Pornucopia

Chapter Ten

Oubliette Emdee was, if anything, even more physically attractive than her sister. She knew the hair-halter trick, too, and filled her tinted tresses just as generously. She welcomed him warmly with a delicious kiss on the mouth. "We'll do the exploratory surgery this afternoon," she said cheerfully.

The kiss palled. "Exploratory surgery! All I came for was a fake—"

"After all, we can't very well stick it on with glue," she pointed out, taking his hand and using it to comb through her hair where it stretched across her fine cleavage. "We have to match cell types to be sure there is no problem of tissue rejection, and we have to phase in the nerves and conduits. Otherwise sensation will be imperfect."

"Sensation!" he exclaimed, in his surprise grabbing hold of her left nipple and getting a nice dose of sensation himself. "On a prosthesis?"

"Certainly. Ours are very special members. Every aspect must conform precisely to the original so that no one can tell that the organ is not genuine. Didn't Tantamount tell you?"

"She's more conservative about such details. I thought it would be, er, a dead stick. Like a peg-leg or imitation arm. I—uh, does that include anti-VD smegma?"

"That no, unfortunately. We can't duplicate chemical secretions from the organ itself. But everything else, yes. And you yourself should not be able to tell the prosthetic from your original while it is actually in use."

Prior pondered that. As far back as he could remember, he had been called "Dinky" or "Pinky" or "No Show" or some such, and he was of average height. Girls had turned him down, not because the size of his member bothered them, but because the ridicule associated with it did. Three point nine-seven inches erect, and less when flaccid—it might as well have been an albatross tied around his neck. "Does it have to be identical?"

"It doesn't have to be. But normally—"

"Could it be... larger?"

"It can be elephantine, if that's what you really want. Or minuscule. Or pretzel-shaped. One man had the measurements of his horse duplicated for—"

"And will it still work just like the real one?"

"Better than a real one, because stronger and more durable."

This was beginning to sound quite promising. "I'm not sure exactly what kind I'd like. Do you have samples?"

"Right this way." She removed his hand from her tress-formed decolletage and shook that breast back into place.

Prior followed her, admiring the flounce of her hips as she walked. His two-thousand mile journey seemed worth it already! She had a trophy room full of mounted penises. Long, short, thick, thin, human, animal, erect, flaccid—every imaginable variant. Prior was frankly amazed. "I can't choose between them. I'd like to have a big, strong one—but that seems like being unfaithful to my original."

"That's why most people duplicate their originals," she pointed out.

"But I don't like my original. That is, I like it fine, but it could use a couple more inches. I've heard of brides running screaming from the honeymoon suite on their wedding night; with me, she'd be laughing. Or crying."

"Some women prefer a compact organ."

"They may prefer it, but they don't respect it. Just once, I'd like to have a woman gasp and cringe when she saw what was coming. Instead of asking me when I expect to reach puberty. But aside from that, I'd be most comfortable with my own."

"Hm," she said, considering. "Tantamount informs me that you donated your original member voluntarily in a splendid act of magnanimity for the welfare of mankind. I presume that means she drugged you and snatched it on a technicality."

"You understand her pretty well," he said ruefully.

"Yes. So I'm inclined to do a bit more for you than I ordinarily undertake. It's a matter of family pride." She considered some more. "This is more complicated, but I could install a standardized socket. With that you could alternate members at will. Maintenance would be more critical, and you'd be in danger of short-circuit if you used it under water—"

"Short circuit! I want a penis, not a soldering iron!"

"Oh, it's not electrical—though some men do seem to want soldering irons, for what reason I hesitate to imagine. But neural connections—you could find yourself with a urine-stimulus in mid-orgasm, or vice versa. Could be awkward."

"Guess I'll stay away from underwater intercourse, then, unless she's a whore." But Prior felt a bit uneasy.

Oubliette smiled. "All women are to some extent—"

"You're saying I could plug in a big penis one time, and a small one next time? And they'd both work? And the doll wouldn't know?"

"I wouldn't recommend using different units on the same girl, if you really wish to keep the matter private. Women are not completely obtuse about such matters."

"Uh, yeah," he said, remembering that he was talking to one. "Sounds worth a try, I guess."

"There will be a wait of several days after the initial operation," she said as though the issue had never been in doubt. "There may be some discomfort. You'll need diversion, and erotic play won't be feasible right at that time. Do you read?"

"Last book I read was Huck Finn, in high school, and I didn't understand it."

She frowned, and the expression reminded him so much of Tantamount that he felt nervous again. Then her mouth quirked. "Well, English teachers don't understand the introductory note on that one, either. Like sex, it is not supposed to be understood, but to be enjoyed." She made a little shrug of polite implied apology. "I have other patients, so you can't stay here the whole time, particularly if you have nothing to occupy you. I don't think it would be wise for you to go into town, either, during your convalescence. Sometimes there are complications—bleeding, spontaneous emissions, that sort of thing."

"I'll just have to suffer through," he said bravely, thinking of a rigid six-inch member projecting from his trousers in proud display. He wouldn't mind suffering some that embarrassment! But he felt an ugly twinge in his crotch. There was many a slip twixt the cock and the strip!

"Maybe you can visit the Egglayers," she said, He didn't ask what she meant; it sounded like a chicken outfit.

Chapter Eleven

Prior went under the knife on schedule. Oubliette laid him out on an operating table, strapped him down, focused a spotlight on his groin, and swabbed him off. Then she stripped to her working clothes: sandals and that hair-halter. Prior developed a splendid nonexistent erection.

"I don't like being encumbered when I operate on a man," she explained. "The scalpel might slip, and right now I have no assistant to mop up."

He eyed her magnificent torso and agreed that this was a hazard to be avoided. He wondered why she had no assistant. Was it because a male helper would be too distracted by the doctor's uniform to take proper care of the patient, while a female would be too skittish about the specific anatomy being handled? Or were Oubliette's methods too proprietary to permit possible competition? Or did she just like to do things her own way....

She put a mask over his face.

Prior dreamed he was a satyr with a permanent thirteen-inch erection. He was looking for a woman to spread out for an innocent hour of febrile fornication, but something was wrong with each candidate. The first was so fat that he couldn't find the hole; it was lost amidst the folds of flab. "Fuck it, you eunuch!" she kept screaming. "You have three minutes! Two minutes! One minute! Thirty seconds! VIOLATION! Serves you right, slowpoke!" The second was shapely but small; she screamed when only three inches got inside, and when he rammed in six she split open like a smashed melon and lay on the bed in two bloody halves. The third was very good; but when he sank in eight inches there was a loud CLICK and something started to whir inside her pubic cavity. His member began to hurt as though being hacked apart, or perhaps being peeled like an onion, but it penetrated another inch, and another. Then he realized: she was a pencil-sharpener, and she was grinding his pencil down to the nub. He tried to pull out, but he was locked in. It was worse than Korea, Viet Nam, and the following similar wars: the more he strained, the more he lost.

When he woke, there was indeed pain. He felt as though a curling iron had been rammed into his gut and left at low heat. For the first time in his life he regretted being male. Surely this was a hell of a lot of trouble for a little tube of erectile tissue.

Then Oubliette entered the recovery room, still garbed in her working clothes, and he decided that it was after all worth it. Oh to have a member to penetrate that tantalizing cleft! The sooner the better. The bigger the better.

"I have a heavy schedule," she announced. "Two emergency cases just got in—a harem Sultan had his organ stepped on by an irate camel, and a homosexual just discovered that his natural penis is allergic to both saliva and fecal matter. So—"

"How could a camel step on—"

"Some are more sensitive about bestiality than others," she said. "I warned him about that last year. Stick to horses, Sulty, I told him, and female ones, because they're less ornery. But he wouldn't listen. Had to find out the hard way. Now I'm sending you off to visit the Egglayers for a few days. When you come back, you'll have healed over and I'll have matched the tissue cultures and we'll be ready for the next stage."

"Uh, sure," he agreed dubiously.

Chapter Twelve

So it was that Prior Gross, bearing a plaster cast at his crotch with an embarrassing spigot for urination, departed for a land he had never known existed. Behind Oubliette's spacious modern house was a pathway leading into a tangle of virgin scrub. Along this anemic scenic highway were unusual objects of art—statues of people, animals, and things. At the end of it, she had assured him hurriedly as she swabbed a local anesthetic on the Sultan's mangled meat, were the Egglayers.

"What do I want with a bunch of chickens?" he demanded, disgruntled. But she only smiled enigmatically and eased a plastic catheter up the Sultan's urethra. The bloody urine was just beginning to squirt as Prior got out of there.

He rode on an adapted golf-cart. The trail was too narrow for his car, and his cast prevented him from walking any distance without severe chafing, so this awkward compromise was best. He puttered along at ten miles an hour. It was an electric cart, but still it puttered.

The first statue was a nude woman. She was, of course, statuesque in outline. Oubliette herself could have been the model: the breasts were round and full and bursting with the milk of human sex-appeal; the waist was tiny, and the hips swelled with exactly the right planes and rondures. The breasts had realistic nipples, the tummy had a navel, and between the legs there was even a cleft complete with clitoris and vagina, the last as deep as his finger could probe. He had verified this purely as a matter of scientific curiosity, of course.

Why should such a finely-wrought piece of art be erected at this deserted outpost? The trail was virtually unused; grass grew tall between the weathered concrete sections and flowers peeped from chinks. Yet this nude was good enough to take to bed, stone though her hole might be.

Prior shook his head and drove on. The world was full of pieces of art that should have been pieces of ass.

A mile along he discovered a similar edifice, this one supporting a male. Handsome, muscular—very much in the classic Greek discus-thrower mode, except that this one's hand cupped not a discus but his ponderous turgid penis and full scrotum. Though the member was enviably large, it was also well-shaped and not disproportionate to the physique of the statue. It was an embodiment of the ideal in just the fashion the rest of the man was. And, Prior noted with satisfaction, it was uncircumcised.

All penises were beautiful, he thought, before the knife practiced its mutilation and left ugly scar tissue choking an obscenely naked glans bereft of the body's most sensitive nerve endings. Tantamount had been right about that. No wonder the penis was now the most concealed part of the human body! Women's breasts were beautiful, their genitals inviting, because they represented completely natural secondary and primary sexual characteristics. But the average person, male or female, averted his/her eyes in unvoiced disgust at the sight of penis and bag of testicles. Was this merely a natural aversion to overt disfigurement?

And what about the emotional disfigurement that seemed to follow in the wake of the physical? How much more readily a man with an ugly penis projected that ugliness to sex itself! Was it not true that beauty was in the penis of the beholder?

The next statue was of a sheep—a fine curly specimen good for at least three bags of wool for master, dame and boy down the lane. The fourth one was a dog, a tremendous Great Dane sitting on his haunches and reaching around to lick off his partially-extruded penis. Dogs, Prior remembered, really did have a bone in their members. How many human beings wished for the same! Then on along to spy a horse, and an eagle, and then a griffin. Followed by a combination: man and sheep.

Prior stopped to inspect that one more closely. He had been right the first time: a male man and a female sheep, and the connection was more intimate than one normally observed on the farm. The ewe stood upon a platform so that her woolly posterior came up level with the man's crotch. He stood behind her, his hardened member half-buried in her ovine pudendum and still thrusting. She looked tolerant and contented. Prior remembered that there was a story about interfertility of man and sheep, a crossbreed between the two.... but he doubted the validity of that. "Ba-a-a-a!" he commented.

Next was a male dog and a female human in much the same situation. She was on hands and knees, he mounted behind, tongue hanging out in his enthusiasm. Her breasts drooped toward the ground, almost tubular in this position. It was so realistic that it was hard to believe that it was all stone.

Stone it was, though. Those swinging mammaries were cold and hard to his touch; the furry flank quite stiff. Even the projecting tongue was dry and inflexible, and there was absolutely no warmth or give to the plunging prick.

Then there was a male pony having at a female eagle. At first glance this seemed a mismatch—but Prior soon saw that the pony had no real leverage, so that his member could penetrate only as far as the bird desired. There seemed to be plenty of desire amid the feathers, however.

And a trio: man, woman, griffin. The griffin was in the center, spreading its huge wings, beak open as if to caw exuberantly. It appeared to be hermaphroditic, for its leonine penis was entering the woman who clasped it in front, while the man drove at its womb from behind. Its long tiger tail curled around the man's buttocks, holding them steady.

It occurred to Prior that he had not seen a single portrayal of a really unnatural activity along this trail. Always a normal male conjugated with a normal female in the normal manner. No homosexual efforts, no perversions. Of course the species were shuffled—but the acts depicted by the statues were so obviously right and pleasurable that he could hardly fault them on a technicality like that. Sex between consenting adults was perfectly legitimate. Wasn't it?

Then he spied a representation of a man with his baby. The man's penis was flaccid; but even more remarkable, he had a well-developed bosom, and the baby was nursing.

Prior stood and stared at that for some time, his groin twinging nervously. Was this a sculptural joke? He had never heard of a man with full-blown breasts, except for the chosen castrates who claimed to have converted to women. Yet every man did have nipples, and before puberty the chests of boys and girls were pretty much alike, and in some cases boy-babies dribbled milk from those nipples. So the potential was there—and if man was not intended by nature to have it, why was he born with nipples? Only body chemistry in adolescence made the difference. Why not men with breasts and women with beards?

Could it, in fact, have been this way in the past? Less differentiation between the sexes? Perhaps at one time every adult human being had had beard and breasts, and penis and vagina. Maybe only in historic times, when prudery could be developed, perfected and spread like a vile disease, had the woman's member been reduced to the clitoris and the man's hole portioned between anus and urethra. Once man had fought his way to supremacy on Earth, he had no longer needed to have every part interchangeable, and so true sexuality had developed. A modern woman could be considered at least in part a castrated male; a modern man might be a debreasted female.

Prior shook his head, embarrassed by the turn his speculations had taken. Next thing, he would be wondering whether there had originally been any differentiation between man and sheep and horse and bird and griffin. The statues implied that there had not been; that all could revel together sexually; that evolution had altered only the forms, not the sexuality.

Well, maybe so—but what kind of offspring would spring from the merged loins of man and griffin? The heraldic beast was already a cross between an eagle and a lion! Even the man-sheep combination was complex enough; would that be a mashep? Sheepan? Meep? Shan?

He paused. Maybe a succubus, or—

Satyr.

Satyr! Of course! Forepart of a man, hindpart of a goat. Bipedal, but with horns. No doubt it all made sense, once the big picture was viewed and grasped.

There was a good deal to learn from such statues. Maybe someday he would return for the whole course of instruction.

Chapter Thirteen

At last he arrived at the outpost of the Egglayers. At this point Prior was ready for anything. But his buildup was only for a letdown.

It was a small conservative cabin. The road looped around it and stopped. There was nowhere else to go.

He marched up and knocked on the door. After a moment a middle-aged saggy-gutted balding man yanked it open. "This is the place," the inhabitant said abruptly, his whiskers quivering like those of some cartoon character. "I don't recognize you, though. Mighty small gut on you. You new?"

"I guess so," Prior admitted. "I was told to look for the Egglayers."

The man reassessed him, scratching his ponderous belly. "You ain't an Egger?"

"I guess not."

"Then whatinhell you doing here?" the man roared.

"I don't exactly know. I'm supposed to stay here for a few days until..." He trailed off, not wanting to be too specific.

The man let fly a sigh as though breaking wind. "Well, come in anyway. Maybe we can train you."

Prior entered. The interior was every bit as humble as the exterior had promised. There were cobwebs in the upper corners and roach droppings in the lower corners. But he was hungry and tired and his crotch hurt and he wasn't looking for trouble or for palatial accommodations. He wasn't much for mystery, either; if the man cared to explain what the Egglayers were, fine; if not, who cared?

There was bread on the dirty table—a monstrous brown loaf, partially sliced. Beside it was a frothy bucket of brew. Prior helped himself and eased into the chair. Almost with the first bite he felt the gases bubbling in his intestine; this was flatulent stuff! "Who told you about the Eggers?" the man demanded as though just thinking of it.

"Oubliette Emdee. You see, she—"

"Oubie! Whyinhell didn't you say so?" The man belched resoundingly, and a faint putrid vapor drifted from his mouth. "Anything that li'l pekkermender wants is just fine with us!"

"She told me to come here for a while so my preliminary operation can heal. Because she has other patients, and it gets crowded."

"She's busy, all right. But she's got plenty of space. Must've wanted you here... sure you didn't come to learn Egging?"

"I don't know anything about—"

"You'll find out!" He laughed with unseemly gusto. "Who's she got under the knife this time?"

"A sultan had his member damaged by a—"

"That camel-humping African? Haw, haw! He never learns! She must've warned him fifty times: stay clear of the camels, Sult; one fuck too many and they fuck you back. Specially the he-camels. But that old shitter, he—"

"And a homosexual with allergies to saliva and fecal matter."

"A fairy what don't like spit or shit on his horn! Cheese, Oubie really gets the cases! How's your maypole sliced?"

"I don't understand—"

"You don't see Oubie just 'cause your swinger don't stand, you know."

"Oh. I was deprived of my member, so she—"

The man crammed a slice of black bread into his big mouth. "Hmd y'oos yr motherfucking coch?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Who sawdoff yr stinkin' horseradish?"

Somehow the question didn't sound much better the second time around. Maybe it was the mouthful of food that made it sound messier than it was. "I was rolled," Prior said with simple dignity.

Black crumbs spewed violently out of the man's hairy mouth. "Prick-rolled? My bellowing asshole! You don't say! Ain't that a jock-popper!" And he chuckled roundly.

It seemed best to get this mirthful loudmouth onto something more productive. "Do you know anything about prosthetic members?"

"Dead stick sledders? Never tried it myself, but I hear Oubie's the best fuckin' cocklock in the business."

"You mean there's no sensation in the prosthetics? She implied—"

"You're farting through your yellow teeth, junior. Sensation? When Oubie sews 'em on, just pissing can jack up your bug juice."

"Especially underwater, I understand." But Prior took this as a favorable report. "What do you do here, really?"

"We lay the eggs." He pronounced it with a long e. "Didn't she tell you?"

"Not in sufficient detail."

The man perked up a hairy ear. "Clucker's comin' now. You just watch."

Sure enough, another magnificently bloat-bellied man barged in. "Well if it ain't Plymouth Rock!" the newcomer cried. "But who's yer mistress?"

"Oubie's threadin' his clapper to the rucksack," Plymouth explained. "What's your load, toad?"

"Gimme the nest, pest," Clucker responded.

Plymouth brought out a box filled with straw. It did look like a nest.

Clucker touched his soiled buckle and dropped his filthy trousers and shorts. He squatted over the nest, his huge meaty buttocks spreading impressively.

"Watch," Plymouth directed, pressing Prior's face down almost into contact with the straining brown-streaked rectum. "Now you'll see some real chickenshit!"

The hairy pink anus bulged. Gas leaked out, as though an old-fashioned bus were starting, and the aperture fluttered shut. Prior gagged from the stench, but couldn't get his head away. Then the flesh bowed again. It turned outward, blue veins showed, and the central cavity deepened. Something white appeared in the ugly depths.

A white turd? Prior marveled. Did the man have a liver-bile blockage? He had heard that bile was what made fecal matter possess its normal rich brown. When the bile duct got constipated, the stuff backed up in the liver and had to run through the blood, finally making the urine brown instead.

The pale lump pushed out. It was rounded and smooth, and its surface glistened. On an oily film it eased out of the heaving bowel. It was about the size and shape of a hen's egg.

An egg! Something halfway registered in Prior's mind. They did call themselves egglayers!

The egg dropped into the nest. Plymouth picked it up and studied it closely. "Good shape, good heft, Clucker. You sure can hold 'em."

"Incubate it," Clucker grunted. "Sometimes the end one gets cold."

Plymouth carried it carefully to a glassed-in nest and set it inside. Clucker strained over his own receptacle again. As Prior watched, another egg emerged. This too was incubated. Then a third and a fourth.

Clucker stood up and hitched aloft his trousers.

"You go to all that trouble just to carry a few eggs?" Prior inquired.

"Eegs," Clucker said. "E-E-G."

"They look like plain old chicken eggs to me."

"Takes some chicken to lay an eeg," Clucker said amiably.

"The first time, that is," Plymouth said. "Our layings don't count; that's just transport."

"I don't understand. Why don't you just carry them in a basket, or a regular box of a dozen?"

Plymouth burst into laughter, his belly shaking St. Nick fashion. "Shitfaced inspector'd just love that start, fart!"

"Also, it's cold on the pass," Clucker said. He finished his mug of brew, burped, hauled the nest around and dropped his pants again.

More slowly now, and with increasing grease, two more eggs passed. Then, after a labored pause of several minutes, a couple of chunks of odoriferous fecal matter and a seventh egg.

"You longtongued cuntlicker!" Plymouth exclaimed with admiration. "You packed an extra!"

"Going to shit for the record one of these trips," Clucker said, pleased.

"You sure got a voluminous intestine! Five's the best I can manage. I'm afraid of breakage. What if I took a jumpstep on the pass and they knocked together?"

"Occupational hazard," Clucker said, wincing. "I thought sure I'd cracked one, once, but I guess I hadn't, 'cause here I am today."

"But what's the point of it?" Prior demanded. "Cramming eggs into your ass!"

"Who the fuck is this turd?" Clucker inquired politely.

"Oubie sent him along. Says he got pekker-rolled."

"Oh—another dope who'd lose his cock every time if it wasn't screwed on! And it wasn't, eh?" He laughed unkindly. "But I s'pose if she speaks for him, must be hokay." He turned to Prior. "Hokay, you wanna know what's the fit, shit, I'll tell you. We pick 'em up on Beetlejuice VII and smuggle 'em past customs and take 'em through the pass. There's a fence here on Earth who retails 'em for the standard markup or more. Layers like us make good loot, long's we're careful. I figure to retire next year, if I don't bust an egg goin' for the record."

"Good money?" This always interested Prior.

"Thirteen seventy-five per eeg viable," Clucker said. "Makes ninety-six twenty-five this trip, my cut."

"Cut-cut-cut-daCU-U-UT!" Plymouth put in, sounding so perfectly like a cackling hen that Prior had to laugh. But he remained amazed.

"Almost fourteen dollars for an egg?"

"Thirteen hundred and seventy five dollars, sterling," Clucker said curtly. "Eegs ain't cheap."

Prior couldn't digest this figure, so he didn't try. "Where'd you say they came from?"

"Beetlejuice VII. You know, seventh habitable planet of Betelgeuse, the red giant. Long trip."

"I guess so. Just how far away is it? I thought the stars were several million miles."

"Several hundred quintillion miles," Clucker corrected him. "Give or take a decimal."

"Uh, sure." Prior regretted having made the inquiry.

" 'Bout 650 light years," Plymouth said helpfully. "Be 'un 'ell of a trip if we didn't use the pass."

" 'Ell of a trip," Prior echoed. He still didn't understand what was going on. "I didn't know we had space travel. From star to star, faster than light, I mean."

"I told you. We use the pass. Cuts it way down."

"You told me," Prior agreed. Some things he just wasn't fated to grasp.

"Any more due this week?" Clucker inquired. "Rhose Island Red tomorrow. That's all on the schedule, until the fence comes next week."

"Rhose Island Red, huh? Red's a good fuck. I like her." Until that last word, Prior had not been certain of the sex of Red.

"Yeah," Plymouth agreed. " 'Cept for the way she slips an extra eeg up her front hole."

"Whatsamatter with that? If I had a woman-hole, I'd use it too. Cop the record for sure!"

"Stretches her honeypot all outa shape. Got to wait a good hour 'fore it's tight. Anything I hate, it's a loose woman. 'How's the hunt, cunt?' I asks her, and she says 'Take yer pick, prick.' Then she's too loose for me to get a good lodging. And even after a day or so, she still ain't exactly in Oubie's league."

Prior perked up. "You Eggers have intercourse with Oubliette?"

"Huh?" Two blank stares.

"You know. Cohabitation."

Plymouth squinted at him suspiciously. "You a Communist?"

"Sex!" Prior yelled. "Did you ever screw her?"

"Whyinhell didn't you say so! Sure we fucked her. Never got to the bottom of that well, though; deepest dame you ever fingered."

"Course usually she's too busy," Clucker admitted. "So we leave her be unless she comes out here. Which she does, every month or so. Great gal!"

"Sometimes she hardly gets by the statues," Plymouth said, inspecting the last two eegs. "All tuckered and fuckered out, can't screw mor'n three-four times before she nods off, and once or twice after that."

"She spends time looking at the statues?" Did she find them as dismayingly fascinating as he had?

"Yeah, and they look at her!" Both men laughed crudely. Prior didn't get the point of the joke, so he ignored it.

"Hey, Cluck!" Plymouth called suddenly. "Listen here."

"What's the word, turd?"

"I think it's bad luck, fuck."

Cluck joined him at the incubator-nests. "Great flying shit and little blivets on the halfshell!" he cried. "One of 'em's pippin'!"

"That's night hatching!"

Clucker listened more carefully. "Not yet. The pips are still pretty far apart. Might be two days 'fore the shell breaks."

"But the fence ain't comin' for five days!"

"Thirteen seventy-five down the shittin' tube!" Clucker moaned. "We sure can't fence it."

They paced the floor gloomily. "That damned ET!" Clucker exclaimed. "Looked me up the nose with all three eyeballs and swore on his kingfeather those eegs were fresh! I'll piss a river down his windpipe!"

"That ET don't have a windpipe," Plymouth reminded him.

"He'll have a couple when I get through with him! It ain't just the cash. What if it'd hatched up my ass?"

"It's stuff like that, makes me think 'bout retirin' early."

"Early hatch—that's retirin' the hard way!"

They paced some more, in obvious distress. "Say," Plymouth said. "Oubie always wanted an eeg. You think—?"

"Hey, that's a real birdbrained notion!" From the tone, that was a compliment. "We owe her a lot. We'll give it to her!"

"Except neither one of us can take the chance of going to her place. If we got caught in realtime—"

"Fartin' cunts!" Clucker exclaimed, chagrined. "I forgot. She'll have to come here for it."

"Might not be time. If we miscalculated—"

"Yeah. Can't risk it. Not with her."

Then they both looked at Prior, struck by a common thought. "He's going back there anyway, and he's mundane," Plymouth said. "No timespace barrier."

"Sure, I can carry an egg to Oubliette," Prior said agreeably. He was glad for the pretext to get away from these odd, gutty, lowbrow, foulmouthed, foulassed, indecipherable men.

"Good enough," Clucker said, visibly relieved. "First thing in the mornin', we'll load you up and send you back. Be a real nice surprise for her."

Only as he drifted to sleep in the midst of a surprisingly comfortable bed of straw did Prior begin to wonder why, if it were so chancy for Oubliette to carry her eeg back before it hatched, it should be safe for him to do so. Was it because no one cared if he met calamity?

Chapter Fourteen

One detail they had neglected to mention. The eeg, in a delicate condition, had to be maintained at body temperature, kept in darkness, and insulated against all severe jostles. It could not be transported in any external basket.

Well, they knew how to handle that. Plymouth Rock held Prior down while Clucker pried apart his tensed buttocks and greased his rectum with a horny finger. Then Clucker dipped the eeg in tallow and then in slippery oil, and applied the narrow end to Prior's pursed sphincter. "Open up," he complained. "We got to slide it in without cracking."

"It hurts!" Prior protested, objecting on more than one level to the violation of his anus. "My operation—"

"Can't be helped. Just think of it as shittin' backwards. This ain't fairy stuff, now; this is an eeg." He rapped on Prior's lower spine with a calloused knuckle. Prior jumped—and in the moment his sphincter loosened, the eeg slurped in.

"Easy as bittin' a balky horse," Clucker said, satisfied.

"Work it around in there so it's comfortable," Plymouth remarked. "You don't want it down too close to the asshole, case you sit down hard or pop it out with a fart. Up around the curve of the gut is better."

"Um," Prior said, making swallowing motions with his anal canal. "What happens if it hatches early?"

"You got a morbid sense of humor," Clucker said, unsmiling. Prior decided not to pursue that matter farther, since the eeg was already lodged.

He departed on his puttery golf-cart, feeling the mass of the eeg in his bowel. What a profession!

The roadside statues remained. He could have sworn that some of them had changed their positions. If he ever came this way again, he would make exact notes and discover whether the various scenes of copulation were in fact in slow-motion progress. But right now the weight he carried and the ominous warning of the Eggers reduced his inclination to tarry along the way.

He made it without trouble. "Back already?" Oubliette inquired. She didn't seem crowded or busy—but who was he to question her? Maybe she had simply felt he needed the kind of education provided by the Eggers. "I brought you an egg. Eeg."

"An eeg!" she gasped. "Prior—you didn't steal it?"

"I'm no thief. More'n I can say for some people," he said, thinking of Tantamount and his bygone penis. "Clucker and Plymouth Rock sent it to you as a gift. It's pipping."

"Oh!" Hastily she brought a nest. "Lay it before it hatches! You're too young and innocent to die like that."

What shook him was the fact that she was perfectly serious. Prior squatted over the box and strained, not really caring that she was watching. She'd seen his crotch before—hell, she's operated on it!

The eeg, funneled well up his large intestine, refused to come down on demand. Oubliette poked her finger well up his tract but couldn't reach it, though the act did start a throb in him that would have been a hard-on in other circumstances.

"We can't wait," she said, alarmed, and he believed her. She brought a tube and inserted it into his rectum, driving it deep. He wondered whether this was what a woman felt like during intercourse, as the male member probed her vestibule. Then the warm bubbly water gushed into his colon, bloating him, and he wondered again. The sensation wasn't half bad, actually. She must have put something into the enema-rinse to relax his innards. She brought a metal potty and aimed him at it. "Push it all out," she said urgently. "I'll catch the eeg."

Prior strained. A jet of pale brown water shot out, splashing against her fingers. She had her hand right there, caging his anus, to make sure the eeg didn't slip by her and shatter in the pot.

Prior pushed and pushed, and the water squirted down endlessly, filling the pot and splashing Oubliette's hand, arm, bosom and face, but the eeg didn't come. Finally he trickled to a halt, unsuccessfully drained.

Well, not entirely unsuccessfully, he noted as he examined the container. There were several mangled chunks of fecal matter that had evidently been caught and sifted through her fingers along with the fluid. The smell was about normal for the situation.

"It's too far back," she said. "We have to get it out quickly. I may have to operate."

Prior looked at her brown-stained hands and arms. He didn't like the sound of that. "It's up here somewhere," he said, touching his abdomen.

"Let me see." She threw back his shirt and probed his belly, feeling for the solid egg. "Yes, here it is! Maybe I can work it down."

She pressed and pulled at his gut, squeezing at the object within it. Prior contented himself with studying her flexing cleavage as her arms worked. If he had a penis, she'd be almost in position to suck it now, he thought wryly.

"I have it down some, but not enough," she said. "Maybe I could reach it with forceps—"

"Another enema might carry it down, now," he suggested quickly. He certainly could do without hard metal forceps wrenching around within the tender folds of his intestine!

"Well—perhaps a thorough one," she decided. "But if this doesn't do it—"

"It will do it!" he said prayerfully.

She fetched a longer, larger tube and about twice as much water as before. "Lie back—I want this all in there without leakage."

Prior lay on his back, knees lifted, while she screwed him again with the spurting tube. This water was cool, and it pumped in interminably, chilling him from the inside out. This time he didn't just feel bloated, he was bloated; he could see the bulge of his abdomen, and knew that his insides were being shoved around by the ruthless torrent of water. As the bodies of succubus and satyr had been distended by their exchanged bolus of ejaculate. Just so long as none of his piping sprung a leak!

It became urgent that he squirt it out again, but she used her knees to press his buttocks together and seal off the leakage around the outside of the hose. She kept pouring in more water, holding the feeder-tube as high in the air as she could to increase the pressure. It felt as though there were three gallons inside him already, yet still it came, distending every conduit available within his torso. Now it was more than bloat; it was agony.

"Close it up!" she said at last, hauling out the hose and ramming his legs tightly together. His sphincter barely cooperated; the dike was about to burst! "I'm going to maneuver the eeg down while the water lends support."

Prior struggled and sweated and finally managed to constrict his protesting anus so that only a trickle of fluid emerged, though his whole urge was to let fly. He had never labored so hard at anything in his life before; the cold liquid seemed like a solid battering ram as it hammered at that puckered portal with every breath he took. Part of the urgency was sexual—except that now the desire to fuck was as nothing compared to the plain need to shit!

Oubliette probed his gut again, kneading his belly, and Prior almost blasted a liquid round from his rectum. She worked the eeg around and down; he could feel its sloshy progress as the hydraulic pressure translated directly to his anus.

"It'll come now!" he gasped. "It'll come. Let me at that pot before I explode!"

Slimy fluid was already dribbling down his legs as he got into position. "Ready?" he panted.

"Ready," she said, squatting behind him and cupping both hands under his tense nether orifice.

He let fly. Water blasted against her hands and sprayed across the room in a steady torrent. It was like letting the air out of a balloon: he deflated visibly as he pressed that column of water out. He imagined that there was a phallus attached to his anus, and this was the world's champion ejaculation, coming and coming... and he felt a genuine orgasm coming on.

The pot filled and overflowed, but still he jetted. Then the flow diminished, hesitated; his imaginary penis grew climactically hard, and—

In a spurt of yellow juice and a transcendent orgasm he laid it: a sparkling, rapidly-pipping ovoid. Oubliette caught it with a little shriek of delight and held it gingerly. "Whew!" she sighed rapturously as the fury of Prior's anal climax abated.

There was more water to shit, but the impelling need to evacuate was gone. He slacked off like a spent thunderstorm and stood up, shaking his dripping legs. He looked at her.

Oubliette was spattered from eyelash to toenail with pale brown or yellow dye. Her clothing was dripping, and a marble-sized turd was lodged in the cleavage of her hair-halter. She stank of shit, but she was oblivious to that. She held the eeg-egg close, cooing at it while fecal fluid dripped from her pert nose and made her lush breasts glisten.

It seemed she appreciated the gift of the Eggers.

But they had labored prematurely, however effectively. It was a good ten hours before the eeg hatched, and by that time Prior was back under the knife.

Chapter Fifteen

He woke. This time he found solidity at his crotch. Not a penis—a base structure, part flesh and part plastic. The region around it hurt, of course, but he took this as a sign that the nerves were still functioning. Nerves that could bring as much pleasure as pain, when the occasion presented. To this ugly substructure would attach the penis proper—and he hoped fervently that it would perform as specified. It had, he thought with a half-bitter internal smile, been a real pain in the ass to get this far.

"One more procedure will do it," Oubliette announced briskly, looking amazingly clean and chaste and smelling the same. She was a marvel! One would think shit had never come within a mile of her person. "Come see my little eeg."

She already had a special enclosure for it. The eeg/egg had indeed hatched, and in the warm nursery toddled the eegling. It looked a little like a griffin and a little like a goblin, but more like a walking phallus with priapism: a perpetual erection.

"I don't see any mouth under that beak," Prior remarked. "How does it eat?"

"It's demonic," she explained. "It doesn't eat."

"Well then, how's it going to grow? I mean—"

"That's a hell-lamp," she said, gesturing to what looked like a complex sun-lamp. "The radiation gives it all the energy it needs. Demons are creatures of hellfire, pretty much."

"I guess so." He shook his head dubiously. "What does it do, when it grows up?" He was glad the thing hadn't hatched in his colon, for it had snaggle-teeth (despite the absence of a mouth) and wickedly hooked beak and saber claws and spiked tail and barbed wings. Not to consider its supremely massive (proportionately) phallus.

"It fornicates," she said.

Ask a silly question....

The next operation was minor. In fact it was not an operation at all, but a series of intricate tests. Oubliette connected his stub to a computer input and manipulated dials and settings and made what he presumed were significant readings. Sometimes he felt twinges in his crotch, sometimes irritation, and finally a testicle-bursting smash of erotic convulsion.

"Tests out well," she announced as he stopped thrusting. "We'll give it another day to set, then we'll run it through some practice exercises."

Prior was getting tired of surgery and testing. "When do I get my penis?"

She merely smiled obliquely and went to attend to her next client. He had to satisfy himself with watching the eegling sporting in its enclosure. Oubliette had given the thing a bit of Swiss cheese, and instead of eating it the eegling rammed its comparatively monstrous member into the holes and sawed away with indefatigable vigor. It never ejaculated, but of course it was only a couple of days old. Prior imagined that there would be copious ejaculate by the time it attained its full growth—and if it became man-sized, its phallus would be about two feet long. But he didn't see what there was about the ugly little demon that was worth over a thousand dollars for shipping charges alone.

Chapter Sixteen

The practical exercises, when they came, were well worth the wait. Oubliette opened a sealed package and lifted out a limber three-inch artificial penis. Three short stiff prongs emerged from its base. She aligned it and plugged it into his genital socket. "You lock it on this way," she said, giving it a twist and snap. "Reverse the motion to remove it. You'll get the hang of it with practice."

"I don't feel anything," Prior complained, eyeing the dangle. Had he gone through all this, just to wind up with a member even smaller than his original?

"This unit is factory fresh. It hasn't been activated. Here." She ran her finger under its glans.

There was a pop! and sensation coursed into his groin. The organ quivered.

"Now to test it," she said matter-of-factly.

She began to manipulate the organ by hand, paying special attention to its sensitive tip. Prior felt the stimulus, but the member remained flaccid. She put her lips to the glans. Still no physical reaction, though the sensation was enough to make cooked macaroni stand stiff.

"Something's wrong," she said, brow furrowing attractively. She wrenched the organ about, giving Prior a shock of agony. Then the lock released and the penis came loose.

Oubliette inspected it closely. "No wonder! The artery profunda penis is blocked. You couldn't pump any blood into the erectile tissue. Darned sloppy quality control at the penis plant these days."

"You mean the thing can't get stiff?" he asked, disappointed.

"It will stiffen after I adjust it, or I'll have its head," she said confidently. She reamed it with an instrument resembling a pipe cleaner. "Remember, when you change members ordinarily, do it in the flaccid state. Otherwise you'll lose blood, and it could be messy and embarrassing."

"The valve cutoff doesn't work?"

"No trouble there. But in the erect state the member is engorged with your blood. If you remove it before that fluid reenters your body—"

"Oh." He saw the problem. "Why would anyone want to remove an erect penis?"

"Sometimes there are emergencies. Or a client changes his mind during a performance."

"Hm." The possibilities were intriguing.

She reconnected the reamed member, locked it, and resumed stimulation. This time it swelled magnificently in her hand. At full elevation it had doubled its limp state: six inches long and perfectly formed.

Prior stared at it, bemused. He had never had a strapping lout like that between his legs before. It was like winning a sexual sweepstakes.

"Well, the proof of the pudenda," Oubliette murmured approvingly. She dropped her skirt.

Yes, indeed! Prior was suddenly so excited that he skipped the amenities. He bent her back over the work table and thrust his capacious member at her sweet cleft. It bounced off harmlessly. "Oops—forgot to allow for those two extra inches," he said, not particularly displeased. It reminded him of those bygone ads about the extra long cigarette and all the attendant disadvantages. Cigarettes, of course, were phallic representations; that was why so many people got hooked on sucking them, and liked them long and strong. Two extra inches were well worth some inconvenience!

Oubliette just smiled tolerantly. Obviously she had been through this sort of fumbling before.

Prior oriented more carefully and found the slot. As his big handsome glans nudged into her shaven slit he felt the pulsing warmth of her. He worked the tip of the member inside, finding the channel moist and slick, savoring every aspect. He was going to do big things with this big cock! He was really going to go to town! This clever female doctor was going to get a proper workout!

And as he forced the sensitive first inch into her luxurious and educated vagina—he came.

"Damn!" he wailed, but it was too late. The pump had started, and it would not desist until the entire cow had been milked, the pipe cleared. His angle was wrong, so that he could not penetrate more than that inch while the cream spurted. What an opportunity wasted!

"Slight oversensitivity there," Oubliette commented professionally, applying absorbent tissue as the member dropped away. "I'll detune it for you."

"No—no, I like it that way!" he protested despite his chagrin. "I'll get used to it. I always shoot off early when I haven't had a—when I haven't done this for a while."

"As you wish," she said with a suggestion of medical disapproval. "This unit seems to be fully functional, in other respects, and the foundation seems adequate. But we should try a reasonable selection."

She twisted the flaccid member so that it snapped off. Some blood dripped from its base, giving him a shock until he realized that even a detumescent organ would have some stuffing in it, particularly after use. At least the automatic seal on the base structure was functioning; nothing leaked from his body. There was evidently some very nice technology involved.

Oubliette washed off the unit at the tap, shook it dry, wrapped it in gauze and replaced it in its box. "These should be cleaned regularly, of course," she said. "And boiled in a salt solution once a week if used regularly. The prosthetic is never quite as convenient as nature's original."

That was an inconvenience he would gladly accept. Despite the prematurity of his ejaculation, the experience had been memorable. Six inches erect! It was like a wrestling championship, a bowling award, a grand prize in anything—and look whom he had wrestled with, look what he had bowled over!

She opened another box. "Now this is one of our most popular numbers," she murmured in sales-clerk tones as she broke the seal. She hauled forth a four-inch dangle and attached it. "Try it erect."

"But I just—I mean, twice in a row? I never—"

She removed her hair-halter and showed her fine bosom unadorned.

Prior's new penis climbed invisible stairs. At the upper deck it stood: a proud eight inches, slender but strong. He looked down at it, amazed and fundamentally gratified. This doubled his best natural erection. He felt lightheaded; could all the blood have gone into the member, lowering his blood pressure elsewhere? A trifling inconvenience!

"Sometimes a substitution of units restores potency quite promptly," Oubliette remarked casually.

"I think your breasts had more to do with it."

"Oh? They're prosthetic, of course."

"Prosthetic!" His erection wavered and threatened to collapse.

"My little joke," she said quickly. "I grew these naturally. See for yourself."

He saw for himself, with hands and eyes. His hard-on became mighty indeed.

"But it really shouldn't make any difference," she said with medical detachment. "Your prosthetic penis is as serviceable and esthetic as the natural one, and prosthetic breasts would be the same. I have a professional friend, Bovinia, who specializes in such procedure."

"Women want larger breasts?" he inquired, intrigued.

"Many do. But her main business is replacing injured mammaries—ones that have been beaten or bitten beyond repair—"

"Beaten or bitten! What sadist would do a thing like that?"

"Not necessarily sadism. Merely overly enthusiastic love-play. And some are lost through cancer, even today. Then of course she has a fair trade in the gay community."

"Men? Men with breasts?" Suddenly he remembered the last statue on the route to the Egglayers.

"Certainly. Bovinia and I exchange referrals. When a couple wants to change over, I take care of the penis for her, and Bovinia handles the mammaries for him."

"And they actually work?"

"Well, the ejaculate isn't potent and the breasts can't be used for actual nursing, but apart from that—"

"Yeah," he said, dazed. If the other doctor's breasts were as good as Oubliette's penises, no client should have a complaint.

Yet it didn't seem the same. His prosthetic member was big and handsome and potent, but it wasn't him.

"We might be more comfortable on the bed," she hinted.

They were. A cubicle adjacent to the laboratory had a firm bunk offset by large wall-mounted mirrors. It was ideal.

Prior spread her out on her back and lifted her long lithe legs so that her cleft parted. He kneeled appropriately and wrestled his member down to nuzzle the dark opening. This time the angle was correct, and the curved head pressed between the pink lips and slid inside without obstruction. He watched in the mirror as the long shaft disappeared: two inches, three, four. Probably his own previous ejaculation provided the lubrication, for this was almost too easy!

His legs felt cramped, and he had to pause in place to straighten them out. He braced his arms against her thighs, keeping her legs elevated, and leaned into his chore. Another inch entered, and another.

The Eggers had been correct about Oubliette being bottomless. Six inches deep, and he hadn't met resistance yet. Seven.

Finally his loins met hers, pubic bone grinding against pubic bone, and the mirrors were useless. That was the trouble with mirrors, as with pictures—a complete entry showed nothing! Cartoons always showed the cock half-cocked, with only a couple inches submerged, so that it was quite clear that fornication was occurring, but who in real life ever stopped there? (Except for the dolt who climaxed at that stage; he could think of one of those, alas.) If he wanted a picture, maybe some kind of X-ray photography, that showed a solid penis.... no, the X-rays would pass through the penis too; it just didn't seem feasible. Only Superman had X-ray vision that showed things X-rays did not, because Superman was a fantasy. Sex, unless carefully posed, was inherently private, for purely physical reasons. Unfortunately.

Meanwhile he had a situation here. Oubliette had absorbed all his eight inches without complaint! What good was it to double his phallic size, if he still couldn't touch bottom? Also, his first performance, truncated as it had been, slowed this one down considerably. He wasn't close to coming.

Then her interior muscles began to operate. She squeezed his organ, kneaded it, milked it, without laying a hand on it. Prior had never experienced the like! Peristaltic ripples traveled up and down her slick canal. Pressure, suction, pressure, suction, squeeze and draw and stroke—and before he knew it he was spewing his essence with an imperative abandon he had never experienced before. It did not seem to be dulled because it was the second; rather it seemed to reach farther into the roots of him, extracting pleasure from hitherto untapped springs.

She let him subside inside her, and that was another kind of bliss. "Yes, I'd say the operation was a success. No doubt your technique will improve with practice."

Prior didn't answer. He had thought he had done a bang-up job, but evidently he operated in a lesser league. Oubliette must have been screwed by experts.

"Now," she said briskly, "for the next exercise—"

"You're joking! I never came twice that soon in my life before. The orange has been squeezed dry."

But she had little patience with excuses. "This one is special. It's prehensile."

"Come again?"

"You will, you will. And this time I will too, and we can call it a night. Wouldn't want to overdo it for your first workout, after all."

"No...." he mumbled agreeably.

She affixed the member. It was S-shaped, about eight inches long even when flaccid, but no thicker than a pencil. It looked unnatural on him, and he didn't trust it.

"Let's have an erection," Oubliette said crisply. "This will require a little practice, but you'll find it is worth it."

"I'm spent," he said regretfully.

"You have not yet begun to spend. Do you think I went to all this trouble just to have you poop out for the main event? Now let's get this crate into the air."

Prior tried valiantly, but the crate only twitched and hung its snakelike head.

"This is insubordination," she said, irritated. "I'll goose it into action." She brought out a douche-shaped vibrator. "Bottoms up."

She had not been speaking metaphorically. Prior turned around, leaned over, and presented his posterior to her. She turned on the vibrator and pressed its horn into his quivering rectum. He was getting goosed by a professional! For a man who did not like pederasty, he realized his anus was getting a lot of attention. First the Eggers, then the enemas, and now this.

But the treatment was effective. His twisted organ jerked. It was as though the nerves of his colon connected directly to his penis. Maybe they did, now; how could he know the details of the surgery he had had? The S-shape began to straighten out, and the pencil-diameter swelled into fat crayon size.

Oubliette put more pressure on the vibrator. It nudged deeper into his anus, tugging at the membrane, one inch, two. It dilated the sphincter muscle and gave it a royal rubdown. It stirred up his bowel, sending a pleasurable and somewhat urgent warmth outward through his entire diaphragm. And the phallus expanded.

He felt the vibrator sliding yet further in. It reminded him of the enema tube, but this was three times as effective for arousal. This must be what it felt like for the woman, as the man's hard member thrust into her inch by inch! When his pulsing glans throbbed up against her cervix, did she feel—

The tip of the vibrator struck something. It added a new dimension of sensation. It was as though he were already ejaculating—but he wasn't. A phantom yet pleasant orgasm. "Prostate," she murmured.

Whatever it was, his erection was now complete. Some ten inches of serpentine penis bobbled under his belly. This one had not doubled in size; it had a different structure.

She withdrew the vibrator. It felt as though he were defecating, but it remained a most satisfying experience. His anus closed about the retreating horn as though to hold it in, but there was no holding it as it popped out. He straightened up and turned to face her, the organ waving like a slender tree before him.

"Now you control it by employing particular synapses," she said. "The muscular structure is built in; there is no direct tendon contact, of course. But once you get the trick—"

Prior tried, but the long thin phallus merely shuddered into a slight reminder of its limp S format.

"I think we can prompt control," she said. She brought out a shining hypodermic with a cruelly long needle.

"Now wait a minute!" Prior cried nervously, backing away.

"It only hurts for the first five minutes," she said reassuringly as she aimed the needle at his glans. "After that it settles down to a dull ache. Try not to scream; it might disturb the other patients."

Prior's buttocks spread against the cold wall, halting his retreat. "Can't we do it some other way?"

"This is fastest." She put her left hand against the wall to stop him from sliding along it. She reoriented the hypodermic spike in her right. "Now the first shot goes in the base of the glans, under the foreskin. Hold still, because the needle has to penetrate almost half an inch to reach the main nerve, before the spider venom is injected—"

The penis whipped to the side, away from the threatening needle. "Spider venom!"

"Yes, that's how," she said, taking the needle away. "Some organs respond more readily to threats than to promises."

Prior was shaking. "You mean you weren't really going to—?"

"Not unless your tool failed to perform," she said a bit smugly.

"What's in that pigsticker?"

"Sterile water. But of course I wouldn't puncture a prosthetic, since it can't heal."

Prior was still breathing rapidly. This doll was deadly! At her direction, he learned to wiggle the penis from side to side, to hook the tip around, and to make an undulating S shape. The motions were clumsy, but he could see that with more practice he would be able to put this member through an impressive array of tricks—in or out of a vagina.

"Now let's harness it," she said. She got on her hands and knees on the bed and presented him with a hole-shaped orifice. This was about the only position, he knew, where the hole really was a hole—when the weight of the body was pulling away from it, allowing air to enter and spread it wide. He wondered whether he could see down to the end of it, if he had a penlight.

But this was no time to dally. Prior kneeled behind her and formed his member into a crude corkscrew. He concentrated on her crack and lunged his penis forward like a striking snake.

He was not as proficient as he thought. The serpent caromed off one resilient buttock and sprawled ignominiously against her leg. He hoisted it again, no-hands, and drove for the center crevice. This time it was on target horizontally but not zeroed in vertically, and it came up against the puckered clean anus. He shrugged and applied torque; she'd been into his ass more than once, after all!

But the resistance was too great, and his control too fumbling. The glans snapped out and skidded down to the waiting vulva, where it sank in easily.

Prior gave it a ripple and watched the slender length of it tunnel in. Air escaped as the mass of his entry displaced it from her open vagina. Down, down he drilled, undulating against the hot walls of her channel. Three, four, five, six inches. He felt the mouth of her cervix, and angled the glans to stroke it repeatedly. He wondered whether it would be possible, with this unique organ, actually to penetrate the uterus itself. No, probably not—not without damaging the womb. That region was reserved for sperms and babies and intra-uterine contraceptive devices.

Oubliette sighed, and he knew he was accomplishing something. But he was determined to plumb the full depth of her this time. In he went, a greased piston. Around the cervix, beyond it, down into the very nadir of her cavity. Seven, eight, nine inches!

Then at last he felt it: that cushiony resistance that signified the end of the alley. He straightened out the python and wriggled in the last inch, thrashing the head back and forth rapidly. He was going to stir up her gut the way she had stirred his!

"Oh," she moaned. Her breathing accelerated.

Prior leaned against her cool derriere—so unlike her blazing interior!—and reached both hands around and under to titillate her hanging breasts. That was why they were called tits, he thought: for titillation. These were fine and full, their nipples erect. He took one in each hand, hefting it as though weighing choice meat, and corkscrewed simultaneously with his embedded penis. He caught each nipple between thumb and forefinger and rolled it back and forth while his glans chafed at the dent in her cervix.

She groaned and struggled and flexed her bottom against him, and her breath escaped with a slight whistle, but still she did not climax. Prior, despite his two preceding efforts, was close to making it again. But he was determined this time to take her with him.

He had an inspiration. He let go one breast and moved his fingers to the front of her cleft, reaching around her thigh to come at it squarely. He dipped his forefinger in the lubricant of her two parted inner labia and rubbed back until his finger struck his own buried shaft, then forward again to her clitoris. Then he pinched the clitoris and mashed it up and down several times.

Now at last her buttocks grew hot too. Her back arched, her body stiffened, and she panted. He hooked the tip of his finger into the little fold of the clit and squeezed it back into its base while he shoved Prehensile with all his might.

Oubliette climaxed explosively. He had punched the right button this time! Her hips bucked back into him, her breasts flopped against each other and her buttocks tensed convulsively against his loin, squeezing his organ from its base all the way in. She jerked back and forth, riding his shaft, pumping herself along so that naked inches showed momentarily, only to be swallowed up again. Her entire vulva tightened around him, the labia closing on the base of his member, and inside that peristalsis wrung him in waves and tidal waves, concentrating much of his blood and all of his sensation within her.

Prior came. He had to.

It was like spitting into a hurricane. He knew he was spurting, but he couldn't feel it amid the violence of her motions. Then she screamed and sighed and shoved back against him so hard it hurt, and her vagina clamped as though she had turned to metal or stone, and his last throb pressured out deep inside her with slow, agonizing, hydraulic force.

She collapsed forward on the bed, and he with her, still connected at breast and hole. Her bottom bunched and became softly rounded, cupped enticingly under and against his loin, and as she relaxed outwardly and inwardly his penis slowly softened within that liquid mass of flesh. He was panting right along with her, and still kneading the breast that was now flattened against his palm. It was an utterly delicious sensation.

After a time he rolled off her so she could breathe. He thought he had lost erection entirely and fallen out, but he had forgotten how lengthy this member remained in the flaccid state. A good four inches of semi-turgid flesh pulled out of the hot shadow between her nether mounds.

"You're coming along nicely," she murmured into the pillow. "I think one day you'll make a skilled lover. Tomorrow we'll try some of the more advanced exercises."

Chapter Seventeen

In the daytime Oubliette had her regular patients—a steady stream of men with damaged, undernourished, or impotent penises. Prior didn't inquire into their specific complaints. Obviously they did not have the privilege of playing the music of their organs for the pleasure of the doctor. He was a special patient, and he knew when he was well off, and he intended to stay out of mischief to be sure the situation didn't change for the worse. But daytime was dull.

He wandered through the library. Idly he took down a volume and riffled through its pages: Psychopathia Sexualis, by one Krafft-Ebing. Just as he had suspected: dull as hell. He glanced randomly at the spines of other volumes: first editions of Chin P'ing Mei, Bah-Numeh, Exeter Book, Complete Letters of Marcus Argentarius, and so on: all exotic, dated, obscure references of no conceivable interest to him. Not a good sex novel in the bunch!

He contemplated the pictures on the wall, but they were oddities of classical vein—Aubrey Beardsley originals, the erotic art of Pompeii, and similar. There was some decorative statuary—INDIAN EROTIC SCULPTURE, the plaque said. He yawned, not inspecting the stuff closely. Too bad Oubliette's literary and artistic tastes weren't the same as her medical ones.

For want of anything better to do, he visited the eegling. Its playpen was under a map of the United States, the nation somehow looking like underpants stretched across North America with the penis that was Florida poking out to spray the urine that was Cuba and the Antilles. Some pale splotches suggested that the eegling had been using the map for phallic target practice, and now had something in its member to squirt with. But for the moment the creature ignored the map and eyed Prior mischievously.

The eegling was larger already, especially its standing member. It strode up to Prior's side of the pen and jetted a drop of thick fluid at him. There was a faint whiff of butterscotch.

"Fuck you," Prior told it irritably. "To me you're no better than shit, and I'm the one who shit you."

Prior drifted back to his room and lay down. His crotch itched, so he opened a drawer and took out the largest of the attachable units and plugged it in. He lay on his back and watched it come alive. It took time to fill, for it had voluminous capacity. It would be disastrous to remove this one in the erect state: not only would the job be messy, his body would be deprived of a fair donation of blood!

And that would be an interesting way to donate, he thought as the tube of prosthetic flesh lengthened and thickened against his belly. Plug in a transfusion bag instead of a penis, then show stag films. Maybe the nurses could be nude. Maybe they could give a man a real thankyou for his donation. Put on a huge prosthetic, ram it into luscious nurse, take it off immediately after climax so she could pour the blood into her pot. In five minutes the average man might pump a painless pint out through his crotch, trying to fill a donation organ. Whoever received that blood in transfusion might feel horny as hell, too. If a pretty young woman needed blood, they could set up the input inside her vagina, and have a mating mechanism on the penis: his erectile blood goes directly into her body.... Little old lady in tennis shoes waking up and saying to the male attendant "I think I need a transfusion; gimme a quick fuck before the doctor gives me my sleeping pill"....

Prompted by his chain of thought, the member stood complete at last: twelve inches long erect, two inches thick through the massive glans. Prior could not even circle it with thumb and forefinger. What a monster!

It was a circumcised model. He didn't like this feature, but was morbidly fascinated. He licked his finger and ran it over the nude purple glans. There was sensation, but not as intense as that available from a foreskinned member. He wondered how men with such mutilated organs ever managed to ejaculate.

Maybe they just had to try harder.

Curious, he wrapped a section of bedspread around the thing and tugged it snug. It wasn't exactly the same as a living, pulsing vagina, but it represented enclosure of a sort. He clasped both hands about it and pressed down.

Now the gargantuan phallus responded. It throbbed against the confining cloth like the motor of a powerful car, swelling to even greater magnitude. He had been wrong about circumcision; it was possible to get adequate stimulation without the foreskin. He pumped the wrapping a couple more times, feeling the urgency develop. Ah, where was Oubliette now!

The door banged open. A grandmotherly woman bounced in and collapsed upon the easy chair across from the bed. "I'm so glad to find a waiting room that isn't crowded!" she exclaimed. "All those dirty old men..."

Prior glanced anxiously at his lap. A section of bedspread stood like a tower before him, a foot high. He couldn't put the thing away without unwrapping it—even if he cared to remove it erect—and he couldn't unwrap it in front of this unwanted visitor. The absent-minded or near-sighted grandmother had somehow mistaken his bedroom for a waiting room.

"What's in the package?" she inquired sociably. "It almost looks alive."

"Oh, it's the living end," he assured her weakly. "Are you sure you have the right room?"

"I'm not sure of anything since poor Herbie came down with cancer of the cock," she said. "He used to be a good fuck, but now he can't even get a good hard-on. A soft-on, is all. I have to use a banana on my cunt before I can get to sleep."

Prior stared at her, disbelieving what he had heard. She still looked every inch the conservative retired housewife. "Herbie has cancer? That's too bad. Must slow him down."

"Slow him down? Hell," she said crossly. "My grandson can fuck better than Herbie now, and he's only eleven. I sure hope the doc can patch up that prick."

"I hope so," Prior agreed. The monster within the bedspread showed no inclination to lie down.

"What did you say was in that package of yours? Smells familiar."

"Nothing of consequence," he said quickly. "Just a hunk of meat."

"Herbie loves meat," she said. "Makes him potent. Now he won't touch his regular food. I've become quite a connoisseur. What kind of a cut is it?"

"Choice."

"Are you sure? You know the state laws are very vague about grades of meat these days. Butcher will slip in an average cut and charge you for prime."

"I'm sure this is satisfactory." Prior found himself sweating, but his member refused to shrink.

"Just the same, I think I'd better have a look at it," she said in the way grandmothers have with young men. "I wouldn't want you to get cheated." She stood up and approached, not to be gainsaid.

"I haven't been cheated!"

But she was already pouncing on the package. Prior sighed and let her unwrap it. It might do this busybody good to get a shock like this.

She peered at the monster, squinting. "You're right," she said after a pause. "That's choice."

Prior rewrapped the meat, afraid to inquire whether she had recognized what she had seen.

"I haven't glimpsed such a fine cut of first-class boar pizzle in years," she said. "It looks almost alive."

Ah, so. "Actually, it's synthetic."

"Oh, no, it's genuine. I assure you, I know my meats."

Prior decided not to argue. Grandmothers could be very certain of themselves, particularly when they were short of information.

Meanwhile, his erection maintained itself in full splendor, though he felt no slightest sexual inclination at the moment. There were, he could now appreciate, certain disadvantages to twelve inches.

"Mrs. Cobblestone," a PA down the hall announced. "Please collect your dog."

"Oh goody, Herbie's ready!" she exclaimed, getting up again.

"Herbie's a dog?"

"You know how it is. He thinks he's people. Oh, I hope his poor little cock doesn't hurt too much!" She bustled out.

Prior shrugged. Alone, he unwrapped his meat and contemplated it. Boar pizzle indeed!

Finally the thing subsided and he removed it. In the future he would be more careful what penis he wore when and where. His four incher had never really embarrassed him in public; his concern about untimely erections had been vastly exaggerated. Now, with the availability of the ultimate twelve-inch wish-fulfillment, his concern was genuine. He would not again unlimber that cannon unless he intended to fire it.

He spotted some small lettering on the base as he washed the unit out. He squinted to read the fine print.

It said: 100% PIGSKIN, Grade A Choice.

Grandma had been right.

Chapter Eighteen

"Tonight, the advanced exercises," Prior said, smiling with anticipation.

Oubliette shrugged out of her clothing. "Precisely. I've had a busy day. Have you ever tried to operate on the penis of a cancerous toy poodle?"

That would be Herbie. "Never had that pleasure."

"Fortunately it was a false alarm; the growth turned out to be benign, and I was able to save his member by skin grafting. Animals don't do well on artificial genitals; they don't understand them. But what a job!"

But surely worth it for Grandma Cobblestone, who would otherwise be dependent on her eleven year old grandson, or on bananas. To each his own lifestyle.

She fetched a box. "Now this is the Pipecleaner model. Useful for the tight vagina. I'm afraid mine won't do for demonstration purposes, not even with a stiff dose of alum, so you'll have to practice on the anus." She affixed the unit.

Prior peered down at it. The thing looked like a strand of spaghetti swishing loosely over his scrotum.

"Erect it," she said, lying prone and spreading her slim smooth legs. The sight of that perfect behind and the shaped shadows within it did the job immediately. His spaghetti advanced from cooked limpness to dry brittleness. It had been well named: it did resemble an old fashioned pipe-cleaner, one of the narrow furry ones that children delighted to use for making stick-figure animals.

He climbed on, bracing himself with elbows and knees. He lowered the member. It brushed across a prettily dimpled buttock but would not orient properly on the crevice.

"No hands," she cautioned him. "At least, not there. You have to learn how to maneuver it alone."

Prior grunted and shifted, and finally the thin tip scraped down to the deepest shadow between the cushiony creases of her derriere. He pushed—and it slid off below. He tried again, but this time made entry the easy way, in her vulva. At last he centered on her sealed little anus and drilled it down. But it was dry, and he penetrated only with difficulty and pain.

Prior withdrew, moistened the slightly odorous tip and column with saliva, and finally forced it in a couple of inches. The thing was so thin he was afraid it would break off. But once he navigated the sphincter he was all right; the remainder cruised deep into her warm bowel, and the sensation wasn't bad at all. The exercise wasn't really so difficult!

"Now try it on a moving target," she said. "Out."

He withdrew it reluctantly, as he had been thinking of jetting soon. Oubliette began bouncing her generous buttocks about. They rippled and quivered as though made of gelatin, fascinating him.

"In," she ordered.

He tried, but couldn't get a line on the jiggling pucker. Every time he got close, it moved, giving him at best a miss and at worst a painful dent in his slender implement. "But what's the point of this?" he cried, exasperated.

"Some day you may have to get into a ticklish virgin," she said. "Or it might be necessary to rape someone. I never want it said that you left my office unprepared."

What was she training him for—the war between men and women? This was more like hand-to-hand combat than love play! Certainly he never figured to drill any of his new members into any unwilling recipients.

Little did he know.

He finally zeroed in on the gyrating target and injected the hypodermic. But before he could climax, she stopped him again. "You've caught on to the technique. Now we'll try the triple fork."

"Triple fuck?"

"Triple fork. Once you master that, you're there."

"I'll settle for a good honest penis."

She disengaged, to his regret, and trotted across the room for another box. He watched her buttocks bunch and crinkle as she went. What he could do with the twelve-incher now!

The box was huge. Two feet long.... impossible! No penis could be that size in the flaccid state—not if it expected to find lodging within a human pelvis. Even a horse would be hurting!

Horse? He remembered the Sultan and his camel. Oh, no! Surely Oubliette didn't mean to make him attempt that!

The reality was even more amazing. It was not one penis, but three. Rather, one divided into three. The longest portion was indeed two feet; the others, couched like testicles at its base, were of normal proportion. But how could such an unbalanced tripod ever be used?

"This design dates from medieval days," she said, holding it aloft with a certain pride. "Devils used to employ it during black masses and such, but now the patent has passed into the common domain. It takes a really virile man to apply it successfully."

"Three rods?" Prior feared he wasn't man enough even to figure it out.

"Put it on. You'll see."

He put it on. The long shaft had a bone in it, so that it was always erect and needed no infusion of blood; the other two were flaccid. The weight of the trio yanked cruelly at his loin, reminding him that his socket had not yet healed completely.

Oubliette got on her hands and knees again and presented her handsome posterior. "Stations, men," she said.

Seeing her there, Prior finally realized what this weird divided member was for. The two small penes lifted as his hot blood filled them.

He came at her as he had the prior night, but with a difference. He had three members to insert. The long one passed between her legs and curved by her falling breasts to reach her mouth. The two lesser ones prodded simultaneously at her vagina and anus. It was tricky getting them aligned, but with patience and steady nerves he made it.

He concentrated first on the rectum, wetting down that penis and ramming it home until the sphincter yielded. Once he had that entry, the vaginal one was easy, though he did have to bend it around by hand so as not to withdraw the other. It would have been easier had they been in line instead of side-by-side—but he realized that then other positions wouldn't be feasible. No sense specializing into non-versatility! And the mouth-organ was already in place.

Vaginal, anal and oral—simultaneously! Those medieval devils had really known how to fornicate!

But he wasn't home safe yet. He was receiving sensation from all three extremities, and it confused him. Oubliette was sucking on the mouth-organ and clenching her sphincter on the anus-organ and performing her patented peristalsis on the center pipe organ. It was an organ symphony! He could have enjoyed any of the three melodies individually, but in concert they were too much. It was like juggling balls while walking a tightrope blindfolded—and his balls had been triply depleted the evening before. He did not know, literally, whether he was coming or going.

This was, indeed, an advanced exercise.

He tried to coordinate his thrusts, but the mouth-piece went astray while the anus-entry jammed. He pulled back, and both mouth and vagina disconnected. The anus clung to its member, compressing the glans. That one was about ready to fire. But would it be good form to spurt in one place and not the other two? Was it, in fact, possible? They all connected to the same fundament, after all.

Prior was sweating.

If the medieval devils had come naturally equipped—assuming that an unnatural creature could be said to have natural endowments—with such tripart penises, they must have had a hell of a time fornicating! Maybe that was what it meant to be damned!

He thought he heard Oubliette chuckling.

Damn it, he was not going to fail this test! She thought he couldn't do it, that he wasn't man enough to handle a super-phallus like this. Once a four-incher, always a four-incher, she thought. Well, he would prove that he was a two-footer!

He juggled the swinging mouthpiece into place again. He angled the six-inch, thick-bodied member back into her slippery vagina. He plunged the third, thin cock all the way into her rectum. "Fuck you!" he cried.

"Fuck me!" she echoed, still amused.

Why was she so light-hearted about it? After all, she was concerned too; she was the one getting the business end. She acted as though she were only a spectator.

Spectator....

Maybe that was his mistake! He had been concentrating on his own management, forgetting that sex was a two-person action. He couldn't have a climax without taking her with him; that would be just half a copulation. There had to be interaction; she had to come too.

He found that with the proper contortions he could leave the anal penetrator anchored while he slid the other slowly in and out of her vulva and held the two-footer in place except for some sidewise vibration. This served to equalize the stimulation, letting the sphincter-bound member cool off while the others heated. He was getting the hang of it.

He commenced a balanced offensive on three fronts: (1) Into her mouth, where her tongue lapped around the slender instrument, sending two-foot waves of pleasure back to his loin and, he trusted, into her throat as well; (2) Into her anus, where the tight sphincter muscle contrasted to the roomy interior, stirring up her bowel in what ought to be a provocative manner; (3) Into her luscious vagina, haven of deep delight, rubbing at the sensitive cervix to make her respond.

He no longer needed his hands for support. He reached around her midriff on either side and caught her breasts, massaging the nipples until they sprang out vigorously. He pressed them together around the shaft of the long member, squeezing it evenly. It was impressive for him, feeling his thrust through enveloping mammaries, but for her too, for breasts were made to be caressed.

Oubliette was breathing hard now, responding to the triple onslaught. She caught the long penis gently with her teeth, nipping it as her breath caressed its hollow tip. Her buttocks pushed back against his crotch, absorbing as much of the nether shaft as was physically possible. And her vagina was quivering with excitement, agitating the entire length of its companion-piece. Now it was this member that was incipient.

Prior let go her breasts and moved his hands down to her hips. He held her bottom tight while he kneaded her inner thighs and buttocks and accelerated all his tools. He wrestled her entire torso about, half-lifting it, impaling it on the fork behind while her mouth struggled to subdue the whiplashing rod ahead. His entire gut seemed to gather itself for the building effort: prostate, seminal vesicle, kidneys, bladder and colon interacting to produce a potent liquid lava. His heart pumped raw serum down through the arteries to mix with the sperm cells swimming up from the steaming testicles. A boiling pool of ejaculate formed, swelled, pressed behind the safety-cock—

HOLD! he cried to his system.

In that physical and chemical and emotional pause he planted his two thumbs against her pulsing clitoris and pressed in, squeezing the little organ unmercifully.

Oubliette stiffened as though electrocuted.

Then he burst. The valves flung open, the turbulent concoction coursed out. It rammed into his penis, split into three channels, blasted up each separate tube. Prior felt it spewing into the dual chambers of her ass, rising along the passage to her mouth. Urge after urge—and finally the vanguard spurted over her tongue. Only a few precious drops, after the split and the enormous length of piping—but it signified success.

That was when she came. Prior was largely finished, but his members retained tumescence, and he held them in place while she rocked herself into ecstasy. Both holes clamped about the two short members, milking them of the last boiling drops, savoring the hard-won serum.

As she subsided, he mashed her clitoris again, working it savagely between his thumbs.

"No!" she cried around his mouth-organ. But he would not relent. He kept his waning members jammed in place and continued exercising her button, wrestling with it and pulling it and twisting it.

She groaned, she cried—and she climaxed again. But still he did not stop.

Her third consecutive orgasm began to turn the tide on his own cycle. Slowly his members regained strength, wedged inside her heaving body.

"That's enough!" she screamed as the fifth climax hit her. "No more, no more!" But he was working up his own second heat now, restimulated by the violence of her involuntary motions. He was making her respond; he had a feeling of power, and this turned him on as much as her body and reactions.

She began to fight him, kicking out her legs and falling flat on the bed, but he clung like a leech, outside and in. "Bastard!" she gasped as the seventh climax tore through. "Sadist!" with the eighth. "Eeg demon!" with the ninth.

But it was not until the eleventh that he came again, and it was slow and painful and immensely satisfying though only two of his organs remained lodged.

Only then did he let her drop, his two penises sucking out limply. The long one was still stiff, since it was naturally rigid, but it was buried beneath one of her breasts and he was sure the small ejaculation had not reached its terminus.

He was exhausted. He felt like a spent balloon. But he had put this filly through her paces. A dozen jumps!

"You pass," she whispered as his dilute sperm drooled across the crevice of her rear. "You just graduated. With fucking honors."

Prior knew that already.

Chapter Nineteen

He was whole again, in a manner of speaking, and in a major respect better than ever. His 3.97 had been replaced by a galaxy of serviceable instruments that could plumb the depths of any woman. Never again would anyone look disparagingly at his ready member and inquire politely when he was planning to have his erection. If it was sheer size they wanted, he had it; if special effects, he had them. All ready the moment he plugged in his choice.

Yet he was unsatisfied. He kept thinking of his original miniature. It had never been much, but at least it had been him. He had had it all his life; he had screwed his small share of women and his larger share of token-slots, and he had beaten it when both distaff and tokens were in short supply. Maybe the little fellow didn't have an impressive track record—but such experience as he had had, it had brought him. He had grown accustomed to it.

And it had protected him from venereal disease. What more loyal service could he ask than that?

The new array was impressive; he couldn't fault it on any reasonable grounds. Size, shape, sensation—Oubliette had more than done her job. But dammit, a fuck wasn't real unless the penis was real—and all of these were artificial. So he was unreasonably dissatisfied.

He still wanted his own flesh back, cheese and all.

"Have a good time," Oubliette told him, kissing him chastely. "I've done all I can for you." And she had, both as surgeon and as woman. He felt like a heel for not properly appreciating it, and he couldn't tell her why. It was time for him to go, and he knew he should do so with appropriate grace.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

"You seem pensive," she remarked.

"Merely the thought of leaving you," he said with fake and ineffective gallantry. But that was at least half-truth; he did like her in or out of bed, and was certain he would miss her.

"If there is any problem of adjustment," she murmured discreetly, "and often there is, emotionally—we call it the postoperative let-down—remember that a cunette is defined as a trench within a trench, for drainage. There are other things in life."

"A cunette?" he asked, perplexed. "Sounds like a small—" Then he visualized a trench within a larger trench, or two sets of labia, and smiled. "Sure there's more," he agreed. "But it's not the drainage trench I'm concerned about, it's the drainage pipe."

"Sometimes a walk down the Eeg-trail helps," she said. She gestured toward the back of the grounds. "The statues are knowledgeable about both trenches and pipes, and provide excellent advice."

"Uh, sure, thanks," he said, not seeing much point in traipsing by the erotic stone figures again. Maybe she found solace in such contemplations (on her way to fuck with the Eggers: ah, jealousy!), but this could hardly bring back his natural penis. Only her sister Tantamount could do that—and she would never give up her handy-dandy little anti-VD smegma producer.

"They do have their price, though," Oubliette said as she left him. She had, of course, other appointments demanding her attention.

Prior went to his car and drove, knowing that he could not escape the problem by traveling. He brooded. So he could go back to his regular job with the parking department, if he hadn't been fired in the interim, and market the tamponer on the sly. And exercise a different penis every night. Great life!

Finally, ridiculously, he turned the car about and drove back. He parked behind Oubliette's residence and took a walk down the path, as she had recommended.

The beautiful stone nude was still there, though her cold arms now stretched out as if to embrace a man, and her carven lips were puckered as for a kiss, and her pelvis pressed forward. If ever a statue were ready for sexual love, this was the one.

"What the hell," he muttered. "You're worse off than I am; might as well give you something to think about." He opened his fly and took the six-incher from its box and attached it. He contemplated the statue's perfect form and imagined it as a living woman until his member came erect. Then he stepped into the female embrace.

The stone was cold, but not uncomfortably so, and anyway he was clothed except for particular areas. He bent his knees and got his member wedged against the rigid cleft, nudging the deep vagina. He could not force an entry, of course, for the slit was inflexible and this penis was too large, but he could touch. He put his arms about her body and pressed his front against those statuesque breasts. He bent his head and touched his lips to hers.

The stone became warm. He felt it on his mouth and then in his hands and finally against his pressing penis. The hard lips seemed to become soft, as though responding to his kiss. He did not question this; indeed it was not wholly unexpected, considering the peculiarities of these statues. They had to be alive, in some obscure manner.

He parted his lips on hers and poked his tongue between. It met her tongue—warm, moist, animate. As he did this, her torso seemed to flex under his hands and her vulva softened similarly. His member nudged into her warming cleft, melting the inner stone as it progressed.

Prior kissed her again, deeply—and the way opened and the rest of his organ slid into her snug vagina. He thrust, withdrew, thrust, holding the kiss, clasping the bended torso, leaning against that bosom—and suddenly fired a liquid salvo into her chamber.

As he disengaged from her, feeling the hardness of the stone already returning, her lips formed something like the configuration of a spoken word. Her magnificent breasts heaved gently. "Go," she said succinctly.

That was all.

Prior unplugged his member and knocked the dottle out and zipped up his fly. "Thank you," he said to the statue. "You are an excellent lay, even if vertical. I go."

She was cold and rigid again, but there was a half smile on her lips, half a wink to her eye.

He walked on until he came to the statue of the man. The stone erection remained, but now the figure was bent as though inserting his member into a ready orifice.

"So that's the way it is," Prior said. "Well, what must be, must be."

He squatted before the statue, licked his lips, and applied his mouth to the forward projection. At first lick the stone was cold, as before, but it soon began to soften. Prior took the large glans in his mouth and sucked, and the thing became tender. He worked his lips down around the shaft, and the warmth descended with him. The penis began to throb.

Something cold touched his head. Startled, Prior paused. It was the statue's hand, unmoving yet pushing his forehead back.

He sighed. "I was afraid of that."

He did not like pederasty, yet he did want his natural penis back, and Oubliette had warned him that the statues had their price. Maybe, however, he could fake it, this time. He stood, unsnapped his belt, dropped his trousers and shorts, bent over, and backed up to the living extremity.

The stone penis had solidified some in the few seconds it had been neglected, and the glans was cool and hard as it touched his buttock. Prior shifted, and the firm organ slid into his crack. Quickly it warmed again and became slick, as though coated with grease. Yes—this was what the stone man wanted.

Prior waited a moment, then leaned back against the member. But he kept his anus puckered tight, instead letting the half-stone member push down between his clamped-together legs, shoving Prior's scrotum out of the way. With luck, that would feel like the buggery it was intended to be. He worked his thigh muscles and jogged a bit in the rod, and in due course the statue came. It was a jet of icewater, squirting out in front of him. Better that than hot lava.

He pulled himself off as the stone cooled and hardened. Had he fooled the statue? He listened to the slowly pursing lips.

"To," said the stone man.

Good enough! "Thank you," Prior said as he donned his trousers.

The sheep-statue was looking toward him expectantly, tail lifted. By this time Prior had pretty well come to terms with the system, though as little as a month ago it would have been another matter. He wasted no time with foolish qualms. He unpacked the slender five-incher (because it was easier to erect in a hurry) and applied it to the ovine puddendum.

"Ba-a-a-ack up," he told it.

As before, the aperture softened, and before long he was able to deposit a moderate seminal offering. The ewe's vagina was, by the feel of it, very similar inside to a human one, and the experience was not really objectionable. He could almost appreciate why so many country youths preferred their animal female friends to the less acquiescent and more fickle human ones. Bestiality was frowned upon, generally—but this restriction had no doubt been authored by people who lacked the nerve to approach an obliging sheep. It was said that one of the venereal diseases had come to man by way of a sheep: one of the crewmen who sailed with Columbus, bringing this New World disease back to delight the Europeans. Prior didn't believe it, but it did make a nice historical story.

"Mmm-mo-o-o-u-u-u-n-n-nnt!" the sheep bleated as it hardened back into stone.

"But I just mounted," Prior protested. Then: "Oh—that's your word of advice. Sorry. Thanks." He petted her on the woolly back.

So it continued. The dog gave him a fine slurpy blow job and barked "Ice! Ice!" The stallion rammed about nine inches into what it thought was his anus—Prior was getting good at fooling statues—and pumped out its lather, neighing "Cream! Cre-e-e-a-am!" "Don't I know it!" Prior replied, looking at the stuff on the ground. The eagle and the griffin were more difficult, and he had to pause to recharge before making a trio out of the statue man-and-sheep duo. Some of the exercises were rough, but in each case he did what was necessary or faked it, and hoped his increasingly sore body would recover in a reasonable time.

He understood, now, why Oubliette was so tired after making this journey to visit the Eggers. He, at least, could change into a fresh penis every time; she had to stick with her natural equipment. He wondered what information she needed, to prompt such an excursion every month or so. Or was it merely her generous nature, bringing physical joy, however transitory, to her menagerie and to the horny Eggers?

At last he had the complete message:

GO TO MOUNT ICECREAM. CLIMB THE CHERRY TREE.

And directions how to get there, and what else to do.

Prior contemplated his notes, rubbed chapstick on his chapped anatomy, threw away a bitten penis-unit, washed his mouth out three times with cold water, and combed the animal refuse out of his hair. Then he walked the short remaining distance to the cabin of the Eggers.

He knew that a different man would be there, for the Earthside layover was only a few days for each, but that didn't matter. The Eggers knew how to travel between the stars, and Prior needed their help.

For the Cherry Tree was on Mt. Icecream, and Mt. Icecream was on a planet circling a star not even visible from Earth. He had to take the Eggers' pass.

But at the end of this devious route lay the solution to his problem. The hazards were fantastic and the concomitant chores tedious, but he could win his natural penis back.

If he was man enough with the prosthetics.