“Take your clothes off. I want to see you naked."
The rather full lips of the lady doctor quirked into a smile, a smile that did not reach her gray eyes. She was a psychiatrist, one of the staff employed by the House of Coxe to study its agents and care for their physical welfare. She was an arrogant bitch named Jolene Wetzel. I'd never particularly cared for her, and until this moment, had very little to do with her.
Not that she was unattractive. Actually, she was not a bad-looking chunk of femininity, ripely curved and in her early thirties. She wore her long black hair tied back on her head and knotted in a bun and the black-rimmed cheaters made her look like an old maid schoolteacher. Up front she carried two big mounds of breast-flesh that always, no matter how strong a brassiere she adopted, managed to give a slight jiggle-shake when she moved.
Like now, leaning forward as though to hammer home her point. These breasts swung outward, paused, danced up and down and sideways. I wondered what they might look like naked, and that was a mistake.
My name is Rod Damon. I am a sexologist of world renown, being the founder of the League for Sexual Dynamics. I am also a professor of sociology at the local university, and a member of the Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation. Moreover, thanks to a generous nature, I am endowed with what my French girl friends call envitaille, which means I am extremely well endowed with what every man wants. I possess a hair-trigger response to anything sexually titivating, such as the Wetzel breasts, so that as I thought about them denuded of bra and the black sweater which she wore under her suit jacket, my peos lifted its head as if to look around for the goodies.
I am afflicted with satyriasis. This means that no matter how well I perform the copulative act, or how often, I am always ready for another go at the hairy horseshoe. Some men might consider this a sickness; I thank the love gods that I am so blessed, instead. The fact has saved my life on my Coxeman missions more than once.
Jolene Wetzel blinked as my jacket and shirt came off to leave me naked to my navel. I exercise daily, I keep in perfect fighting trim, what with push-ups and weight lifts and various gymnastic activities as well as daily lessons in advanced karate, judo and savat. My entire body, in a manner of speaking, is a weapon.
Naturally, my muscles bulge here and there, and there is not so much as an ounce of extra fat on my person. Doctor Wetzel blinked a couple of times, she even nodded her head condescendingly.
“You keep in excellent shape, Damon. Good, good." She hadn't seen anything yet.
My hands pushed my pants and jockey shorts down and her eyes got big as her full red mouth opened up. My peos—as the Greeks call it was half its full size and growing swiftly. Damn those jiggly tits on the woman! I just couldn't help looking at them and imagining them without any covering, and my Merry Goodfellow took it from there. It stood up and looked around and gave every indication that it wanted to poke its nose where it didn't belong.
She swallowed twice, then murmured breathlessly, “You are very well endowed for this test. Very well endowed.”
Then she remembered who she was, and straightened, looking professional. “Of course, you are only a man. And woman is the superior of the two sexes."
She said it smugly, as to a lesson well learned.
“A woman outlives a man, she has more manual dexterity, she is more resilient. She is even a better business man than the male, since she owns almost eighty percent of the wealth of our nation. You would think she would be considered an equal, would you not, Damon?"
I shrugged, trying to ignore the moving breasts.
“But no, she is put upon and discriminated against. Given the same opportunities as man, she would be as strong, as well able to care for herself in a fight, as—"
"Hogwash," I blurted.
She blinked. She was a forceful character, I don't think anybody ever opposed her when she got going on her pet topic. She drew a deep breath—right, the mammaries swelled up and outward, just like me—and sneered.
“Male pig,” she breathed.
I grinned at her. All the time she had been rapping and sneering, her eyes had been fixed on the pointing point of my anatomy. Her nipples become quite stiff, I could see them pushing against the fabric of her sweater, and there was a faint flush on her cheeks.
"I'm a sexologist, doctor," I smiled. “I know about the human anatomy, too. Male muscles are bulkier, larger than female muscles. So are male bones. The male body is heavier, taller. This is a matter of biology. No matter how much you protest, you can't get away from facts."
“A chauvinist," she breathed.
“Seems to me this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black. You're the one freaked out on female equality. Sure, sure, I know all about the Women's International Terrorist Conspiracy from Hell, better known as WITCH, and the Redstockings, and WRAP. I have also read about NOW and Betty Friedan.
"I agree with you that there may be disparity in jobs and such where there shouldn't be. But when you sit there and tell me that, as a male, I'm less than the dirt under your shoes, you're betraying what you really think. You don't want equality, doctor—you want female superiority."
She flushed even more. "That's not true,” she blustered.
I came around the side of the desk until I was confronting her within the range of a yard of space. Her hands began to tremble, she licked her lips and kept giving my high-rise flesh envious glances.
“I don't why in hell I'm here, or why you wanted me to strip down. But here I am and stripped, as well—so why don't you enlighten me?"
“You're here for a medical examination."
“That's not all of it. I had an exam last week. I'm in perfect shape as you keep noticing. Now what is this all about?”
“What sort of test? Something Women's Lib dreamed up?"
She compressed her lips and looked even more haughty. "Your superior will tell you, when it's time for you to know. My function is to check your heartbeat, your pulse rate. And—other things."
"So listen to my heart, doctor."
My guess was she'd figured on putting me at a disadvantage by making me strip in front of her. Most men feel inadequate when naked before a clothed female. I have been in so many various sexual situations before, that this was almost natural to me. I wasn't discomfited in the slightest.
Her eyes flickered as she glanced at my upstanding at traction, and her lips curled. “You seem so proud of that—that thing you carry! In a little while it will be a limp string—and you'll have left half a dozen women sexually frustrated."
“Aha! You do know something."
"I know you're like all men—bluster, bravado and blooey."
I considered her flashing eyes, the reddened cheeks. "It's true that a woman can have an almost infinite number of orgasms during the sexual act, if done with the right amount of savoir faire and consideration. And that most men are usually finished after two, three or perhaps four ejaculations."
“You admit it!” she screamed triumphantly.
“I'd be a fool not to. It's nature's way of making sure the race is continued, in a sense. The man ejaculates, sends out his sperm. It may or may not catch the first time, then the woman, if brought to orgasm after orgasm, may—"
"Spare me the details,” she said coldly, reaching for her stethoscope. With it in her hand, she turned to me, the contempt for my maleness alive in those over-bright gray eyes. "I know what is going to happen in the next hour or two. You are going to be wrung out, professor. You are going to be drained of your male pride and your manhood. When you are, I shall come to you and you may apologize at that time."
I wanted to haul off and belt her one, she was so damn smug. Triumph radiated out at me from the condescending smile, the arched eyebrows, the smirking lips. She was a woman, superior to me, a mere male. She was the female praying mantis who eats the male mantis after copulation, she was the female sea horse that stores the eggs to be deposited with the male sea horse, that must hatch them.
I was a no—good nudnick.
She lifted the stethoscope to listen to my heartbeat. Unfortunately for her female superiority, she found the task almost impossible because a part of me was in the way. Its end kept nudging her breasts. And she liked it. Oh, yes. I am more than familiar with the signs.
Jolene Wetzel may have felt a penis envy, but she also felt a penis hunger. She licked her lips, she blushed, she breathed somewhat faster.
"Get that thing out of my way,” she snarled.
“Why not try making it go down?” I smiled back.
Her glance splashed hate all over me. She put her hand on my bare chest and pushed me back so she could stand up. This made it all the worse because my peos nudged her mons veneris even through her severely tailored suit skirt, and made her aware that I was built like an iron bar.
Her thighs quivered, she bit her lip.
But she was game, she slammed the cold round metal part of the instrument against my chest and listened. Almost involuntarily, her hips began to rock against me.
“Better stop that," I grinned. “I don't want to soil your skirt."
Her cheeks turned the tint of a ripe tomato, and she stepped back hastily. Of course, I was only joking, I cannot orgasm as the normal male orgasms, it is part of my satyriasis syndrome. I can go on and on indefinitely in the sexual act without spending my strength.
Doctor Jolene Wetzel did not know that.
"I think you'd better sit down," she muttered frostily.
I sat down, though a part of me was still up. She bent over me, putting the stethoscope back on my chest. Her heavy mammaries hung down in front of my eyes despite the brassiere that cradled them. And her left leg was very close to my right hand.
So I put my hand on her leg casually, and ran my palm up the back of her stockinged thigh to the bare thigh-meat above it. Honest to God, she actually squawked like a chicken and leaped a mile.
At the same time she swung her hand.
I caught that wrist before her palm could crash against my cheek. I smiled up at her. “You're a tempting woman, doctor. You can't blame a guy for trying. And you do possess handsome legs and other such frills.”
She panted, hate and rage fighting equal battles inside her feminine soul. If she could have, I'm positive she would have castrated me on the spot. Her eyes did the next best thing, looking me up and down and dismissing me as less than an ant which she might tread under a Pappagallo.
"I shall ask for a change of doctors. I've never been so insulted in my life.”
“Come off it, honey. You're eating it up. Hey, maybe that's it. You're jealous of the chicks I'm going to bed pretty soon. I am going to do some doll-diddling, right? Otherwise there's no sense to all this rigamarole."
She reached for the telephone, to call Walrus-mustache who is our boss-man in the Foundation. I put my hand over hers, squeezed her fingers against the phone while preventing her from lifting it.
“What happened to that confidence, doctor? A minute ago you wanted to be in on the kill. A piece of 'string' I think you said. Or have you changed your mind? Maybe you realize I'm going to come through the test—whatever it is—with flying colors. And you couldn't stand that.”
“You will fail,” she snarled.
“Then why not be in at the finish? Why not be able to say, 'I told you so!'? Tell you what. I'll bet a century note I come through that test with my phallus just as strong as it is now. You game?"
"'It will be like robbing you."
"So rob me."
She nodded, lips primly pressed together, and slapped the stethoscope back into place. I didn't give her leg another feel, I was afraid I'd have her bawling out her frustrations. Because I had this one tabbed, or so I thought.
Heartbeat, okay. Ditto, pulse. She made me do some exercises including running up and down, knee bends, back bends and push-ups. These last were a little difficult, considering the state I was in, but I managed. Her hands tested my skin, she took my blood pressure, looked down my throat, did a number of other things that a medical man would understand.
“I guess you're all right,” she finally muttered.
"You guess? After what you put me through? I'm about ready to collapse after all that exercise."
“Two girls. I give you that. You will last through two girls. No more."
“Want to bet another hundred?"
She shook her head, not being the gambling type. “One hundred is enough. I will not rob you, despite your invitation."
I considered a moment. “What kind of a test is it? I mean, sure, I know it's sexual in a way, but what's the purpose behind it? Don't tell me Walrus-mustache is going to give out medals for the best screwer in the organization."
She sniffed at my crudity. “The test is merely a first step in an assignment."
“They've brought Catherine the Great back to life and they want a guy to spy on her!"
Her face was still frozen in disdain at my levity.
"No, that's not it, I can tell by your expressive features. Then it has to be—Messalina! They've restored her to life and want to see if we can come up with a man who can match her nymphomania."
She went on scribbling in her little black notebook about my physical health. I noted that the pen wobbled a moment before it resumed its scratchings.
“Would you believe—Cleopatra? Jezebel? Maybe Pauline Bonaparte? No? None of those? I must admit, I'm a bit stumped."
Her hand slammed the book shut. “You will not know until after the—the demonstration. So that no one but the man chosen will know what his mission is to be."
That was like Walrus-mustache, sly and devious.
I had to buy it.
I danced up and down a couple of times, sort of waving it at her. "When does it begin? I'm very anxious, you know, the way you get me all excited."
"You—you male!” she screeched and rose to her feet.
She stalked out, back rigid and head held high. Jolene Wetzel was going to have as little to do with me from now on as she could. Her duty had been done. I was only a man, one of the lesser ones. She was woman triumphant. She could hardly wait to see my downfall, and I don't mean that as a pun.
I went after her, as far as the door where I yelled, “Hey! Do I get to put my clothes on again, doctor?”
She turned, sneered, “Come as you are, Damon. It's part of the test."
I blinked. To go out like this along the corridors of the House of Coxe, University Chapter, meant that I would be parading around in the buff before a lot of secretaries, file clerks and suchlike. The hell with that. I got back into my clothes—somehow.
Then I walked down the hall toward the elevator, before which she was standing. "Where away?" I wondered.
“A part of the building has been converted into a Love Labyrinth."
“Nobody ever told me that. How long has this been going on?”
"For the past month," she sighed. “I must indoctrinate you as we go down to the sub-cellar. It's part of my duties.”
“Three of you have been chosen to perform. A doctor will attend each man, to check heartbeat and physical condition after each of the—ah—bouts. I don't imagine it will take up much of my time."
"You're a real doll, you know?"
The elevator doors swooshed open. We entered in silence. The doctor pushed the stud and we went down ward. I started thinking about Walrus-mustache and what this particular assignment might be. I had my ear to the grapevine in the Coxe Foundation, but I hadn't heard a hint of any mission that required a man skilled in bed acrobatics.
Of course, most of my cases did include somewhat more than a little female-flimping, but this is in the nature of the beast. Besides, I'm a lucky guy. But to start out searching for somebody who can go joy-riding at the drop of a zipper tab was something else again. I began to want very desperately to have words with the Old Man.
The elevator stopped, the door opened.
I blinked, staring at a kind of fairyland.
A garden stretched before me, complete with marble pillars and benches, hedges and trees and bushes. Perfume was in the air, mingling with soft music, and somewhere out of sight, a girl was laughing softly. The ceiling was painted a pale blue to represent the sky, and an occasional cloud or two had been added for more realism.
“A garden of delights," I murmured.
“With many love grottoes,” she added, gesturing me to follow her.
We walked to a marble bench.
“Take off your clothes,” Jolene Wetzel told me, "while I give you your final instructions."
It was getting a bit commonplace, stripping in front of this woman, so I did what she asked. While I was re moving the threads, she filled me in on the details.
“There are many doors leading away from these gar dens. You will enter each doorway and there make love—in the manner prescribed by the inhabitant of the room—until you have completely satisfied the occupant—or exhausted yourself.”
She smiled serenely, believing herself about to be a hundred dollars richer in a short time, as well as putting down a mere man. I let her go on thinking that, but I was telling myself that if ever I had performed nobly in the lists of venery, this would be the day to surpass them all.
“What are you going to be doing while all this goes on, doctor?"
"I will be watching over a monitor system, to make sure that you do not cheat. When you are finished in each room, I will enter, check your blood pressure and your heart beat. We don't want you hurt, you know. You are too valuable to die from a heart attack while attempting to satisfy the sexual needs of a woman. You must realize, professor, from all your sociological studies, that woman is the superior of the sexes. Except, perhaps, for a few crass muscles that the male body enjoys.
“But a woman can outperform a man in every way.
"Especially—where sex is concerned."
I saw red, my manhood and that of every other male on this planet being impugned by this hoity-toity broad. I vowed to outperform my best efforts of the past. I would this day set a sexual standard that would make any woman who learned of it turn white with fear.
Just as I was opening my mouth to tell her this, three men came into the garden. Two were as naked as I, the other looked professorial, with black-rimmed glasses and a goatee. This man bowed to Doctor Wetzel, gave me a withering glance, and catching the lady doc by the arm, drew her off onto a path that wound in among some imitation hazel thickets.
His naked companions edged closer to me. One of them I knew, his name was Chad Mahan. He was a fellow Coxe man attached to my Atlantic division. He was tall and muscular, with a hawk-like face. The other man was fleshier, though not by much, and Chad introduced him as Martin Fleming. He was a blond, wearing his hair long and with a big mustache that reminded me of the Old Man.
"I'm a great man with the dolls, Rod—but what gives here?” Chad asked.
"Some sort of test. I don't know why we're being tested, but the Old Man has a reason. He always does.”
“It can't be some sort of reward for past jobs well performed, can it?” wondered Fleming.
“You think Walrus-mustache would spend the bread for this setup, just to reward the likes of you and me?"
"Yeah. It was a crazy idea."
The lady doctor and Goatee came walking back, heads close together, and as they conversed, the man kept beating his palms together, very gently. The woman was smirking, nodding her head. Once her eyes lifted to study me, flashing triumphantly. I wondered what hogwash the other doctor was using to soft-soap her.
I caught his last words "... be out of here in half an hour, no more."
Oh, yeah? My dander was up, along with something else. And while my dander might be soothed in short order, my peos was not about to be. It needed several long bouts of mean, mad love even to dream of settling back to normal.
“Let's get the show on the road," I yelled.
The lady doctor sniffed, came marching toward me. "Your show will soon be over, Professor Damon. However, if you are impatient, we shall begin at once.”
The goateed man, I learned later his name was Doctor David Morey of the Research Institute in Washington, patted his palms together. "My nominees and I shall begin at the far end, with the Arab and the Zulu."
"Excellent,” snapped Doctor Wetzel. "Mine shall commence with the Turkish girl."
Chad Mahan gave me a weak grin and waved a hand. “Good luck, Rod."
"Same to you," I nodded as the lady doc caught me by an elbow and guided me toward a blue door with a star and crescent marked on it with bright paint. I could hear, the closer we came, the sounds of bouzouki and oud as they touched the nerve centers of my body, their low, rousing music stirring the animal inside me. Belly dancing appeals to the gut of a man, and its music lends a helping hand.
"Love that sound," I grinned.
Doctor Wetzel gave me a cold glance. "It will only make you spend yourself sooner, you know.”
“She is a belly dancer, then? The one behind the blue door?"
She sniffed. "See for yourself.”
My hand touched the knob, turned it.
I went into a warm dimness where that gut-wrenching music was throbbing in the very air, rousing and licentious. Here were hung oil-lit copper lamps that shed a romantic radiance across scattered cushions and low divans, over heavy draperies on the wall and a pair of crossed scimitars behind a Saracen helmet. Incense burned in iron tree-pods. A thick carpet invited my bare feet.
I stepped inside, into another world, almost another century.
A woman rose from a divan and stood facing me.
She was a Turkish beauty with long black hair falling free from metal head ornaments that fit her like a topless cap. The hair hung down her back, her shoulders were bare except for the narrow straps of a bolero that just about covered the dusky mounds of her heavy breasts. Her belly was naked, its dimpled navel darkly shadowed, mysterious. About her hips she wore a narrow girdle of brocaded stuff to which was attached a gossamer skirt through which I could see her handsome legs. There were babouches on her feet, those brocade sandals with the up turned toes that are almost a symbol of the Turkish woman.
Her eyes were heavily kohled, brilliant and wicked. They saw the state of my rampant peos, and widened. Her full red mouth gave soft laughter to the air.
"You are impatient,” she whispered.
As a matter of fact, I was, rather. My satyriasm was pounding away in me with my every heartbeat so that my phallus seemed almost to dance to its banging. The dusky Turkish delight who shared this corner of a harem heaven understood each rhythmic pulsing and saw no reason why we should delay the inevitable.
Her fingers touched the snaps of her brocade girdle.
Now, ordinarily I do not like to rush into the love act. It is a rare sharing of pleasure and delight with another human being, and should be entered into in that same spirit with which a gourmand sits down to a meal of many courses. He bites and tastes and nibbles on his food, he does not bolt it down like a starving man.
And so I would have delayed—
Yet when the brocade girdle fell away and I saw my houri displayed naked to my stare from babouches to the metal headpiece, except for the black and gold bolero, I knew I must have her at once. Perhaps the fact that Jolene Wetzel would be watching spurred me on. I'm not sure. Or maybe it was just the sight of all that sleek, dusky flesh, slim but ripely curved at breast and hip, that met my eyes.
She came toward me, hips swaying, thigh flesh shimmying.
I bent backward slightly, offering her my thighs as stepping stones. She stared at me, frowning, then broke into a soft laugh.
“You know the Turkish girls! You know what they like, the dok el arz! Or do you wish the kechef al astine, so that you may see my—"
She turned and gave a wicked flip of her soft buttocks, slapping her haunch at the same time as she arched her black eyebrows.
“Either way, honey—but let's not waste time talking."
She ran, her heavy breasts bounding out from behind the bolero. One foot and then the other she rested on my thighs, catching at my hands to help balance herself. Then those soft thighs spread wide, giving me a vision of her Turkish delight as she lowered it very slowly to the straining flesh that was there to greet it.
Downward she sank until she held me within her.
Her eyes were very close, long-lashed and wickedly smiling. They seemed to ask a question. My hands came up on either side of my thighs, footrests for her babouches. She nodded, lifted one foot and then the other.
Instantly she realized I was offering her a stand on which to do her belly dance. Her feet settled into my cupped palms, her middle began its circular grind in rhythm to the wild strains of the bouzouki and the oud.
My flesh felt the swing and sway of her hidden flesh as it caressed and stroked while the rest of her body went into the convulsions of that dance which the Ouled Nails of North Africa have made famous. The Ghawazi tribe claims to be the originator of the danse du ventre, but I would give the palm to the women of Gades in ancient Greek and Roman times who were renowned for the licentiousness of their gyrations. But no matter who was the originator, this doll performing on my peos, which she used as a fulcrum for her turnings and bumpings, was a worthy descendant.
Her belly churned in and out, around and around went her hips. And those breasts that bobbled and shook in front of me were adding their own titillating touch to the proceedings.
“You—come now,” she sobbed, hips flailing.
“Honey, we've only just begun!”
She was experiencing the sexual spasm, due perhaps to ingenuity of my approach, the newness of what she did. Her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth grew slack, her interior muscles squeezed and gripped while her belly shook to a spasm that made its flesh run in little ripples.
My legs were getting tired. I keep my body in perfect condition with weight lifting, judo and karate classes, with some boxing lessons, but enough is enough, already. I let myself sag floor-ward under my dancing partner until my rump was resting on a big cushion and her legs were spread-eagled over me like an amorous arch.
I think she would have rolled off me, except that my arms encircled her hips and held her in position. Her eyes got big, suddenly. She realized that I was not done, that I was as much the man as ever, and a crooning laugh burst from her soft throat.
"You are a dair azael," she whispered, bringing her fruity mouth toward mine. "The whirling devil! It is a little compliment we Turkish girls pay to the men who please us most."
“You haven't felt anything yet, honey-bunch!"
Her lips were over mine, soft and moist, her tongue stroked my tongue, and my hips began their beat. She lurched, grunted; then her own wide hips started their dance of love. Back and forth we pounded in a sexual saraband. I could hear the molten music of our joined parts, the give and take of pleasure and the liquid noises we were making.
It was then that the door opened.
Doctor Wetzel stood there, reproof and arrogance in her every line. “Professor Damon, you have finished with this one."
“The hell he has," yelled the Turkish belly dancer, taking her mouth from mine. "Go get lost for a while, lady!”
I caught a pillow in my hand, heaved it blindly. The pillow landed right on target.