums to inspire Hott Cock, "I'll have to rely on you to work with Herman. The strain is quite hard on him." It seemed to be, for his back was definitely arched, and his saddle bag had seemed to deflate slightly under the intense pressure. "Help out in any way you can."
He turned to Norman Pitter-patter. "Take off your cape, Norman," he ordered. "It's time."
Norman, almost shyly, divested himself of his cape and stood there, Dong still proud and true. Gelding said, "It's going to be a tough climb. Let Hormone give you directions. When you get up there, Shenta will hold on to you. Try to reach that clit, and give it all you've got!"
With a bound, Norman leaped for the horse. Hormone had already efficiently moved to Herman, and was gently striking his fifth leg, keeping it up.
Gelding turned to Wee Kling. "You'll have to help me. You have quick fingers, and you can be of assistance in removing the micro-fission pile, as well as keeping me going." He glanced downward significantly. "We can help each other in that regard. Then we'll try to work the pile into the tube and ram it up the Ass-Start."
Wee Kling shrugged. "Whatever you say, boss. It's for humanity." But she looked at die towering structure, at Pitter-patter almost halfway up and still climbing furiously, Dong waving free. "But it seems to me they're having all the fun."
ELEVEN
Gelding walked away, stubborn. "If you want a little fun, try this." He pointed down, and it was obvious that the events of the recent past had drained him, had withdrawn some of his boundless energy. Try as he might to think about erotic subjects and even to imagine Wee Kling applying the Chen Chu vise to him, it was steadily going down as if withdrawing from the problems of the world.
He stopped and looked over the Raunchy Stabber. It stood there, its single headlight glaring balefully at him, its expanse of plastic disappearing back into the body, the ultimate expression of the Penis School of auto design, a flaring phallus that looked as if it were alive. But even that didn't lift him up.
Wee Kling came up behind him and with infinitely soft hands, grasped him as if he were an enormous and ancient piece of porcelain from the Dink Dynasty and gently applied the Oriental technique of Wash the Orange, her fingers flying over his tired balls. Suddenly, there seemed to be a snap, and he was at full attention again, and felt ready to attack the Raunchy.
"Thanks," he said, "I needed that."
"I know, boss," said Wee Kling, but cast a dubious and rather despairing glance at the Stabber. "You've got a big job ahead of you."
But Gelding felt full of confidence. "Let's see what we have here." He put his index finger into the front of the Stabber, gave it a twist, and suddenly, the long hood snapped open, revealing the complicated innards of the Raunchy.
"Hmmm," he said. His finger began to trace. "We have the Transformation Epidymis which translates the rotary force of the T. Stickle Turbine into reciprocating linear strokes through the Vast Difference Principle, in which Uret Trace is forced into tubes under pressure of Stabilized Emitted Metarected Energy Nucleotide delivered from the Prostrate Clamp, and under the Screw Turn we have the Pew Business and right under it, the little devil, is the micro-fission pile." He peered carefully into the maze of wires and tubes. "I can't decide whether it's Hem or Oid construction. Makes all the difference in the world if we wish to block the flow of S.E.M.E.N. to the T. Stickle Turbine and remove it Follow me?" He rose.
Wee Kling said, "Perfectly. Why not use a cunt pin?"
Gelding looked at her curiously. "Cunt pin?"
"To hold the hair of your cunt, stupid." She laughed, and slipped a hand down. "We women do keep a few secrets from you." She handed him a screwdriver-shaped pin.
"Perfect," he said, looking over the motive force again. "We'll need something to catch the overflow of S.E.M.E.N. So we won't blow up right there."
Mysteriously, Wee Kling reached around to those spots where women keep their mysterious stocks of goodies, and pressed something into his hand. "A sanitary napkin."
"Just the thing," said Gelding, his mouth tight. He was already reaching down into the innards, keeping his hands away from the plunger that controlled the Vast Difference, working with the cunt pin on the bolts that held the micro-fission pile to the body of the Stabber, beginning to sweat as the miniaturized connections held on tightly, then giving a slight gasp of relief as a connection gave, then another and another, only a few drops lost on the napkin.
"It's loose!" he cried in triumph.
"You bet it is," said Wee Kling, concerned as she noticed something that he was unaware of, bent into the innards of the machine. She reached out and was forced to play a quick game of Milk the Peach with a reverse double-handed technique, almost frantically as Rancid's wrench began to lose its temper and deployed dangerously.
"That was a close one," she said.
Rancid was forced to ignore her and could only nod his thanks as he delicately grasped the cube of the micro-fission pile between his thumb and forefinger. "I've got it!" he announced.
"We almost had it," said Wee Kling glumly. "What do we do next?"
Rancid stepped back and, wiping the sweat out of his eyes, allowed Wee Kling to give him another squeeze, then raised his eyes to the tower.
His heart filled with gratitude as he saw the slightly swaying trunk, just oscillating back into place as Norman Pitter-patter had reached the pinnacle and was being securely pinned by Shenta Vidus, her wiry body manipulating the balance of that intricate fulcrum of balanced, moaning, erotic humanity, allowing his Dong to extend out, to proudly stretch, and Rancid noticed that he made it, with the utmost exertion, with Shenta holding back. His Dong reached the clitoris, it touched, and already, without prodding, he was allowing it to rub on the massive organ, a steady slow pressure that seemed to make it bulge even further, to reach toward Norman's Dong. He wanted to shout and sing but knew that it would disturb the intricate web of relationships that the tower had worked out itself and that might be the last feeble hope of humanity.
He contented himself with calling quietly, "That's the way, Norman. Give it everything you've got!"
Then he turned to Wee Kling. She was keeping a careful, watchful eye on his socket set, ready to apply the pliers to it again if it showed signs of losing its grip. But Rancid was so elated by his success at removing the micro-fission pile that he was erect and true, his tension not abating as he walked to the rear of the Great Cunt, followed by Wee Kling. "It's time," he said, making it a statement of purpose rather than an announcement of heroics.
They were in the mouth of passageway before he stopped. Rancid said, "You don't have to go with me, you know."
Wee Kling was unemotional. "How else would I get to see the inside of one of these things unless I went to medical school and became an operator, boss?" She turned to him. "Besides, we all go anyway, inside or outside, if you fail."
"Thanks," said Gelding. They entered the passageway, which rapidly narrowed. Wee Kling was forced to fall behind him. He saw the white pearl above him. Instead of glowing steadily, it seemed to pulsate, as if irritated. It traveled toward them. The passage had widened again, and Wee Kling had enough space in which to move beside him. Her body felt warm and alive, but Rancid shivered.
"What's happening?" she asked in a low voice.
"I don't know," said Rancid. "It's different.
SOMETHING IS INDEED DIFFERENT.
The thought burst into their minds. It had an almost irritated quality, as if neuron synapses were speeded up.
I HAVE LOST CONTACT WITH YOUR FELLOWS.
"They're not all fellows," said Rancid. HAVE YOU COME TO ME TO HAVE A COME AND MAKE THE HUMAN RACE ONE? Rancid and Wee Kling looked at each other. It was obviously expecting them to fuck and by fucking, to coalesce the human race into its ultimate goal.
Gelding shuddered slightly. "Perhaps," he lied. "Are you ready?"
TRY ME AND SEE.
Rancid suddenly realized the problem. It was obvious the Ass-Start wouldn't open up, wouldn't receive them, until he was on the way toward completion, the one orgasm in the group that still must be recorded in the data banks it kept on the far distant star where it had its start, the one orgasm that would inevitably plunge the human race into a seething vortex of oneness, an organism that was merely an extension of itself. He shuddered.
He would have to poke Wee Kling. And in that final moment, he would have to place the micro-fission pile, kept in his sweaty hand, set the self-destruct dial in such a way, he hoped, as to give them a few minutes of leeway, retreat, and hope for the best. The self-destruct ability of the pile, of course, had been built in when it had been realized that a majority of the automobile accidents had come from unconscious suicidal tendencies on the part of the driver. By building this in, when its sensors reacted with the situation the driver was in and found that it was headed for certain destruction, feedback would occur and before the driver could damage anyone else, he and the Raunchy Stabber would vanish into a neat flash of fallout free nuclear dust.
It was lucky, thought Gelding, that I was one of the select few who qualify to drive the Stabber!
Or was it luck? Fate? Was that why he had been drawn here, along with those around him?
Those were complicated questions, thought Rancid. But he had no time to think. He had to act!
Slowly, he turned to face Wee Kling. Her Oriental face looked at him trustingly. He arranged his body so that he was facing her. Both had long ago shed most of their clothes at the beginning of the passageway. She had left the fray in the great chamber with very little. He slipped off his trousers, made a little more difficult since she had understood immediately and was desperately holding on to his cock, as if to comfort herself, working with it until it seemed to be bursting.
Facing each other in this way, they were forced to use a variation of the truncated scissors position, made infinitely more difficult by the cramped position and the lack of space for stretching out their legs. There was a moment of mad humor in their encounter when they both raised the same leg at the same time.
"We should know better than that," said Wee Kling.
Indeed we should, thought Rancid, saying nothing but continuing with his efforts to coordinate their actions, but the human race had never known better, and perhaps they were now at the end of their short and bitter road. Wee Kling thrust forward her pubis, almost bending in the middle, her arm out, and Rancid followed suit, still tightly clutching the micro-fission pile in the hand toward the pearl-like object that seemed to waver and watch them.
One of his legs was solidly against that of Wee Kling, who had raised her leg, and by crooking her leg at the knee, had allowed him enough room to slide his other leg in, thus coupling their haunches. His prick pressed against her snatch, and desperately he realized that he was off target. It was such a familiar thing, but so difficult to do, especially when the race might depend on it.
"To the left, Rancid," she said. There was an air of urgency about her voice, and also an air of desire, the old familiar flame that might be ignited for only one more time-the doomed having their last meal.
Rancid wiggled slightly in the cramped quarters, his body slippery from the sweat.
"I've got it!" he said.
Indeed, the head had slipped in for a moment, but so ready was Wee Kling that she tensed her ninety-seven pounds and pulled back slightly, hoping to draw it even further. Her well-lubricated cunt could give no grip despite the growing size of the clitoris, and it popped out. She tried to hastily recover, but succeeded in only squashing him against her.
Rancid rested, trying to steady his wavering eyes and floating brain. This time, very carefully, he pulled back about six inches, and with infinite care, closed the space between them as Wee Kling's trim haunches came forward.
The tip entered, Rancid feeling every millimeter of oozing passage as it worked its way through the inner and outer labia, and the head then caught itself in the automatic hook of the clitoris. Wee Kling, with muscular control born of desperation and intensive training, closed down with the Lop Hop Bang, and he was caught, free to traverse the full length of that passage, sliding down it with ease, and ramming it home, coming to rest. They lay there for a moment.
Wee Kling breathed deeply, her eyes closed, and put her free arm over his neck. "Slowly and easily," she ordered, and Rancid followed suit, pulling it out to a secure spot, and then finally nestling out a place for himself where he could shove it to her, move, swing, without moving it in and out, forcing it against her clit with truncated swings of his haunches, forcing her to double herself up even further, to try to suck him up as he intensified his efforts to bore into her.
"How are you?" he whispered.
Ninety-seven-pound Wee Kling immediately knew what he meant, how close was she, how should he manipulate it so that they could time themselves together, so that they could uncouple at the precise moment and make a dash for it.
But another indicator was even more sensitive. Before she could answer, the pearl above them began to glow with a greater intensity and the wavering, flickering light brightened to a steady glow.
It opened.
Not in the sense of cracking open, but a passage opened, a passage, Rancid guessed, based on the convolutions and whorls of the DNA molecule it was modeled on. There was space now for the micro-fission pile to be inserted, and Rancid immediately speeded up his pace, almost slamming Wee Kling against the constraining walls of the passage, their bodies rolling now, as they both strained to keep up with the ever expanding opening in the pearl, Rancid keeping the hand closed over the pile, his thumb on the knurled knob that would give them their chance of escape.
Wee Kling was trying to scream but she was holding it back, controlling it with that deliberate and intensive skill of hers, until the moment that she first felt Rancid go into the irreversible final lunge, when several more would bring the hot spurt of completion, and then she let go, but in a lady-like, controlled manner.
"I come!" she shouted.
And indeed she was, for her body was writhing, trying to climb up Rancid, into him, every muscle tense, ass-hole tight and haunches pushing, while inside her cunt was letting go, the muscular structure sliding in the smooth muscle sheaths, the responses engraved on her neurons, and the sight of her face in that eerie glowing light set Rancid off, and he began to pump, to discharge himself as if the world were to end.
And the Ass-Start felt it, for the pearl glowed, grew larger, opened completely up as if to absorb the two and with it the whole of the race.
In that moment, F. Rancid Gelding performed the most difficult act he had ever been forced to do, for he kept his rational actions under control despite the pumping stress that he was undergoing, every nerve in his body a torrent of sensuality that screamed for him to forget his brain and submerge himself in that sea of lust that he and Wee Kling were involved in, were drowned in, and with that cool, calculating remnant of his brain, he reached up, placed the micro-fission pile in the dead center of that pearl-like egg and turned the knurled knob until he felt it click, hoped that he had it in the right spot, and then succumbed to the pumping waves that poured out of him.
In that moment, when the Ass-Start could have had humanity, could have absorbed and re-absorbed and re-circulated it through its hive-like galactic system, it was distracted by a device that emitted hard radiation into its construct, in which a few molecules of a man-made radioactive substance were released to the trigger mechanism, and there it ticked, unstoppable by any means known to its technology, short of stopping time, which is the goal of all intelligence, but which it had not yet mastered.
Rancid and Wee Kling didn't know this. They lay there together, spent, and then the horrible fear came to both of them together, and they watched as the Ass-Start closed the egg, to protect itself, to try to fertilize it.
Rancid yelled, "Let's go! We've done it!"
And they both began to climb down the passage.
TWELVE
They burst out in the main passage of the Great Cunt, almost naked, as if the very devil were after them. Which in a sense, it was.
Rancid looked around desperately, at the tower that he had helped to construct, half-expecting with a Sharp Twinge of fear to find it lying on the ground, sprawled figures broken and mangled in their futile attempt to reach the top, to take on burdens that no humans should have attempted.
With averted eyes, he looked, making it out in the gloom. He saw Herman, stolid as ever, soothingly being cared for by Hormone Humnuts, and on top of Herman, holding solidly to Trudgen, was Amanda Punchingjelly. Hott Cock still sat on her, working on Homo Humnuts, while J. Burnup Gettit, Sickman Fried, and Shilly Brahmin all seemed quite content to aspire toward the Upstairs. Palomine Gelding moved ever so slightly as he watched, her cunt deep on Sick-man's head, while Gotta Gettit was ecstatic in her position of importance as Palomine buried her head in her belly, while she rigidly held on to Shenta Vidus who in turn was locked on to Norman Pitter-patter and his Dong.
And what a job the author and critic was doing!
When Gelding had last seen him, he had begun the task of working on the huge clitoris. It was obvious that he was almost complete by this time. His Dong was working away at the monstrous growth that was now blooming over the ceiling, that seemed to glow with a light of its own, that seemed to project down through the mists of the ceiling and form a great bloody throbbing hook. Norman used his Dong with the skill of someone who had been handling a giant clitoris in a Great Cunt all of his life, for he flicked it from one side to the other, playing it as one would a great fish, creating unbearable tension within that organ construct as it seemed about to explode.
Rancid rocked on his feet, and Wee Kling suddenly grasped his arm. At first he thought they were both fainting from the severe stress they had undergone, and then he looked around.
The walls were expanding! It was not an illusion, but the circular walls in the sector they were in were rapidly drawing away from them.
Rancid was excited. "It balloons! It balloons!"
Wee Kling looked at him. "What balloons?"
"The cunt!" exclaimed Gelding. "The Roseystern-Gildedkuntz studies predicted that it would balloon. It does! It's the beginning. Just on time!"
There was a definite evidence of movement, as if a slight earthquake had hit. Out of the corner of his eye Rancid saw the reddish walls change slowly to a deep purple, casting a sensual glow over them, and the ripples began to show up now, starting at the very end, and slowly rolling over to them, across the floor and the walls, while the clitoris seemed to disappear.
"That's the sign!" called Gelding. "It's the orgasm!"
With one face, the tower seemed to look at him, uncomprehending.
Gelding shouted at the top of his lungs. "We've done it. It's going! It's going to come!"
Norman didn't seem to hear him. Frantically, Rancid ran over to the bottom of the human vine, and shouted upwards. "Norman, you've done your job. Get down!" As an excited afterthought, he added, "Bring your Dong with you. It deserves a rest!"
Norman Pitter-patter looked down, uncomprehending, and then seemed to realize, from the color changes, from the imminent sense of movement that permeated the vast chamber, that somehow, he, Norman Pitter-patter, once a rejected member of the Dong school, had made his Dong a respectable member of society once again.
He began climbing down, after giving the huge clit one more sliding, twisting rub that seemed to bring it to a point where it almost completely retracted, setting the cunt for the next stage, where it would explode into convulsions. After he had traversed three people, the girls suddenly realized that their job was over and one by one, they began to follow him down, to dumb over the excited bodies, until the men were reached, and even Shilly Brahmin seemed loath to stay, even though he was closer to the Upstairs, and suddenly, they were down to Amanda Punchingjelly, who still sat stolidly on Herman. The waves were becoming more and more frequent, and indeed, the last few had tumbled down under their influence, rolling about a little.
"Leave her on!" ordered Gelding. "Get near the lips!"
They barely had time to obey, Hormone Humnuts leading Herman and Amanda, the rest moving toward that tightly sealed exit, clustering about it while the walls seemed to flash with a flushed darkness.
Then it occurred. In back of them they heard a muffled explosion, and despite the thickness and the distance that separated them, it was like nothing else in the universe, the unmistakable thud of a nuclear blast while simultaneously the waves in the great chamber grew to unbearable proportions, tossing the small group about as if they were chips, and the Ass-Start was obviously off, humping, opening and closing the passage. Suddenly, there was a ray of daylight that closed, then opened, then closed, and at the precise moment that the shock wave from the blast reached them, the lips opened fully onto the clearing, and they roared and tumbled out, propelled by the shock that shook the mountain-like Great Cunt in back of them, pushing them further out where they lay sprawled in the daylight, still human.
"We made it!" said Rancid thankfully.
And his further words were cut off by the river of red that flowed out of the open lips and almost engulfed them.
THIRTEEN
The group took one look back and saw the stream of red fluid issuing from the giant, now opened lips that no longer moved, but seemed to have been turned into stone. Along with the viscous mass, steam and smoke from the nuclear explosion escaped into the air, creating the impression of Dante's inner circle. One by one, the battered individuals picked themselves up and ran toward the BAM, the Impurgated Lemon Broughan, the Cuddlerack and the Shovitup, still parked where they had left them just a short time before-a time that had been filled with events of the utmost importance to humanity and the galaxy itself.
"Look," shouted Hott Cock, deigning to glance backwards. "It's frozen!"
Indeed, it appeared to have the impression of suddenly being stopped still, to have turned to stone, to be absolutely immobile. An aura of destruction and decay hung over the huge opening.
Gelding looked back. The only life was the smoke and the fluid. "We've chased it away!" he said triumphantly. "It's immobilized the molecular structure as a result of the explosion."
Palomine Gelding looked at him. "But what is this stuff?" She disdainfully lifted up her foot with the red fluid clinging to it.
Hormone Humnuts was leading Herman. She smiled cheerfully. "You might have a hard time recognizing it, dear," she said to Palomine, somewhat disdainfully. "It's blood. Menstrual fluid."
"Of course!" said Gelding. "When the egg was blown up in the uterus, it reacted with its programmed instructions. The break-up of the egg creates menstruation in the female. The same thing happened here." He bent down and examined it. "It looks fairly harmless."
J. Burnup Gettit sloshed toward them. "What about the Screw-Way?" He looked concerned. 'After all, I came up here hoping to get some answers about a very important business proposition, and all we've done is save humanity from the clutches of some creature from the ends of the universe. It hardly seems fair."
Gotta Gettit overheard. "Speaking for myself, I thought it was rather fun." Her eyes took on a reminiscent look.
Shilly Brahmin continued to splash through the red fluid, Omnibus under his arm. "This will make quite an effective sermon," he mused. "But I don't quite get the point."
Shenta Vidus said, "It's better than doing my dance in the Stable Cradle. Sort of satisfying."
Gelding finally managed to break in. "What apparently happened is that the molecular structure of the creature's constructs was frozen into the shape they were in at the time he left. I would guess that the Screw-Way has returned to a solid state and is ready for traffic!"
Amanda Punchingjelly said, still on top of Herman, still brave and proud of the work she had done to save humanity, "Then we can get back."
Norman Pitter-patter, nursing his sore Dong, gently allowing it to hang in the rushing stream to cool it off, said, "You can never go back."
Wee Kling said, "Don't be literary."
"He patted his Dong. "I'm not being literary. I'm stating a fact. We've all changed. Our relationships have changed." He lifted up his Dong triumphantly. "And the Dong school will explore the new world we have made!"
Homo Humnuts had been silent up to this point, looking back at the imposing structure he had just vacated. He opened his mouth. A speech started to come out. "Ladies and gentlemen, in honor of the harrowing experience we have all suffered, an experience that will, I am sure, leave its imprint on us till time takes us into its gentle grasp, and in honor of having had the occasion to contribute slightly, just slightly, in some small way, to a cause that I have always fervently believed in and fervently championed, a cause that found each and every one of us reaching back for that extra something, and when I speak, I don't speak of petty provincial or national or even international issues, I speak of humanity itself, a grand and glorious cause, saving humanity itself, and there would be nothing that would give me more pride than to introduce a bill into the hallowed halls of Congress that would commemorate this occasion for all time by making this spot a National Park, to be run by our efficient Park Service, who would of course furnish it with picnic tables and concession stands and beautify it, and in recognition of the shape of the formation, which will of course be more esthetically dignified after we get through with it, I will adopt a name that I heard used by our young friend here, Mr. Cock, and it will be called the Split Beaver National Park!" Homo retired in triumph.
Gelding waited for the sporadic applause to quiet down, and then said, "I think we had better go." He needed quiet. He splashed toward the Cuddlerack limousine, not waiting for an invitation, wishing only comfort in the cool interior, opened the rear door, and swung in. His feel left red trails that curiously seemed to vanish as soon as they were dry. Molecular blow-up, he thought. The Ass-Start aren't really going to leave us much of a legacy.
He felt others climbing in beside him until the rear seat was full, and Trudgen appeared behind the wheel. Trudgen looked around for a moment, saw that they were full, and asked, "Where to, sir?"
"Down," said J. Burnup Gettit automatically. "We'll have to go back down. I might have been wiped out while we've been gone."
"We might have been," said Trudgen ironically. He started the huge mechanism and drove slowly in the rapidly disappearing puddles of red until the end of the Screw-Way appeared, then dipped into it. It held. There was no more abyss.
J. Burnup Gettit was silent for a moment. Then he said, "They'll have to go around."
"Around?" asked Gelding wearily, trying to relax.
"The Split Beaver National Park. A bridge to get to the other side of the Screw-Way, so they can complete their trip." He was silent. "If a private corporation built it, they could charge a toll. And everybody would have to pay their toll to travel on the smoothest, quietest, and fastest highway known to man!" He was excited. "I want you to work out some plans for me, Rancid. I'll take care of the financing. If we have to, well go to the poor and ask for their pennies!"
"That's right, J.B., " said Gelding, sinking into sleep. The Screw-Way was smooth and quiet and the velvet ride forced him to doze off. After all, J.B.'s idea wasn't bad, and it sounded legal. There would be a lot of problems down there, with Palomine and with the rest, for it appeared that his life would never be the same. He wondered what Dr. Fried would have to say about it.
Trudgen's voice was sharp. "There's something ahead!" The huge car gradually slowed to a stop as Trudgen braked. Gelding sat bolt upright, a vague sense of doom beginning to enfold him.
Ahead there were two mountains, directly in the Screw-Way, effectively cutting off any travel. As he looked closer, he saw that the huge mounds were topped by squarish nipples, and the valley between was like female skin, smooth and velvety. He realized that they were female breasts, projecting monstrously above the smooth ribbon of the road, blocking their way.
The thought entered his mind like a hammer blow, unexpected and baleful.
WE ARE THE UP-STARTS. WE HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU WHILE YOU INGENIOUSLY DESTROYED OUR ENEMY, THE ASS-STARTS, AND LEFT THE FIELD CLEAR. NOW, WHEN YOU ARE ALL TOGETHER, THERE ARE A FEW LITTLE THINGS THAT WE WILL ASK YOU TO DO, AND THEN WE WILL BE ABLE TO MELD WITH YOUR RACE...
FOURTEEN
F. Rancid Gelding lay on the couch, wide awake now, trying to get the weight of the world off his shoulders.
In back of him, he perceived the dim figure of Dr. Sickman Fried, his psychoanalyst, reaching for the tape recorder.
He cleared his throat. "Should I go on, Doctor?" Dr. Fried shut off the tape recorder. He mused a moment.
Very carefully, the doctor said, "That was a fine dream. But."
"But what, doctor?" asked Gelding, concerned because he felt he had not revealed enough of himself.
"But it wasn't the end of the world. So. Now we may begin to perhaps. Really. Yes?"
Gelding lay back, prepared to do battle. "Right Off the top of my head, Doctor," he said confidently.
