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."